Chapter 33
Ryder checked his watch. Almost six. Eight minutes until the supply boat.
He waited at the end of the dock, the wind cutting through his jacket.
The docks were quiet except for the slap of water against pilings and the distant cry of gulls.
Lambourne stood a few feet away, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind.
He’d been trying to make conversation for the past twenty minutes—weather, the business deal, some rambling story about Ivy when she was a kid.
Ryder tried Ivy’s number again. Fucking voicemail. Again.
Dead battery. Had to be. The alternative—that she couldn’t answer, that she was hurt—
He shut that thought down hard.
She was fine. She’d talked to Jack, gotten whatever information she needed, and she’d be on that boat when it came in.
Except his gut screamed nothing about this was as straightforward as he was trying to convince himself it could be.
“You know—” Lambourne couldn’t seem to stand the silence any longer. “Once Ivy gets something in her head, there’s no stopping her. She used to dig up the estate looking for natural springs. Drove the groundskeeper mad.”
Ryder’s jaw tightened. He didn’t want to hear stories about Ivy as a child. He wanted to see her step off that goddamn boat.
“She’ll be fine,” Lambourne continued, and Ryder couldn’t tell who he was trying to convince, Ryder or himself. “It’s a working rig. Dozens of people. She’s probably just lost track of time.”
Maybe. People lost track of time. Phones died. Innocent explanations existed for everything.
Except someone had already tried to kill her in the last twenty-four hours.
His nails dug into his palms. He should’ve gone with her. Should’ve insisted. Should’ve done a hundred damn things differently.
Instead, he’d let her handle everything alone.
The way she’d been doing her whole life, if Lambourne’s stories were any indication.
Lights appeared on the water. Faint at first, then growing stronger as the supply boat rounded the breakwater.
Relief hit Ryder so hard he had to lock his knees.
“There,” Lambourne pointed even though Ryder didn’t need him to. “That’s got to be them.”
Ryder’s boots were already hitting the dock hard enough to make the planks shake.
Workers would disembark first—standard protocol, then any passengers.
He’d see her in minutes. Blond hair, that stupid coat he should have burned, and the stubborn lift to her chin when she was trying not to show how cold she was.
The boat maneuvered alongside the dock. Lines were thrown, secured. The gangway extended with a metallic clang.
Workers filed off. Ryder scanned every face. Not her. Not her. Not her. The flow slowed.
Stopped.
The last worker stepped onto the dock, adjusting a duffel bag on his shoulder.
No Ivy.
Ryder was on the boat immediately. His steps rang on the metal deck as he moved through the passenger area, checking every corner, every shadow.
Everywhere.
She’s not here.
He grabbed a crew member busy mopping—a kid, maybe twenty, with windburn and startled eyes.
“There was a woman on the outbound trip. English, blonde hair, business clothes. Where is she?”
The kid blinked and pried Ryder’s fingers from his life jacket. “Hey—”
“The English woman,” Ryder snapped, pulling back before he scared the kid. “She boarded this afternoon at two. Where. Is. She?”
Recognition dawned. “English lady?” He shrugged. “Yeah, she was on the outbound. Didn’t see her coming back though.”
Ryder’s vision tunneled, sound dropping out except for the thunder of his own heartbeat.
She didn’t make the return trip.
“What the hell do you mean she didn’t make it?” Lambourne appeared at Ryder’s shoulder, his accent laced with panic. “Where’s my sister?”
The crew member backed away, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. “I don’t know, man. Must’ve changed her mind.”
Ryder’s pulse roared. Changed her mind. Like it was that simple.
“When’s the next boat?”
“Tomorrow morning. Seven.”
Behind him, Lambourne swore. Something British and completely inadequate for the situation.
Ryder forced his brain to work, to think past the fear lodged in his chest. “We need to call the Vega.”
“Right.” Lambourne snapped his fingers. “Of course. We can call them. They have phones, satellite communications, whatever they use out there—”
“We can contact them from the hangar—”
He should go. Right now.
Ryder hurried off the boat, Lambourne clipping his heels, fresh sleet hitting his face. His Coast Guard radio burst into life inside his jacket.
“All units, emergency at Deepwater Vega Platform. Structural instability confirmed. One support leg compromised—seafloor collapse in progress. All personnel are ordered to muster for immediate evacuation.”
A beat of silence, then another voice—calm, professional. “Two BlackRock S-92s airborne for crew extraction. Coast Guard MH-60 Jayhawk inbound from Aurora Cove.”
Lambourne blanched. “Oh, God.”
Ryder yanked open the truck door and vaulted in, tossing the radio onto the dash.
The channel was alive with overlapping voices.
“Rescue One, this is Command. What’s your ETA?”
“Rescue One responding.” Ben Bishop’s voice, calm and clipped. “ETA three-zero minutes. Weather deteriorating—rising wind shear, heavy spray, low vis.”
Thirty minutes. Half a fucking hour before anyone reached that rig.
Lambourne barely made it into the passenger seat before Ryder had the truck in gear. The tires spun on the ice, then caught, throwing them forward.
“She’ll be evacuated, right”? Lambourne gripped the oh-shit handle as Ryder took a corner too fast. “They’ll get everyone off. She’ll be fine.”
Ryder wanted to believe that. Needed to. But the knot in his gut wouldn’t ease.
He’d promised himself he wouldn’t let anyone close again.
Too late for that now.
Ryder had drunk six cups of terrible coffee by the time the Sikorskys touched down and disgorged their crew, looking dazed and a little blurry from the rapid evacuation.
Ivy wasn’t among them.
The Jayhawk touched down ten minutes later.
This one. She had to be with his crew.
The rotor wash kicked up snow and debris, the downwash powerful enough to make him lean into it as he ran toward the landing pad.
Caleb jumped out first, helping the remainder of the Vega crew out one by one, their faces shocked and pale. As the motor wound down, Jake Henley joined him.
Ben Bishop, their pilot, was last out, but the first to see Ryder. “Come to see the fun?”
Ryder scanned the workers milling around the craft. No Ivy. Or Jack. Something wasn’t adding up. “Is this everyone? Ivy was on the Vega.”
Caleb glanced over. “What?”
“She took the supply boat out at two this afternoon. Went to talk to Jack Barnes about a geological survey. She didn’t make the return trip.”
Caleb paled. “She on the S-92s?”
“No.” Ryder shook his head.
Lambourne caught up, breathing hard. “Is she—did you see her? My sister, Ivy Lambourne, blonde hair, about this tall—”
“We got everyone on the evacuation list. All accounted for.” Caleb shook his head.
He pulled a folded paper from his flight pocket, scanned it, then held it out to Ryder.
“Here. Evacuation roster. Every name we pulled off, including the S-92s. Barnes and Lambourne aren’t on it.
If they’re not on the flight manifest—hang on.
” He turned and shouted after a departing back. “Winston?”
A grizzled man turned, shifting his kitbag on his shoulder. “Yeah.”
“The rig was evacuated properly? Everyone accounted for? Including the English woman?”
Winston narrowed his eyes. “Trying to tell me how to do my job, flyboy? Yeah, the rig is clear. No man left on board, including the woman asking about Barnes.”
“So where is she?” Ryder demanded.
“Gone.” Winston gave Ryder a slow blink. “Took the supply boat back with the rest of the day shift.”
Like hell. “You saw her get on the boat?”
“No. But she was on the manifest. Now if you’ll excuse me—” He stomped off.
“Pleasant,” Caleb muttered.
A chill skated across Ryder’s skin. “No one was looking for them. Everyone thought they’d already left.”
Lambourne made a sound—half-laugh, half-sob—and pressed his hand over his mouth. “She’s not—” His voice splintered, and he staggered back a pace. “She’s still out there. My sister is still out there, and I sent her. I told her to handle it herself because I couldn’t be bothered to listen to her.”
Bishop materialized at Lambourne’s elbow, a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, mate. Let’s get you a hot drink.” He made eyes at Ryder. “English right? We might have some tea, yeah? Sort your head out.”
Lambourne let himself be led away, still mumbling. “I should have listened. I should have—”
Ryder turned his attention back to the list, the names blurring together. His chest was in irons, his lungs not pulling in enough air. His hands were shaking. Somewhere in his head, he understood this was panic, that he needed to control it, but for the first time since Miranda left, he couldn’t.
Ivy was out there, and he might be too late.
Fuck.
The implications detonated in his brain.
“I need to see the supply boat manifest.” He started toward his truck. “The one from this afternoon.”
“Ryder—” Caleb shouted.
Ryder waved him away. “Look after Lambourne.”
The docks were fifteen minutes away. Ryder made it in nine.
The marine services office was closed, but the supply boat was still tied up. The sleet had turned to ice, sharp against his cheeks. It didn’t register. Nothing did but her name.
Ryder located the captain in the wheelhouse, a grizzled man in his fifties who looked up with weary irritation from his shot of rye when Ryder climbed aboard.
“I need to see your passenger manifest from today. The six o’clock arrival.”
“We don’t carry passengers. Just workers and—”
“There was a woman on the boat earlier this afternoon. English. Blonde. She didn’t come back. I need to see the manifest.”
Ryder’s tone made the captain finally reach for his tablet. He scrolled then offered Ryder the tablet. “Here. Everyone who boarded, everyone who disembarked.”
Ryder scanned the list. There—Ivy Lambourne. Logged as boarding at 1:57 p.m.
And logged as disembarking at 6:02 p.m.
But she hadn’t been on the boat.
“This is wrong.” He kept his voice level. “She didn’t disembark. She wasn’t on the return trip.”
The captain frowned. “Says right there—”
“I know what it says. It’s wrong.” Ryder’s finger traced the list. “Jack Barnes. Same thing.
Certainty settled deep within him.
Someone altered the records. Just like someone cut her brake lines. They didn’t want her found—and they sure as hell didn’t want her coming back from the Vega with answers.
He thanked the captain and left the boat, head spinning.
Headlights swept across the dock, cutting through sleet and darkness. Ryder didn’t need to look to know—Wyatt’s Volvo, right on time.
His brother climbed out, took one look at Ryder’s face, and stopped dead. “What’s happened?”
“Ivy and Jack Barnes are still on the Vega. Records show they came back to dry land, but they didn’t. Someone falsified the manifest.”
Wyatt’s expression hardened. “The Vega? The one with the structural failure?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck.” Wyatt pulled out his phone, already dialing. “I’ll get Command to authorize a search and rescue—”
“They won’t.” Ryder shook his head. He knew how this worked. Official paperwork would always trump one man’s word. “Manifest says they left. All confirmed personnel are accounted for. Command won’t send a rescue crew back into a disaster zone based on speculation.”
“We need to try.”
Wyatt was right. Ryder pulled out his Coast Guard radio and switched to Command frequency.
“Aurora Cove Command, this is Ryder Meyer. Two individuals unaccounted for on the Deepwater Vega platform—request immediate search and rescue authorization.”
A cracking pause of static.
“Meyer, we’ve checked all manifests. All confirmed personnel have been evacuated.”
“The manifest’s wrong. Someone tampered with it. They’re still on that rig.”
Another too-long pause.
“We can’t authorize a search based on speculation, Meyer.
All confirmed personnel are accounted for.
We’re establishing a two-mile safety perimeter.
Catastrophic structural failure estimated in two to three hours.
Weather’s deteriorating. Winds are gusting to forty-five knots. Air ops are suspended.”
Wyatt grabbed the radio. “This is Wyatt Meyer. We can reach the platform by boat in twenty minutes. Just give us clearance.”
“Negative, Meyer. Without confirmed personnel at risk, we cannot justify sending assets into an active disaster zone. You’re both to remain on standby for confirmed emergencies.”
Translation: Command wouldn’t risk Coast Guard lives for people who officially weren’t there.
The line went dead. For a second, Ryder’s jaw locked, pulse pounding so hard his vision swam. They were leaving her out there.
“Command said they need us for confirmed emergencies.” Wyatt’s mouth curved without humor. “She’s there. That’s confirmed enough for me.”
Ryder’s watch read 6:47 p.m. That put total collapse between nine and ten, maybe earlier if the damage accelerated.
He remembered how she felt in his arms this morning. Warm and soft, looking at him like he was worth keeping. He’d let her walk away because he’d been afraid to tell her what she meant to him, afraid to admit he’d fallen for her so hard and fast it terrified him.
“Ryder.” Wyatt’s voice cut through the spiral. His brother’s hand was on his shoulder, grip firm enough to hurt, steering him toward where his boat was berthed. “We’re going to find her. You hear me? We’re going to bring her home.”
Twenty minutes to reach the rig. Maybe an hour to find her and get out. That was cutting it brutally close—assuming everything went perfectly.
And nothing ever went perfectly.
Didn’t matter.
He’d find her. Bring her home. Whatever it took.