Chapter 6
Jen’s stomach clenched.
The vent shaft yawned dark above her head.
Too small. Too tight.
She’d just crawled through twenty minutes of steel coffin to escape the terrorists. Now she had to go back in.
Wyatt laced his fingers together. “On three”
She put her foot in the makeshift stirrup, her hands gripping his rock-solid shoulders.
“One, two—”
“Hey—”
He boosted her with a soft grunt.
She grasped the edges of the vent, pulled herself back into the shaft.
Her head clipped the metal roof—bright pain, sharp enough to steal her breath for a second. Her lungs constricted as darkness pressed in from all sides.
Stop it. You’ve done this already today. You can do it again.
Behind her, Wyatt boosted himself in. The vent groaned under his weight—bigger, heavier, his body taking up even more of the limited space.
“You good?” he asked.
“Fine.” Her voice came out steady. “North access is this way. Stay close.”
He chuckled. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She crawled forward. Hands and knees on cold metal. The beam from her flashlight bounced off rivets and seams, her breathing echoing back at her. Way too loud and fast.
Think about something else, Jen. The route. Three turns. Straight shot after that. Fifteen minutes if they headed steadily toward the exterior of the rig.
The metal groaned behind her under Wyatt’s weight. His weapon scraped against the walls as he shimmied his bulk in.
“Snug fit,” he muttered.
“Yeah.” She kept crawling.
One hand. One knee. Repeat.
The air was stale. Recycled. It tasted like dust and machine oil, thick enough to choke on.
Her heart was beating too fast.
The walls closed in.
Narrowing?
No. Same dimensions.
Just your brain lying to you.
Voices.
She froze.
Wyatt stilled behind her. Predator-silent.
The voices drifted up from below them. Two men. Maybe three.
Her tool belt dug into her hips. She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe as the voices continued. Casual. Not searching. Just patrolling.
Wyatt’s hand closed lightly around her ankle.
The voices faded.
She nodded even though he couldn’t see it in the dark. Yes. I’m okay. Don’t make me talk right now because I might scream.
Wyatt’s hand squeezed once. Then released.
With a slow exhale, Jen started crawling again. The shaft branched left. She took it. Then, right at the next junction. The darkness was absolute, except for her flashlight. The beam shook in her hands. Stop.
She couldn’t.
Her chest was too tight. The air too thin. She was going to get stuck—
Light flickered ahead.
Thank God.
The exit grating. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.
She reached it, checked it was clear on the other side, and once she had freed the screws, shoved hard. The grating flew open, metal clanging.
She didn’t care about the noise.
Jen dropped through the opening onto the catwalk below. Her legs nearly buckled. She caught herself on the railing. Sucked in ocean air that didn’t taste like recycled fear.
Her coveralls were soaked through with sweat. Cold now in the unheated space of the exterior catwalk. Wyatt dropped down beside her in an effortless crouch. Straightened. Like he’d just stepped out for fresh air instead of crawling through a claustrophobic nightmare.
He raised an eyebrow as she scrubbed the back of her neck.
“I’m good.”
He gave a clipped nod. But he’d noticed. Of course he had.
She turned away, scanned the corridor. They were near the north exterior access. The exterior door at the end stood closed.
Wyatt checked sightlines in both directions. He mapped the space the way she’d map a wiring schematic—inputs, outputs, points of failure.
Movement ahead.
Jen’s hand went to her rifle. Wyatt was already moving—palm up in a stay signal. He shifted forward. Silent, his weapon held ready, but not raised.
A lone terrorist rounded the corner, radio clipped to his vest, scanning the corridor but not expecting threats.
Wyatt closed the distance in a blink.
The man didn’t stand a chance.
Wyatt caught the weapon's barrel. Redirected it. His other hand struck—palm heel to the throat. The man gagged. Wyatt spun him. Arm around his neck. Squeezed.
Seven seconds. Maybe less.
The man went limp.
Wyatt lowered him to the deck. Pressed two fingers to his neck.
Satisfied, he stripped the guard of his comms and sidearm. Zip-tied his wrists behind his back.
Jen’s pulse hammered in her throat. That wasn’t standard Coast Guard training. That was military.
Who the hell is he?
Wyatt met her eyes. “Clear.”
He slung his weapon across his back, then lifted the man and threw him effortlessly over his shoulder. He moved to the exterior access door.
Jen followed, the wind pummeling her the moment he cracked the door open. Cold. Wet. The mist had turned to sideways rain while they’d been in the vents. The exterior catwalk glistened under orange emergency lighting.
He dropped the guard, propping him behind the door, under the safety locker bolted to the wall. Out of sight unless you knew where to look.
Rain pattered on the man’s face, but he didn’t stir.
Wyatt pulled the locker open. Fall arrest harnesses. Lanyards. Carabiners. Rope. “We’ll need this.”
Jen unsealed the access hatch for the ladder. Wind and rain blasted through the opening, funneled upward from the churning water. Below, the maintenance ladder descended toward the transmitter housing, about twenty feet down. Or it should have.
Three rungs were missing. The metal ends were weathered and rust-streaked. Not recent damage. Just neglect.
She closed her eyes, sucking in a slow breath. Of course, just climbing down on actual rungs would be too damn simple.
“What?” Wyatt took a knee next to her after a quick glance over his shoulder searching for threats.
“There are rungs missing. Gap’s about six feet.” Wind whipped her hair into her eyes. “These ladders aren’t priority for safety checks. They’re almost never used. I should have—I should’ve known—”
Something flickered across his face. It wasn’t pity. Recognition.
“Can we reach it another way?”
She forced herself to think past the guilt and visualized the platform structure. The transmitter housing sat isolated on its mount. No alternate access. No other ladders. Just this one route.
“No,” she said. “This is it.”
Wyatt studied the gap. The wet metal. The drop to the ocean below if either of them slipped.
“Okay. We adapt. Come on.”
She followed him back to the safety locker.
He’d laid out all the kit on the platform grid.
“Only one harness.” His hands settled on his hips.
“What?” She dropped to her knees, sure he was wrong as she rummaged through the kit.
He was right. One harness.
How the hell?
“So we take turns? You go first, secure the bottom, send it back up?”
“Nope.” He bent and scooped up the harness, already unbuckling it. “You wear it. I’ll free climb with the rifle sling as backup.”
“That’s not—”
“Not negotiable.” He held it out to her.
“I can free climb too. You’re bigger, heavier—if anyone needs the safety equipment—”
“Step. In.”
Something in his voice stopped her. No raised voice. Just absolute command.
She took the harness. It was a full-body fall arrest system—straps that went around the waist, chest, and between the legs. Industrial safety equipment built for men twice her size.
She stepped into it. “Let me—”
“Stop.” Wyatt stepped in front of her. “You’ll rig it wrong.”
“I’ve used harnesses before—”
His hands went to the buckles at her waist. “If the fit’s off and you fall, this thing will snap your spine or crush your pelvis. So hold still and let me do it right.”
His fingers worked the straps. Impersonal. Except it wasn’t. He was close enough she sensed the heat radiating off him despite the cold—could smell gun oil and salt water and him.
He pulled the waist strap snug, double-checking the fit. His knuckles brushed her stomach through the coveralls.
“Breathe out.” His voice was gruff.
She exhaled, and he tightened it another inch.
“Good. Now the legs.”
The leg straps hung loose. He dropped to one knee in front of her.
Oh.
He guided the strap around her thigh, pulled it through the buckle, and adjusted the tension. His hands were sure. Professional. Like he’d done this a hundred times. Which he probably had.
He was Coast Guard, right?
But heat prickled under her skin. Not from his touch but from knowing he was close enough to feel her shaking.
If he noticed, he didn’t say a word. He moved to the other leg. Same process. The strap ran from her waist, between her legs, around her thigh.
She kept her breathing even. Focused on the rain. The wind. Anything except the fact that his hands were inches from—
“Too tight?” he glanced up.
“No.”
“You’d tell me if it was?”
She wouldn’t. Not when her pride and fear were welded together this tight. “Yes.”
He didn’t look convinced, but he continued. Chest strap. Shoulder straps. Each one adjusted with the same meticulous care.
When he was done, he tugged on the front D-ring. Hard.
She stumbled forward a step, and he caught her by the shoulders, steadying her.
“If you fall, this rig will hold you. But it’s going to hurt. The straps will bite. You’ll swing. Don’t panic. I’ll get to you.”
“I won’t fall.”
“If you do.” His eyes held hers. Gray-blue in the dusky light and utterly serious. “You’re my responsibility now. Understand?”
She should argue, tell him she wasn’t his responsibility, wasn’t his anything.
But the way he was looking at her—like her safety was the only thing that mattered in the world—shut down every protest before it could form.
“Understood,” she said quietly.
He nodded once, released her shoulders, then clipped her to the anchor line he’d rigged.
Jen peered down at the gap. Six feet of nothing between wet metal rungs. The harness suddenly felt very real and extremely necessary.
“I’ll go first. Get below the gap. Then you follow. I’ll talk you through every step.” His voice had the calm certainty of someone who had talked people through worse drops than this.
His eyes swept the area—the ladder, the hull, the water below. Then he swung out onto the wet metal.
No harness. No safety line. Just his hands and the wet metal and a twenty-foot drop to a platform over the ocean.
He began to climb down.
She’d just put her life in the hands of a man she’d met thirty minutes ago.
A man who’d neutralized three armed terrorists without breaking a sweat, who’d just touched her with more care than anyone had in years.
She wasn’t sure which terrified her more.