Chapter 7
Wyatt swung out onto the ladder.
The metal was slick under his palms. Rain sheeted sideways, the wind trying to peel him off the rig and drop him into the Pacific.
He’d done worse. Helicopter rescues in forty-foot seas. Fast-rope insertions in sandstorms. This was just cold and wet and a long way down.
His pulse settled into a steady beat as he slipped back into a skin he’d never fully shed. The part of him that hated the quiet eased into violence and danger like warm water after years in the cold.
He shut the thought down. Focus. He descended three rungs. Checked above.
Jen hadn’t moved yet. She was still clipped to the anchor point at the hatch, her face pale in the emergency lighting.
Fear made people sloppy. On her, it looked more like stubbornness trying to bend physics to her will.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he called up.
Jen grabbed the first rung.
Good. Keep her moving. Don’t give her time to think about the height or the wind, or the fact that she was dangling above the ocean.
He kept going. Hand over hand. Boots finding purchase on wet metal. The M4 slung across his back shifted with each movement. Above him, Jen descended slowly, her safety line bumping against the ladder with each step.
He checked his position. Seven rungs from the gap. The missing section stretched below him—six feet of nothing before the ladder resumed.
He reached the gap. No purchase. Just his hands and the cold metal and gravity trying to help him make poor decisions.
Too far to drop safely.
But the ladder’s support structure ran vertically alongside it. Maintenance rails. He could use those.
He shifted his weight. His left hand released the rung, grabbed the support rail. Right hand followed. Now he hung from the vertical rails instead of the horizontal rungs.
Shimmy down. Three feet. Four.
His shoulders burned. The rain made everything fucking slippery. His fingers cramped. Perfect timing. He clamped his jaw. Jen was depending on him.
Almost there.
Five feet. Six.
His right boot found the resumed ladder. He tested it. Solid.
Full weight down. Both boots locked. Both hands back on the rungs.
He breathed out and looked up.
Jen was three rungs from the gap, staring down at the missing section.
“Don’t look down,” he called. “Look at me.”
Her head lifted. Found him.
“I’m going to talk you through this. Trust the harness. If you slip, it’ll catch you.”
She nodded but didn’t move.
“Come down to the last rung before the gap. You’re going to rappel past the gap. I’ll guide you.”
Another nod. Still not moving.
The wind tugged at his back. Rain ran into his eyes. They were exposed out here. Visible from the tower catwalks. From the deck above. Every second they stayed on this ladder was a second someone could spot them.
Push too hard and she’d lock up. He had to give her something to focus on.
“Jen,” he said. “Look at my hands. See how I’m gripping? Thumb wrapped. Full palm contact. That’s what keeps you on. Not arm strength. Grip.”
“Okay.”
“Now come down to the gap. One rung at a time.”
At last she moved and reached the last rung before the gap.
“Good. Remember, you’re clipped. The rope will hold you. Now lean back. Let the harness take your weight.”
She gave a violent nod, her cheeks grayish. “I can’t—”
The wobble in her voice punched through the rain, cinching his chest tight—someone losing the fight against panic, alone.
“Yes, you can. Lean back. I’ve got you.”
After a moment of hesitation, she leaned. The rope went taut. The harness held.
“See? You’re fine. Now walk backward down the support rail. Small steps. Don’t think about the gap. Just focus on my voice.”
She climbed. One step. Two.
The wind gusted hard. She swung, gasped. “Wyatt—”
“You’re doing great. Grip the rope. Control the swing. You’ve got this.”
Her boots found the resumed ladder. She grabbed the rungs as if they were the only solid thing in the world.
“I’m okay.” Her voice was high-pitched over the keen of the wind.
“I see you. Keep coming with me.”
Wyatt descended the last few rungs to the platform. Although that term was a little generous. More like a maintenance ledge bolted to the rig’s exterior. Maybe six feet by four. Barely enough room for two people and the equipment housing.
He dropped onto it. The platform swayed slightly under his weight. No cover. No exit except the ladder.
Terrible place for a fight.
Jen reached the bottom. He caught her by the harness and pulled her onto the platform against him. She was breathing hard. Soaked through. Shaking from cold, adrenaline or both.
He shouldn’t notice the way she fit against him. But his body logged every point of contact anyway, traitor that it was.
“You did good.” He held her, giving her time for the shakes to pass.
She nodded as if she couldn’t find words yet.
He scanned their position. The platform jutted from the rig’s hull. Exposed. Visible from the tower catwalk above. From at least three different angles he could identify without even trying.
Fucking ambush heaven.
If anyone looked down, they’d be spotted. And there was nowhere to go except back up the ladder or into the ocean.
Fuck.
Instinct said pull her closer. Shield her from the wind, the height, the whole damn mess.
He let her go instead.
“How long to get the transmitter working?”
She blinked, pulling herself together. “Ten minutes. Maybe more if the connections are corroded.”
“You’ve got five. After that, we’re too exposed.”
She shot him a side-eye but moved to the equipment housing. It looked older than he was. Riveted steel, painted over a dozen times, bleeding rust at every seam.
Jen pried the access panel open. Water poured out. “Shit.”
He checked over her shoulder. Damn. Wiring that should’ve been replaced twenty years ago. Connections eaten through by salt air.
“Can you fix it?”
“Yes.” She pulled her multi-tool. “But it’s going to take time.”
Wyatt positioned himself between her and the most likely threat vectors, scanning the catwalks above. The deck access. The tower windows. “Like I said. You’ve got five.”
“Yes, sir.” Then she muttered something under her breath that might’ve been creative profanity.
He suppressed a smile. Even half-drowned in fear, she had bite.
Good. Anger kept her sharp.
He blinked rain from his eyes, spotting movement on the tower. Lone gunman. Not looking down. Yet.
“Talk to me,” he said. “What’re you seeing?”
“Corrosion everywhere.” Her voice was tight. Focused. “Main power line’s eaten through.”
She traced the circuit path with her flashlight.
“Okay. I can bypass it. Running directly from the backup cell.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know. I’m working as fast as I can.” There was a snap in her tone. Stress. Cold. The shakes from the climb probably hadn’t fully stopped yet.
“Not pushing.” He kept his voice level.
Above, a cigarette glowed orange in the rain. The gunman leaned on the railing, looking out at the ocean. Twenty feet above them.
Wyatt’s finger moved to the trigger guard. He settled his breathing. Calculated the angle—upward shot, rain, wind from the east. Doable.
Behind him, Jen was still working. If this went loud, every hostile on Seven would know exactly where she was. One look down and the man was dead. Either way.
After interminable seconds, the guard flicked his cigarette into the ocean and retreated from view.
Wyatt hissed through his teeth.
“Connection’s through,” Jen said. “Running signal diagnostics now.”
“Good.”
More metal sounds. A sharp intake of breath.
“Problem?” He glanced back. Her hands were working fast, but her fingers were red raw from the cold. “Your hands okay?”
“Fine.”
“How’d you end up out here?”
“What?”
“On Seven. Middle of nowhere. You don’t strike me as someone who does things by accident.”
A pause. The snip of wire. “Needed a job. This one was available.”
“Chief engineer on a weapons platform isn’t just a job.”
“It is when no one else will hire you.”
Something in her voice made him glance back again. She was bent over the housing, face hidden. But the line of her shoulders was ramrod straight.
“Why wouldn’t they hire you?”
“Long story.”
He’d heard that kind of deflection before—in teammates who carried wounds no one could see.
Wyatt kept scouring the catwalks. “We’re perched on a shelf above the Pacific. I’m not exactly booked up. Hit me.”
She let out a faint, tired huff—half sigh, half surrender.
“I had a breakthrough,” she said finally.
“Adaptive targeting algorithms for missile defense systems. My mentor took credit. When I pushed back, he made sure I couldn’t work anywhere else.
So I ended up here. Forty-seven miles from nowhere. My dream job.”
Wyatt processed that. The way her work was precise even when she was shaking from the cold. The way she’d mapped the entire station in her head.
“His loss,” Wyatt said. “You’re better than this place.”
Her breath hitched as if the compliment had landed somewhere unexpected. She looked up at him, her expression unreadable in the rain and fading light. Surprise maybe.
“Thanks,” she said quietly.
She was stuck here with him in the middle of nowhere, rewiring a transmitter older than both of them. Because someone had decided her work was his.
Wyatt turned back to his surveillance, needing somewhere else to look. But his awareness of her didn’t fade. The sound of her working. Her breathing. The small, frustrated noises when something didn’t cooperate.
“Needle-nose,” he said.
“What?”
“You need needle-nose pliers.”
She wiped rain from her eyes. “How did you—”
“You’ve looked at that connection point multiple times.” He reached for her tool belt and pulled the pliers free. “Figured you needed something smaller to reach it.”
Their fingers brushed—a tiny contact—but Jen inhaled sharply. “Thanks.”
“You’re freezing. Keep working. I’ll handle the rest.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re not. But we don’t have a choice.”
“Story of the night.” Her lips were bluish, but they lifted in a small smile.
“Yeah—”
Movement caught his eye. Two guards emerging from the access door two levels up.
Shit.
Wyatt tracked them as they walked along the catwalk above.
“Jen,” he whispered.
“Almost there. The carrier tone’s initializing.”
The guards were now directly above.
Wyatt settled the weapon into his shoulder. Two targets. Exposed position. He could take them both before they got a shot off. Laughter floated down as the men continued along the catwalk and disappeared around the tower’s curve.
Wyatt breathed out through gritted teeth.
“I’ve got a signal. Transmitting now.” Jen leaned into the microphone, voice quiet but urgent.
“Any Coast Guard or Navy asset, this is Chief Engineer Jennifer James, NORPAC-7. Station is under hostile control. We have—”
She glanced at Wyatt, counting fast. “I’ve seen at least seven men. Plus the three you took down.”
Wyatt gave a brief nod. “Another twelve when my helo landed.”
She turned back to the mic. “Minimum twenty-two armed hostiles. Automatic weapons. One hostage already dead. Repeat, NORPAC-7 is under hostile control.”
Static. Long and empty.
Jen’s jaw locked. She adjusted the frequency and tapped the housing with her palm.
Then a voice, broken and fighting through the interference. “NORPAC-7 say again—you’re breaking—”
Jen leaned closer to the mic. “NORPAC-7 is under hostile control. Twenty-two plus armed hostiles. Requesting immediate military response.”
Another agonizing stretch of static. Then the signal locked.
“NORPAC-7, Coast Guard Command. Message received. Coast Guard One-Nine-Zero-Nine confirmed. SEAL Team Five already mobilizing. ETA five hours.”
Wyatt’s grip hardened on the M4.
Five hours.
Clarity slid into place—cold, precise, and terrible in how right it felt.
Until they arrived, he was the only line between her and everyone hunting her.
Five hours.