Chapter 12
Gunfire sparked off the metal above Jen’s head, bright and violent in the rain-dark. She ducked, flattening herself against the rungs, as if she could disappear into steel and shadow. The lip of the hatch above gave her a sliver of cover—barely enough to matter.
Wyatt returned fire, controlled shots snapping into the darkness above.
He was climbing up.
Back up toward the men, the rungs shuddering with every upward surge.
One hand on the ladder, the other firing upward into the storm, rising with the same relentless focus he’d shown all night.
No.
Figures were climbing out of the hatch—men spilling onto the ladder, boots and bodies crowding the narrow space, coming fast.
“Wyatt—”
A shadow broke free from above, plummeted toward them.
A man dropped, safety line whipping behind him like a tail.
He smashed into Wyatt.
Both men ripped free of the ladder.
Tumbled.
Their safety lines snapped taut with a brutal thwack, slamming them into the rig’s steel frame. The impact jolted the metal under her fingertips. Below them there was nothing—just a black void and a furious ocean.
The man locked his legs around Wyatt’s waist, dead weight and fury combined. Wyatt twisted, his fists and elbows striking with vicious efficiency, fighting to break free. A handgun spun past Jen, vanishing into the darkness.
“Jen—keep going!”
“I’m not leaving you—”
“GO!” Wyatt took several blows, his head whipping back from the force.
Silver flashed above her.
A knife.
The man had a knife. Voices shouted from the hatch, raw and urgent, urging him on.
Wyatt caught the first slash on his forearm, deflecting the blade wide. He drove his forehead into the man’s nose—a wet crack that echoed off steel—and for a second the terrorist’s grip loosened.
But gravity and the swing dragged them apart before Wyatt could press the advantage. The man came back snarling, blood sheeting from his nose, knife hand already moving.
Jen didn’t need to understand the words to hear the bloodlust. Her gaze dropped to the missile bay hatch below. Ten feet. She could make it to safety.
She looked back up.
Wyatt had the man’s knife hand trapped in his grip, tendons stark in his neck as he fought to hold it away from his body. His strength was being bled out second by second, fighting for his life.
I can’t leave him.
The thought landed with absolute clarity.
Something electric tore through her veins, burning away her terror.
She climbed.
Up.
“Jen—no!” Wyatt barked.
She ignored him, climbing faster than she believed possible.
Wyatt swore as the two men ricocheted off the rig again. The force tore his grip loose, and the knife found flesh. The blade sliced across his thigh.
Wyatt’s face blanched, his lips peeling back from his teeth. The knife came away slick and dark, rain diluting his blood as it smeared across the metal. Wyatt clamped down on the man’s wrist, twisted hard, and the knife flew, flying uselessly into the storm.
Too late. The damage had been done.
The terrorist howled, his hands clawing for Wyatt’s throat.
Jen was almost level with them now—closer to the men with guns above, closer to everything she didn’t want to think about.
“Wyatt—swing here!”
She yanked her multi-tool free, thumbed the blade out with shaking hands.
Wyatt’s gaze connected with hers, his eyes burning through rain and blood.
A grim nod.
He planted both boots against Seven and shoved off hard, angling his weight, forcing the swing. The ropes arced wide, momentum dragging them out into the open air. For one sickening second, she thought she’d reached him too late, that gravity would win.
She caught the tangle of rope and harness one-handed. The weight of two men nearly tore her arm out of its socket.
She grunted with the pain. Her grip was slipping, but she found the terrorist’s safety line and drove the blade under it, sawing frantically, her arm burning, vision greening at the edges from the strain.
The swing reached its apex and reversed. The line swung back toward her. Wyatt’s attacker locked eyes with her.
He twisted, blood-slick fingers stretching for her, breath rasping ugly and loud. Jen wedged her boots under the ladder rungs and locked her arms through them, teeth gritted as the force tried to peel her away.
His fingers missed her by inches.
The men slammed into the rig just past her, the impact snapping the line taut.
“Bitch,” the man spat.
Her shoulders and forearms were incandescent. Her vision blurred. She didn’t care. She wouldn’t let them hurt him.
Faster. Faster.
The harness line frayed, fibers splitting free under the blade.
Thick fingers closed around her elbow, crushing bone, dragging her closer.
Snap.
The last fiber severed.
Jen jerked back, gasping. The grip on her elbow released.
The terrorist’s eyes went wide as Wyatt’s arm locked around his throat.
“Nyet—”
Wyatt’s arm cinched tighter before he wrenched hard and kicked free, sending them both spinning away from her. For an instant the terrorist clung to Wyatt, both of them swinging on Wyatt’s line alone.
The man screamed as Wyatt let go.
He fell.
The dark took him.
The scream cut off.
Jen sagged against the ladder, her multi-tool rattling against the rung as her grip failed. Her whole body was shaking—violent tremors she couldn’t control.
She’d almost died. Almost fallen. Almost watched Wyatt die.
But she hadn’t left him.
She’d made the choice. Climbed toward danger instead of away. And God help her, she’d do it again. She fumbled getting her multi-tool back into its holster, breath coming in sharp, broken sobs.
Wyatt was alive.
He slammed back onto the ladder just in time, gripping the rung as his safety line, severed by the men above, whipped past and vanished into the storm below.
“Jen—you okay?” His voice roughened for the first time all night.
She nodded, the motion automatic. She couldn’t have formed words if her life depended on it.
Above them, boots hit metal.
The chase was back on.
“Jen,” Wyatt’s voice was urgent. “Move. Now.”
She started climbing.
Hand over hand.
The ladder jerked beneath her as weight shifted above—men scrambling, shouting, close enough that she could hear their breath between bursts of wind.
Eight feet.
Five.
The hatch.
Jen slapped the emergency release, and the door swung inward. She released her safety line and hauled herself through, barely landing on her feet before her legs gave out. She hit the deck, boneless, and rolled away from the opening. Her shoulders throbbed. Everything hurt. But she was alive.
She lay flat on her back, rain-soaked hair plastered to her face, breath stuttering. The floor beneath her was cold but solid.
She might never move again.
Wyatt came through a heartbeat later, vaulting inside in one fluid motion. He spun, slammed the hatch shut, cranked the lock, then rammed his automatic rifle through the circular wheel, jamming it solid.
Metal rang. But for now, the lock held.
She stared at the weapon wedged in the lock. His weapon, gone. He hadn’t even hesitated.
He staggered to his feet, bracing himself against the wall. Blood darkened his thigh where the knife had caught him, another smear running down his forearm.
Cold fear punched through her exhaustion.
“Wyatt—”
He shook his head, already reaching down to clamp a hand over the wound on his leg. “I’m good.”
A voice cut through the ringing in her ears.
“Chief? Chief, is that really you?”
A face loomed above her, blurry. Then clear.
Caro.