Chapter 17
The vent shaft swallowed sound.
Wyatt’s breath bounced back into his face in the cramped space. Six inches of clearance. Every pull of the ladder drove his elbows into metal.
Above him, Jen climbed. He couldn’t see her but he could hear her—the scrape of boots, the clink of her tools, the low curse when something didn’t cooperate.
She was terrified of these spaces. Yet, she climbed anyway, every single time.
Most people froze when fear hit them like that. Jen kept moving. Something about that wouldn’t leave him alone.
Caro had stopped climbing.
Her breathing had gone fast and shallow, rasping in the narrow shaft. Wyatt knew that sound. He’d heard it in cockpits and flooded compartments, right before someone locked up completely.
“Caro?”
Her breath hitched.
Wyatt hooked his elbow through a rung and shifted his weight. His thigh protested immediately—as torn muscle pulled against the edges of the wound.
“Tell me about Skye,” he said in a measured voice. Like this wasn’t a steel coffin thirty feet above armed men hunting them. “The Isle of Skye.”
A shaky exhale. “W—what?”
“You’re from there.” Cold metal bit into his palms as he shifted his grip. He ignored the burning sensation in his thigh. “You ever climb through places like this back home? Sea caves or something?”
Her boots scraped the rung close to his head.
“Sea caves? Yes. Below the cliffs at the Quiraing. But I never—I don’t like heights.”
“That’s the one. The Quiraing.” He smiled, though she couldn’t see it. If she was picturing home, she wasn’t picturing the drop beneath her boots. “What’s it like?”
She didn’t answer right away. Her breathing stuttered, then slowed—just a fraction.
“They’re big,” she whispered at last. “Black rock. Volcanic. They drop straight into the sea.”
“How far down?” His thigh throbbed in time with his pulse.
“Hundreds of feet.” Her voice steadied as the image took hold. “You can hear the waves from miles away. Taste the salt in the air.”
Good. She was talking now.
“What’s at the top?” he asked.
“Heather. Green in winter, but every shade of pink and purple in the autumn.” A breath. “You wouldn’t believe it unless you saw it.”
“And you’re going back there. But first—two more rungs.”
“I can’t.” Panic surged back into her voice, sharp and thin. “I’m stuck.”
“Hey. Slow breath. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”
Her breath huffed, slower now.
“Good. Do it again.”
“You’ve already done over thirty feet. That’s thirty feet you didn’t think you could do.”
Silence.
Then her grip shifted. Just a little.
Wyatt’s head snapped toward the hammering fists on the vent door.
Someone barked commands in Russian.
Shit. We need to move.
“Caro. What do you see at the foot of the Quiraing when the tide comes in?”
“The water rises.” Her voice was breathy. “Fast.”
“And what do you do?”
“You move,” she whispered. “Or you'll drown.”
“Exactly.” He squeezed her knee. “Move.”
“Y-yes.” Her boot lifted one rung higher. Then another.
Thank fuck.
“You’re doing brilliant,” he breathed. “Keep going.”
He followed. Every pull tore at the seal Jen had glued together. He cataloged the damage and climbed anyway. His hands cramped around the rungs—too much time gripping cold metal, not enough circulation.
Above, metal scraped against metal. Jen muttering. Then, a different sound. Tools. The clink of a wrench against bolts.
Wyatt tilted his head back. He could just make out the outline above Caro—the maintenance grille at the top of the shaft, maybe twenty feet up. Bolted down. Jen was working on it with her power drill.
Below them, a new sound cut through the darkness.
Metal on metal. Akilov’s men opening the vent access.
Wyatt shifted his stance, ready. If they came up behind him, he’d have maybe two seconds to turn, brace, and fire. The angles were bad. Ricochet risk in this confined space could take out any of them.
But he’d put himself between the shooters and the women.
Especially her.
That wasn’t negotiable.
The door mechanism screeched open, and a flashlight beam lanced up through the shaft.
Wyatt stopped moving. The light skimmed past him—missed by inches—and swept higher, illuminating Caro’s legs above him, the underside of the grille where Jen was still working.
A man shouted in Russian. In the vents.
Wyatt drew his pistol and twisted on the ladder.
From above, a blast of fresh air. Jen had gotten the final grille open.
Jen’s voice, tight with urgency. “Caro, now!”
Caro scrambled upward to the opening, Jen’s hands grabbed her, hauling her out into whatever lay beyond.
Muzzle flash.
The shot cracked deafening in the metal tube. The bullet sparked off the rung six inches from his head, the impact vibrating through his hands.
Wyatt twisted. One-handed grip on the ladder. Brought his pistol around and fired back down the shaft.
Three rounds. Fast. Calculated angles to minimize ricochet but maximize suppression. The enclosed space amplified the sound into something physical—pressure against his eardrums.
The flashlight beam jerked away.
Three more feet.
His hand slipped, but he caught himself, leg screaming, shoulders burning. The world narrowed to the rungs in front of him—adrenaline crash looming, body begging for rest he couldn’t give.
Jen’s face appeared—backlit, rain-slicked, her eyes locked on his.
She wasn’t leaving without him.
“Come on.” She reached down.
Another shot from below displaced the air next to his ribs.
Wyatt lunged. His hand found the edge of the opening. Jen grabbed his wrist—her grip surprisingly strong, engineer’s hands—and pulled. He hauled himself up with his other arm, leg barely cooperating, boots scraping for purchase.
Then he was through.
He collapsed onto cold metal, rain hitting his face, wind cutting through the damp coveralls. Jen slammed the grille shut behind him. Caro was already moving—she grabbed something from Jen’s tool belt, a steel rod, and jammed it through the bolt holes.
Wyatt rolled onto his side, brought his pistol up, and fired one more shot into the grille’s locking mechanism. The metal warped. Jammed. Not permanently—they’d get through eventually—but it bought time.
Then he just lay there. Breathing. Blood crashing in his ears. Leg on fire.
Caro bumped down on her backside, her face blanched. “Bloody hell and a half,” she whispered. She wiped her face with shaking hands. “I want a new job. Preferably one without death tubes.”
Jen stood over him, rain on her face, power driver still in her hand. Breathing hard. Shaking. But upright.
She’d gone first into the dark. Cleared every grille. Got Caro through. Then reached back for him.
He was trained for this. She wasn’t. And she kept showing up anyway.
That scared him more than the bullets had.
Because it meant she wouldn’t stop, even when this was over.