Chapter 20
Oh my god, I just kissed Wyatt.
Jen was halfway down the service stairs, two decks below the lifeboat and three minutes into her fifteen-minute window.
What the hell was I thinking?
I kissed him and then walked away as if I do that sort of thing every day.
She pressed her palm against the cold bulkhead and listened. No voices or footsteps. Just the low thrum of machinery and the distant groan of Seven in the storm.
Clear.
She hurried down, taking careful steps to keep her boots quiet on the deck plating.
At the bottom stairwell, she paused and peered through the reinforced glass observation window.
The corridor was narrow here—bare metal walls, exposed piping overhead, emergency lighting strips turning the metal walls a jaundiced yellow.
The closet she’d hidden in previously was about a hundred feet down the corridor, and from there she could re-enter the vents and make her way to the armory.
The skin on her waist still tingled. The pressure of his fingers through her coveralls. The way his thumb had pressed into her hip. The kiss had been—
Not now.
He’s counting on you. Don’t make him regret letting you go.
Catalog the route. Listen for threats. Move fast.
She swung the access door open and stepped into the corridor. The sound changed immediately—the heavy, rhythmic thud of hydraulic pumps and the hiss of pressure valves. The air warmed with the smell of oil and ozone, but Wyatt’s mouth had been cold from the wind—
Why am I thinking about his lips right now? Terrible timing, brain.
The closet door was visible ahead. Almost there.
Focus. Armory. Don’t die.
Voices.
She stilled. Two men. Speaking Russian. Close. Maybe thirty feet ahead around the next corner.
Her pulse thudded painfully in her throat. Hide. She ducked behind an equipment locker on her right. She pressed herself flat against the wall, making herself small.
The voices grew louder. Footsteps. Two sets. Heavy boots on deck plating.
They were coming this way.
Jen held her breath. Her heart hammered so loud she was certain they’d hear it. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t exist.
The footsteps reached the corner. Paused.
One of them said something. A question. The tone was casual. Not alarmed.
The other man laughed. Replied. Still in Russian, but the cadence was easy.
The footsteps continued past her hiding spot. Three feet away. Close enough that cigarette smoke and sweat stung her nose.
Jen remained frozen, waiting until the sound of them had faded completely down the corridor. She held out her hands—shaking. She tucked them under her arms, bent forward, and took a breath.
Okay.
She straightened.
Move. You’re wasting time.
The closet was twenty feet away.
Her hand gripped the door handle.
A groan. From inside the closet.
A vent access panel hung open on the far wall. Her route through.
The sound came again. Human. In pain.
This could be a trap. Could be one of Akilov’s men, injured and armed and desperate.
Or it could be crew. Someone who needed help.
Jen opened the door.
The closet was dark. She could make out a shape slumped in the corner. Male. Something metal in his other hand—a wrench, raised defensively.
“Don’t,” the man said. His voice was rough. Exhausted. “Don’t—”
“Max?”
His head came up.
“Chief?” The wrench hit the floor with a clang. “Jesus. Chief. Thought you were dead.”
She crouched beside him. His face was a mess—a split lip, bruising around his left eye, blood crusted under his nose. His coveralls were torn at the shoulder and bloody.
“What happened?”
“Got jumped by two of them after the mess hall.” He grimaced, shifted his weight. “Took one down. The other one got me with a knife before I could run.”
He’d packed the wound with a rag from his sleeve, but it was already soaked through.
She should leave him. But she wasn’t built to walk past her own people, and Max had saved her life once already, giving her the chance to stop all of this.
“Can you crawl?” she asked.
Max blinked. “Crawl?”
“You’re coming with me.” She stood, offered her hand, and grabbed the stepladder and dragged it under the vent access. God, she was so done with crawling through tiny spaces.
He stared up at the vent. “Seriously?”
“We have to get to the armory for explosives. We’re dropping the crane.”
Max grinned. “Now you’re talking.”
She pulled him upright. He swayed, and his skin blanched, but he stayed on his feet.
“They’re moving people,” he said. “Hostages. Heard them passing by not long ago. Orders being shouted. Something about the crane deck.”
Jen’s stomach dropped. “How many?”
“Lots, by the sound of it.” Max took a careful breath.
Bile soured her mouth. Everything they’d planned—the twenty-minute window, the rendezvous, the careful approach—all of it just compressed into nothing.
Hostages near the crane meant human shields.
She needed to get back. Now.
But first she needed those charges. She climbed up the ladder, removed the vent cover with her multi tool. This was becoming a habit. “Can you do this?”
Max gave a wry smile. “Try and stop me.”
Jen crawled as fast as she dared, knees now bruised from the cold metal, mindful of noise. Max’s breathing labored behind her, but every time she glanced back, he was there, face shining with sweat, mouth set in a determined grimace.
Finally, she was above the vent close to the armory.
She eased the panel open and dropped down.
Max followed with a grunt. “Fuck, I’m too old for this.”
She looped an arm around his waist. “You’re doing just fine.”
The armory door was scorched but secure. She palmed the door, seeing soot on her fingertips. They’d tried to blast it, then given up.
She pressed her palm to the scanner.
The lock beeped. Green light. The door unsealed with a pneumatic hiss.
Thank God.
She hadn’t been sure her access would still work. They slipped inside, emergency lighting casting long shadows. Max leaned against the wall near the open door to keep watch. His face was pale, but his eyes were sharp.
Jen moved to the back corner where the red locker was located, emblazoned with warning labels.
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY - DEMOLITION MATERIALS.
Inside she found C4, blasting caps, detonation cord, and timers. Enough to drop the crane clean into the ocean.
Beside it, a metal shelf held emergency equipment. She grabbed a canvas tactical pack—the kind used for evacuation kits. She held it up. Heavy-duty. Big enough. She opened the demo locker and started packing.
When she finally zipped it up, it was heavy, forty pounds maybe, but she could manage.
She would get it to Wyatt.
If this is the last stupid thing I ever do, kissing Wyatt was worth it.
Footsteps.
Max’s voice came sharp and low. “Someone’s coming.”
Jen looked up. A young guard rounded the corner—surprised, hand already moving toward his radio.
Max didn’t wait. He lunged from his position by the door and tackled the man before he could transmit. They thudded as one into the wall.
The guard was bigger and fresher. Max’s shoulder left a thick smear of red on the wall as they grappled.
The guard snaked an arm around Max’s throat. Max gasped, his face burning red as his fingers scrabbled at the stocky arm cutting off his air supply.
Fuck.
The M4 was slung across her back—too big, awkward.
On the wall, a red fire extinguisher. Jen wrenched it free of its moorings and swung.
The fire extinguisher connected with a dull, wet sound. The guard released Max and crumpled.
Jen stalled. Fire extinguisher still raised. Hands locked around it.
Max moaned.
Was the guard dead? His chest was motionless.
God. I killed a man with a fire extinguisher.
Then the sound hit her.
Wet.
Her stomach lurched. She dropped the extinguisher and stumbled backward, just making it to the wall before retching, bile burning up her throat.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes with her sleeve.
The guard’s chest rose with a wheeze.
Thank fuck. He’s alive.
The strength ran out of her knees. She bent forward and sucked air into her constricted lungs.
He’s alive.
A hand slapped between her shoulder blades. “Hell of a swing, Chief.”
She wiped her damp hands on her thighs, then waved him off. “We need to hide him. Buy us some time.”
She grabbed the man’s arms and pulled. Jesus. He moved maybe an inch—like dead-lifting a waterlogged corpse.
“Let me help, Chief.” Max got one arm under the guard’s shoulders, and together they dragged him into the armory. By the time they finished, sweat stuck her coveralls to her back, and her arms were wet noodles.
When she stood back up, Max was leaning against the wall, breathing ragged, his face waxen. The blood on his shoulders gleamed fresh. He needed first aid and soon.
She handed Max the M4 and grabbed the backpack of explosives, swung it onto her shoulders. The weight settled across her spine—forty pounds pulling at her shoulder blades, straps cutting in.
The means to end this.
“Ready, Max?”
“Not really.”
“Good. Me neither.”
“Let’s go.”
At the door, she checked the corridor. Clear for now.
But twenty minutes had already passed.
Wyatt would be wondering if he’d made the wrong call letting her go. She gritted her teeth and adjusted the weight of the explosives on her shoulders.
She wouldn’t make him regret trusting her. Not if she could help it.
Please let him still be there when I get back.