Chapter 21
Wyatt checked his watch.
Three minutes since Jen disappeared into the sleet.
Four since she kissed him.
Kissed him.
He could still feel the softness of her mouth. The shape of her waist in his palm. The warmth of her pressed against him for half a second too long.
And he hadn’t even kissed her back.
His pulse kicked hard enough to hurt. And for the first time in years, he didn’t shut down.
Jen hadn’t kissed the protector.
She’d kissed the man.
Nothing more.
And that changed things.
It gave weight to what he’d have to do tonight. Not just stopping Akilov—but getting her out alive.
Protected.
He pushed his sleeve back over his watch. He couldn’t think about this. Not now.
The wind slammed into him as they crossed the deck, and sleeting rain lashed, sharp enough to sting. His thigh burned with every step, torn muscle pulling against the adhesive dressing.
Jen was counting on them. That was enough. He wouldn’t let her down.
If she didn’t come back—
Enough.
The terrorists first. Even if this time felt different.
Head on straight, Meyer.
Caro stayed close on his heels. Whatever panic she’d had in the vent was gone, burned off by necessity.
When they reached the crane platform, Wyatt pulled her down behind a cluster of storage containers. The crane loomed overhead—a massive steel structure, cables thick as a man’s arm, the hook assembly clinking in the storm. Beyond it, through the sleet, the cargo ship approached on the horizon.
“Caro—”
Movement near the crane.
Too many people.
Hostages.
A cold knot formed in his gut.
Their hands zip-tied, they stumbled toward the crane in a ragged line—twenty, maybe twenty-five. Armed men flanked them, prodding anyone who lagged into position.
That complicates things.
“Bloody hell,” Caro hissed. “What the hell are they doing?”
“Protection. Akilov isn’t stupid. You park civilians on top of critical infrastructure, and suddenly every shot carries consequences.”
Six guards. Three disciplined—weapon positions correct, eyes moving. Three sloppy—clustered together, weapons loose. Talking. The sloppy ones would panic first. The disciplined three would be the problem.
He could make it work.
First two down fast.
Third and fourth return fire.
Cover holds.
Five and six were the problem—farthest from him, clearest shot at the hostages if they scattered.
And they would.
Twenty-five people panicking in the crossfire. One stray round. One ricochet off metal. Someone dies. Fuck.
He squinted through the sleet at the crane supports. “Show me the placement points.”
Caro scooted forward so she was level with him. She peered over the top of the storage container and pointed. “There. That support column. And there—the cross-beam junction. You see them?”
“I see them.” And the hostages now huddled there, their shoulders hunched against the weather. Shit.
“And the third one at the base. Take those three out and the whole thing collapses toward the ocean.”
Wyatt closed his eyes briefly, visualizing the placements. C4 on each support. Shaped charges angled toward the ocean.
Ten minutes work. Maybe fifteen if they had to be careful. But he couldn’t blow the crane with civilians sitting underneath it. He had to get them out first.
Jen would want that. She’d been willing to destroy her own system to protect strangers. She wouldn’t let him drop a crane on her crew or risk their lives in a firefight.
Caro met his gaze, rain slicking hair down her neck. “How are we going to do this?”
He scanned the deck, the guards again. Bastards weren’t leaving unless something forced them.
“Good question.” He dragged a hand over his mouth, studying the deck. “Needs to be big. Loud. Something they can’t ignore.” His gaze landed on the missile launch tubes angled toward the sky. “What kind of safety measures do you have to protect the launch tubes?”
“Fuel depot,” Caro pivoted in her crouch. “It’s two hundred feet that way. Alarm system’s tied to fire suppression. If that goes off, they’ll respond. They can’t risk fire spreading to the missile bays.”
Fire. On a weapons rig.
“Sounds safe.” He met her gaze.
Her eyebrows shot up. “You said you wanted big.”
It could work.
“You know the systems?”
“Sure. I can trigger an alarm.” She pushed her shoulders back, and a smile touched her eyes. “And make it convincing. Just a wee fire, mind.”
“We go together,” he said. “Trip the alarm. Make it look real. Then we get back here before they figure it out.”
Caro swallowed hard. “And if they figure it out before we get back?”
“Then we'll improvise.” He checked his sidearm. Five rounds left. Two for the sloppy guards. Three for problems. Enough if every shot counted.
He looked toward the direction Jen had disappeared.
She’d tasted like salt from the storm.
He glanced at his watch.
Eight minutes gone.
Somewhere inside Seven, she was carrying a pack of explosives through hostile territory because he’d let her go.
Because he’d trusted her.
He wasn’t sure if that made him brave or stupid. She’d probably say both.
He gave Caro’s arm a brief squeeze. “Let’s give them something else to worry about.”