Chapter 22
The two hundred feet to the fuel depot felt like miles.
Wyatt kept Caro close, using the storm and Seven’s infrastructure for cover. Storage tanks provided concealment. Pipe runs offered covered routes between open spaces.
It had been over ten minutes since Jen left. But he trusted her. As much as any operative he’d served with. She’d proved herself over and over as smart and capable.
A smile tugged at his mouth. Brave enough to kiss him before walking into the storm.
“Wyatt.” Caro pointed to a bank of access panels and valve controls.
The fuel depot.
Large cylindrical tanks rose three stories high. Pump systems hummed. Emergency equipment, including extinguishers and suppression foam canisters were racked on a wall.
Caro flipped open an access panel, revealing a small keyboard. “Give me five.”
Wyatt took position, his back to hers. The alarm alone wouldn’t be enough. The guards might ignore it as a false trigger or the sensors malfunctioning in the storm.
We need a visible threat.
His gaze landed on the valve controls for the fuel lines.
Perfect.
He holstered his handgun and spun one, letting diesel flood the deck. The liquid pooled, its sharp smell cutting through the arctic air. He grabbed a signal flare from the emergency kit mounted nearby. Its magnesium core would be hot enough to ignite the diesel.
“I’m done.” Caro stepped back from the keyboard. Her hand hovered over the alarm trigger.
“Now,” he said.
Caro hit the alarm.
The klaxon screamed. A sound designed to cut through machinery noise, and human instinct to ignore warnings. Lights flashed brilliant red along the depot perimeter. The fire suppression system activated—spray nozzles erupting with white foam, pressure valves releasing with hissing roars.
A guard rounded the tank, gun raised.
The suppression system discharged overhead.
White foam blasted down in a roaring curtain, coating the deck, the guard’s face, his weapon. He shouted in surprise, boots skidding as foam turned the steel lethal.
Wyatt dropped the flare and lunged, driving the guard backward into the ladder rungs welded to the tank. He shoved the man up against the valve wheel, jamming it against the guard’s chest, pinning him in place long enough to strip his weapon free.
One sharp strike behind the ear and the guard went slack.
Wyatt eased him down as the smoke thickened.
He snatched the flare, struck it, and tossed it into the pooled diesel.
For a split second, nothing happened.
Then the fuel ignited.
The fire didn’t behave.
Yes.
Flames spread fast across the deck—bright orange against gray storm. Seconds later, the suppression foam hit the diesel, killing the flames. Black smoke rose in a thick, oily funnel.
Even more impressive than he’d hoped.
Shouts and barked orders erupted from the direction of the crane.
Wyatt grabbed Caro’s hand. “With me.”
They sprinted as one, taking the long route back, skirting the platform’s perimeter to avoid the guards.
Halfway round, the seal on his thigh gave way, fresh blood running warm down his leg. He ignored it, pulling Caro along when she faltered. Finally, they reached their original position behind the storage containers and dropped down, breathing hard.
Four guards were gone. Two had remained with the hostages.
Manageable odds. Not great ones. There were still vulnerable hostages sitting between him and the targets. He couldn’t risk any shots yet.
There was a better way.
“Stay here.” He pointed to an interior access door thirty feet from where the hostages sat. “When I signal, open that door. Hostages will run for it. Guide them through.”
He went to leave, but she grabbed his arm. “What are you—”
“I’m buying us time. The door, Caro. When I signal?”
Her head dipped in acknowledgement. “Be careful.”
“You’re doing great.” He squeezed her hand and moved off.
The thick black smoke belching from the fuel depot momentarily distracted the remaining two guards. Wyatt reached the first hostage, cupping a hand over the man’s mouth before he could react.
Wyatt scanned the guards one more time. Still distracted by the smoke.
“Don’t make any noise,” Wyatt whispered. “We’re getting you out.”
He pulled his knife and sliced the zip tie.
“When you see that door open,” Wyatt gestured toward the access door, “you run for it. Pass it on.”
The next hostage was a woman. Wyatt cut her ties. He worked fast, his knife sliding through the plastic.
A third, then a fourth and a fifth.
These were Jen’s people. The ones she’d seen on their knees in the canteen and nearly gone down there with a torque wrench and a death wish. He was finishing what she’d started.
When he freed the eighth hostage, one guard turned, surveying the group.
Wyatt held still, knife in hand.
He could take the shot. But there were still hostages between them—one through-and-through or one ricochet off the crane supports and a civilian drops. Not happening.
Wyatt straightened slowly, letting the guards see him.
“Hey!” He waved his arms above his head. “Fuckers.”
Both men swung toward him at once, weapons coming up fast. He didn’t give them time to think.
Wyatt dove for the crane controls. His palm slammed against the release mechanism.
The hook dropped.
Steel slammed into steel with a concussive clang that ripped through the storm, dwarfing the wailing alarms, the impact shuddering up through the deck and into his bones. The guards flinched, heads snapping toward the sound, muzzles dragging just enough off target.
That was all he needed.
Wyatt sprinted, boots skidding on sleet-slick steel.
The crane’s massive support struts provided concealment, but still a guard fired.
Wild, startled shots cracked past him, rounds sparking off metal.
Wyatt closed the distance and drove his shoulder into the man’s chest, knocking him into the crane column.
The guard’s rifle clattered to the deck.
Wyatt kicked the weapon out of reach and drove his elbow into the man’s temple.
The guard gagged, and his eyes rolled back as he slid to the deck.
Wyatt spun. The second guard already had him in his sights.
Wyatt lunged for the heavy pendant cable hanging from the crane controls.
Sparks flew as a bullet hit the deck inches from his feet. He yanked the cable sideways. The sudden movement sent the hook swinging, its massive weight cutting through the air like a wrecking ball. The guard stumbled back to avoid it, footing gone on the sleet-slick deck.
Wyatt tackled him, driving him down hard. The guard thrashed, fingers clawing for Wyatt’s throat. Wyatt caught the wrist, torqued it until something popped, and drove his forearm across the man’s neck. Three seconds. The guard sagged.
“Caro!” Wyatt roared. “Now! The door!”
She darted from cover and dashed for it.
Wyatt scooped up the guard’s M4.
She waved at the hostages, screaming over the storm. “Move! Inside now!”
For a heartbeat, the hostages froze—shock and fear colliding all at once.
“Run!” Wyatt bellowed.
They broke.
Bodies surged toward the open door in a panicked flood, some crying as they ran. Wyatt surged to his feet, running low, planting himself between them and any remaining threat.
A round cracked past his head, singeing the air.
“Caro, down!” Another shot rang out, sharp and close. Caro cried out and staggered back, her hand flying to her upper arm as blood bloomed bright against her sleeve. She hit the deck hard but rolled, scrambling back to her feet, teeth bared.
“I’m okay!” she yelled hoarsely. “I’m okay—keep them moving!”
Wyatt’s chest locked tight. He didn’t look at her again. Instead, he advanced into the gunfire, forcing the returning guards to split their focus between him and the fleeing hostages. He fired, dropping the first guard. A second ducked back behind cover.
The fuel depot guards were coming back. Faster than he’d hoped.
“Last ones!” Caro shouted. “Almost clear!”
Wyatt backed toward the door, firing to keep heads down, every muscle in his injured leg threatening to give out. He risked a glance over his shoulder, spying the final hostage staggering through the doorway.
Wyatt followed, kicked the door shut behind him. Breathless, he secured the lock.
He turned. Hostages sobbed, clutching each other, bedraggled from the rain. But his attention found Caro slumped against the wall. Blood soaked her sleeve, warm and slick under his hand as he pressed hard above the wound.
“Stay with me, Caro. You did perfect. You hear me?”
Caro laughed weakly through clenched teeth. “I really hate excitement. I think I’ll sit for a moment.” She slid down the wall.
He spotted the emergency kit mounted nearby. He ripped it free, kneeled beside her and cut her sleeve open with his knife. The wound was ugly—a deep graze that had torn a channel through the flesh of her upper arm. Bleeding freely, but no she’d keep the arm.
“It’s a graze. Ugly but shallow.”
“Doesn’t feel shallow.”
“It’s shallow.” He sprayed antiseptic. Caro hissed and looked the other way.
The door behind them shuddered. Fists. Rifle butts. The guards trying to force entry.
They needed to move. But where?
“You’re doing great, Sparks.” He pressed a dressing to her arm and wrapped it in gauze.
Footsteps echoed from the corridor ahead.
Wyatt pivoted and raised his gun, placing himself in front of the hostages.
Two figures emerged from the dimness.
A woman and a man.
Jen.
Air rushed his lungs.
She was alive.
Blood on her hands. A pack riding heavy on her shoulders.
But moving under her own power.
That was enough.
She’d fought. Come back.
To him.
The man fighting to keep pace with her was a stranger—older, built heavily, and bleeding badly. But he was on his feet and moving with Jen, which meant she’d decided he was worth saving.
Her eyes found his. Held fast. Something passed between them—the kiss, the trust, the impossible thing growing in the space where fear had lived alone.
But there was no time for anything except the next breath and keeping her alive long enough to get her and everyone else the hell off Seven.
Behind him metal shrieked.
And somewhere outside, the cargo ship kept getting closer.
Two hours. Maybe less.
The clock was still ticking.
Time to end this.