Chapter 24
The dive platform jolted beneath Wyatt’s boots and began its descent.
He gripped the rail as greenish darkness swirled around his knees, his waist, and rose over his chest. Pressure built against his eardrums. He worked his jaw to equalize.
The water closed over his faceplate, and the world went quiet.
Nothing but the hiss of his air supply and the dull groan of the platform’s hydraulics transmitted through metal and bone.
The old stillness settled over him—the one the ocean had taught him years ago.
Down here, everything simplified. No noise. Just the mission and the dark.
The last of the surface light disappeared as they lowered further, swallowed whole by the endless pitch black. Cold sank through his neoprene suit despite the thick insulation.
He placed his hand over Jen’s on the safety rail, a quiet check-in she didn’t pull away from.
“Doing okay?”
Her voice crackled through the comm. “So far.”
The platform settled with a metallic groan. Sixteen feet down. The maintenance balcony circled the rig’s substructure in a wide loop of grated metal and handrails. Beyond the reach of their headlamps, support pylons disappeared into deeper black.
Wyatt stepped off the platform. His weighted boots hit the grating with a dull vibration. He swept his headlamp once around the structure. No movement. No divers. No cables drifting loose.
Water pushed back against every movement. His injured thigh burned with the effort of walking. The cold penetrated the neoprene at his joints—wrists, neck, ankles—finding the seams where protection was thinnest. Pressure hugged his rib cage.
Sediment drifted in the beams of light. A small shoal of fish darted past, silver scales flashing, then vanished. Bubbles rose from his regulator. Silver spheres escaping upward, leaving them below.
The pack of demolition charges dug into his back. He adjusted the weight and followed Jen as she led the way to the first pylon.
Ahead, her headlamp swept across the nearest pylon. Barnacles crusted the metal, and rust bloomed in patches where the coating had failed.
“There,” she said. Her voice was steadier now. Focused. “Weld point at the base. Maximum structural compromise.”
He moved to where she pointed and kneeled.
The water made every motion sluggish and dreamlike.
He pulled the first charges from the pack and positioned them against the cold metal.
His hands knew this work—years of underwater demolition training guiding fingers that moved with certainty even through thick gloves.
The magnetic clamps engaged with a soft click.
“Good?” he asked.
“Perfect.”
They made it to the second pylon. Water currents tugged at him. Invisible hands pulling. The current came from somewhere above—storm surges transmitted down through the ocean. Wyatt leaned into it. His boots scraped as he got into position to place the second set of charges.
Same process. Jen directed. He placed. Partnership. She knew these structures the way he knew weapons and tactics. Trust went both ways.
Through the murk, she plodded to the third position, but her breathing had picked up. Stress, or the dark pressing in. He needed to get her topside soon.
His back was already soaked with sweat inside the suit despite the cold. Exertion and adrenaline. His regulator hissed with each breath.
As they approached the third pylon, sediment swirled in her wake. He checked his watch. They’d been down here for eight minutes.
Jen’s breathing changed on the comms, no longer slow, but faster and irregular.
Wyatt looked up.
She’d stopped. One hand reaching for the pylon.
Her air line had snagged on a jagged piece of structural metal. The hose pulled taut. “Jen.”
“My air—” Panic edged her voice. “It’s—I can’t—”
The ocean closed around him, silent and endless.
“It’s snagged. I got you. Hold still.”
His heart stole a few extra beats. If the inner line was compromised. If she couldn’t breathe down here—
He grabbed her air line and worked it free. The metal had bitten into the outer sheath, leaving a three-inch tear that exposed the inner hose. Intact. But one more snag on compromised sheathing, and she’d lose air supply entirely.
“Line’s clear. But we move carefully from here. Stay behind me.”
Her breathing evened out but barely. Illuminated behind her faceplate, her eyes were too bright, but she made a circle between her thumb and forefingers. Okay.
“Two more to go.”
“Two more,” she echoed.
“Stay close,” he said.
They planted the third set of charges.
Time moved wrong down here. He wanted to surface. Get her out of the dark water. But the mission wasn’t done. One more pylon. One more set of charges. Then they could leave.
The fourth set clicked into place against the pylon. Wyatt armed it. The timer display flared to life on his wrist. Six minutes. More than enough time to surface if they moved now.
He turned. “Jen, that’s us. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
She stood motionless, gripping the safety rail.
Fuck.
“Jen.” He kept his voice level. “We’re done. Time to head up.”
She didn’t respond. Bubbles spiraled from her air hose. She was breathing too fast. Hyperventilating.
The timer on his wrist glowed red. 5:40 until the charges blew.
They didn’t have any spare time. They had to leave now.
But Jen was frozen in the dark, and he wasn’t leaving her.
Wyatt moved through the water. Each step took forever. Slow motion. The weight of the ocean resisting. His boots hit the grating. Clunk. Clunk. The distance closed.
Her breathing was ragged on the comms now. Short gasps that didn’t pull enough air.
“Jen,” he said again. Closer now. “I need you to look at me.”
Her eyes stayed fixed on the abyss straight ahead. The darkness stretching forever. The water pressing in from all sides.
Sediment drifted past his faceplate in lazy spirals. Wyatt reached her, grabbed her arm, and turned her to face him.
“Jen.”
Her eyes were wide, nostrils flared, her skin white.
His watch glowed red. 3:40
Not now.
He took hold of her helmet, pulled her closer through the soupy water, and bumped his faceplate against hers.
Click.
Through two layers of scratched acrylic, he made eye contact, her dark lashes visible in the murk.
The rest of the world disappeared. No rig. No ocean. No mission. Just this small bubble of light and air between them. Her face inches from his. Separated by nothing and everything. Alone together in the dark.
Her pupils were blown wide. Terrified.
His grip tightened on her shoulder until it was the only real thing in the dark. This wasn’t an enemy he could fight or something he could kill, disable, or eliminate.
All he could do was stay and be here for her.
“There you are.” His voice was distorted on the comms. “Stay with me, Jen. Right here.”
“Wyatt.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
His wristwatch flashed, but he ignored it.
Every instinct screamed at him to move. Get out. Survive. But those instincts had been honed for missions where he worked alone. Where his life was the only one that mattered. Where violence solved problems.
This was different.
She needed him. Not his training or his ability to eliminate threats. She needed him to be here. Present. A man who wouldn’t leave her alone in the dark.
“I’m right here.” The current fought to separate them, but his hand stayed firm on her shoulder. “You’re not doing this alone.”
She blinked, her tongue darting over her lips.
He needed to make a connection. A link that would bring her back to him.
“I need to tell you something.” The words came harder than expected. His throat wanted to close. Years of keeping this locked down. Years of not talking about it with anyone. “About why I left the SEALs.”
Her gaze searched his. She was locked on him now, not the ocean, the dark, or lack of air.
Him.
“I killed an innocent man.” Water pressed against his chest. “They said he was a traitor. He wasn’t. Just inconvenient. And I was the weapon they used to make him disappear.”
His forehead remained against hers.
Through the faceplate, Jen’s eyes softened. Her hand lifted through the water. Found his shoulder.
“I was clean-up.” He sighed as the memory rushed him. But the permanent sting that normally came with it was gone. Maybe he was too numb with cold to feel it.
His chest tightened. “Thought that’s all I ever was. A weapon. Something they pointed at problems.”
Her fingers tightened on his shoulder through the suit. The pressure registered even through the layers.
“But you look at me like I’m more than that. Like I don’t have to be a weapon to stand next to you.” His throat was thick, and the words barely made it out.
His watch read 3:08.
Move. His brain screamed at him. Move.
The water pressed down. Heavier now. Or maybe that was the knowledge that explosive charges sat armed twenty feet away.
That the ocean wanted to crush them both.
That time was bleeding away with every second.
But she was still locked down by terror, and dragging a panicking diver through the water to evade a bomb was certain death.
“So, we’re getting that coffee. You and me. Somewhere warm where the only thing trying to kill us is the caffeine.”
Her eyes didn’t leave his but she smiled.
“And you’re going to tell me about your research,” he said. “Not Clive’s version. Not the stolen bullshit he passed off as his. Yours. The real story.”
Her eyes closed, then opened, and now he read determination.
Chief Engineer James was back.
“Can you move? Just one step. That’s all I need.”
Her hand found his through the water. Squeezed once.
No words. She didn’t need them. The squeeze said everything—I hear you. I see you. You’re not what they made you.
The water buffeted him, currents from somewhere above and the timer counted down. 2:54.
Her head moved. A tiny nod.
“Okay,” she whispered through the comm.
Thank fuck. He kept his face neutral. “That’s good. Real good. Now we move together. Stay with me.”
He stepped back , holding her hand. He was not fucking letting go.
He pulled gently, and she moved. One weighted boot forward. Then another.
They walked along the balcony toward the platform. Drag pulled at his suit and his legs burned. Each step was a monumental effort—lift boot, push through resistance, plant weight. Wyatt kept going, pulling her forward.
Step. Clunk. Step.
The dive platform waited in the beam of their headlamps. Wyatt guided her onto it and hit the switch. The mechanism engaged with a groan that vibrated through the metal.
The platform shuddered upward, and the water pressure eased by degrees.
His ears popped. Darkness lifted and greenish water gave way to lighter murk.
Particles danced in the changing light. The shape of the rig’s under-structure became visible again—massive pylons, cross-braces, the belly of Seven hanging over them.
The timer on his wrist read 0:25 when they broke the surface.
Water sluiced off his helmet as he pulled it off. Air and light and sound crashed back, overwhelming after the processed air from the regulator.
Caro was there, leaning over the edge of the moon pool. “Thank Christ. Thought you’d drowned down there.”
He turned to Jen.
She’d already removed her helmet. Her hair was plastered to her head with sweat. Her face was pale, but her eyes were clear.
“You did it,” he said.
She reached out and touched his forearm, fingers firm despite the cold. “We did it.”
She stood straighter, as if remembering her own weight in the world, and spoke to Caro. “Caro, confirm structural failure on the docking platform.”
Below, deep in the water, the charges detonated.
The rig shuddered. A deep bass thump traveling through the metal. Then another. And another. Four explosions in succession. The sound reached them as muffled thunder.
Caro whooped as she scanned the control panel. “Structural failure confirmed. No way that ship’s getting close now.”
Wyatt sagged against the rail. His hands were steady, but something in his chest had come loose.
She’d moved when he asked and trusted him with her life when she was terrified. And he’d stayed in the dark with armed charges counting down because leaving her wasn’t an option his body would accept.
This woman mattered.
Not the mission. Not stopping the ship or saving the rig.
Her.
And somewhere between the dark water and the surface, and the words he’d never voiced to anyone else, he’d started to understand what that meant.