Chapter 5 #3
Except…no boom, so maybe he’d been wrong?
Please—yes.
The other boats had motored away, toward shore.
West kicked into the darkness. Britta tried to help, kicking hard, but she mostly thrashed.
“Relax,” he said quietly, his voice calm in her ear despite his racing heart. “Let me do the work. Just breathe.”
She did. Relaxed, breathing hard, trusting.
And the trust just did him in.
“I got you,” he said, because he couldn’t help it.
They were fifty yards from the yacht now. Maybe more. Hard to tell in the dark water with the sunset dying behind them.
Not far enough.
Would never be far enough.
The rescue boats were still pushing toward shore. Maybe he’d made a mistake, diving into the water, not putting her onto a boat. His arms started to burn; she started to shake. Maybe he was far enough—
The yacht exploded.
Massive. Deafening. The fireball lit up the sky, turning it, for a second, bright, roaring.
Then the shockwave hit the water—shook West’s bones—and Britta screamed.
“Big breath!” He dove, pulling Britta under with him. Debris would be raining down. Shrapnel. Burning pieces of what used to be a luxury yacht.
They needed to be under the surface when they hit.
He kicked hard, away from the fireball, holding her. She started to struggle and he pulled her up.
They broke the surface together. Gasping. Coughing. Alive.
Behind them—where the yacht used to be—just fire and smoke and debris floating on dark water.
“You—” Britta coughed, and he held her up as her body convulsed. “You—threw—” She coughed again.
“Take it easy. Don’t talk.”
The flames lit her face. She looked at him with something that might have been anger or might have been hysteria. “You threw me off the yacht.”
“You were about to get shot. Or blown up.”
“You left everyone else!”
“They got off, Britta—they’re okay.”
“You don’t know that!”
“I—okay, no, but I had to save you.”
She stared at him. Hair plastered to her face. Eyes searching his face for something.
And in that moment, Ham’s words rushed back at him. You don’t do anything halfway, and if this blows up, I reserve the right to say I told you so.
Great.
Voices carried across the water. Ham coordinating. North calling out positions. The team regrouping in the life rafts.
Looking for survivors.
Looking for them.
He should call out, but his training kicked in. Assess. Evaluate.
Petrov’s people had infiltrated the crew. How many? How deep? At least two had been in on it—the bomber and the man who’d grabbed Britta. How many more?
The life rafts were a hundred yards away. Maybe more. Dark water between here and there. Limited visibility.
And who knew but there might be attackers hidden in the water.
Or on the rafts, frankly.
West made a decision.
He pressed his hand gently over Britta’s mouth. Not aggressive. Just…silencing.
Her eyes went wide.
“Shh,” he whispered. Quietly. Just for her. “Don’t make a sound.”
She nodded against his hand. Understanding. Or maybe just trusting him again.
He removed his hand slowly. Kept his arm around her, holding her afloat. Treading water. Both of them barely breathing.
The voices continued. Ham’s voice—at least, West was ninety percent certain that was Ham. North. Dakota maybe. The team calling out, searching, coordinating.
But ninety percent wasn’t a hundred percent.
And West’s job right now wasn’t to rejoin the team.
His job was to keep Britta alive.
Until he knew for certain who to trust. Until he could verify that the threats had been neutralized. Until he was absolutely sure that approaching those rafts wouldn’t put her in more danger. Yeah, it was just him and Britta.
They floated in the dark water. The fire behind them cast dancing light across the waves. Voices echoed in the distance. Exhaustion seeped into his bones.
Worse, Britta was shaking. He needed to get her to shore.
But they couldn’t approach blindly.
“West,” she whispered. Her words were starting to slur in the firelight. “I can’t…I’m so tired.”
“I know.” He pulled her closer. Held her steady, kept her afloat. “I know. Just a little longer.”
“What are we waiting for?”
“To be sure.”
“Sure of what?”
“That it’s safe.”
She looked at the life rafts. At the team. At safety just a hundred yards away. “You don’t trust them?”
“I trust them with my life. But until I know how deep the breach goes, I’m not handing yours to anyone but me.” He looked at her. “And I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
It wasn’t a promise he should make, really. He wasn’t her Secret Service agent. Where Martinez had gone, West didn’t have any idea. Frankly, he feared the man might be dead.
Or…a traitor?
But for now—floating in dark water, holding Britta, keeping her quiet—West had exactly one mission.
Keep Britta alive.
Even if it meant floating in dark water until the Coast Guard arrived.
Even if it meant his team thought he was dead.
Even if it meant burning every bridge he’d ever built.
In fact, he doubled down. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he repeated. Quiet. Certain. “I’m not letting you go, no matter what happens.”