Chapter 8 #3
And a waterproof dry bag. Bright yellow. Heavy-duty seal.
She grabbed it. Tested the closure—tight, secure. Found the burner phone in her pocket, the one she’d used to call her father. The one piece of technology she still had.
She sealed the phone inside the bag. Rolled the top three times. Clipped it shut.
Then she looked at the porthole window.
Small. Maybe too small.
But she could fit.
She had to fit.
Britta unlocked the latch. The metal was stiff—corroded from salt water. She worked it carefully. Quietly. Finally it gave. She pushed the window open.
The hinges creaked.
She froze.
Listened.
They were still talking, so West wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t hear.
Hopefully.
A wave lapped against the hull—louder than the creak.
Britta pushed the window fully open. Night air rushed in. The smell of salt and ocean and freedom.
She climbed onto the bunk. Tested her weight on the narrow mattress. It bore her weight without a creak. She threaded her arms through the window opening. Grabbed the outer edge of the hull. Pulled.
The window frame bit into her ribs. The metal edge scraped her shoulder. Her sweatpants bunched around her hips—caught on something. She twisted. Pulled harder. The fabric tore.
Her hips squeezed through. Then her legs. She dangled outside the window, against the hull—feet in the air, hands gripping the slick surface, nothing but dark water below.
Britta took a breath.
And then she let go.
For two minutes, West had forgotten they were running for their lives.
York’s arrival was a violent reminder that happiness wasn’t something West got to keep.
The powerboat idled alongside the dive boat, motor rumbling low. York stood at the wheel, one hand steady on the throttle. His presence cut through the starlit quiet like a blade through silk.
York wouldn’t have come unless it was urgent. Which meant whatever he was about to say would either solve their problem or make it exponentially worse.
West’s chest still burned where Britta’s hands had touched him. His lips still tingled. His pulse hadn’t settled back to normal.
Two minutes ago, he’d been kissing Britta. Losing himself in the taste of her mouth and the sound of that small gasp she’d made when he’d backed her against the chair.
And then York was pulling up to the yacht and looking at him with that raised eyebrow. His expression said it all. He’d seen them. Seen the moment when West had stopped being her protector and started being something else entirely.
Something that complicated everything.
West kept his breathing steady as York came aboard.
But all thought left with York’s words. “Alan Martin. He’s in custody.”
West’s entire body went rigid.
The conversation after that felt like a blur, all the way until York said, “What if she gets hurt because you’re one man trying to do the job of three? What if your pride gets her killed?”
The word pride hit like a slap. York’s words possessed the precision of a scalpel, slicing right to his worst fears.
York was right. Every tactical bone in West’s body knew York was right. One operative couldn’t protect against what was coming. Britta needed a full detail. Federal resources. Coordinated protection.
She needed more than West could give her.
But admitting that—surrendering control, trusting the Secret Service, letting her go—felt like ripping out his own heart.
Okay, maybe that was dramatic, but right now? True.
“Okay. Yes. You’re right. I’ll bring her in.”
“So you’ll bring her in?” York said.
“Yes.” Still, he wasn’t giving up control that easily. “What do you know about the bombing?” West’s voice came out rough. “The yacht?”
York’s expression shifted. Professional assessment. “Military-grade explosives. Remote detonation. Professional work. The operative you fought on the deck claimed no knowledge of Martin, but the sophistication of the bomb suggests serious backing. Money. Connections.”
“So Martin’s just the middleman.”
“Exactly. Which means taking him down doesn’t end the threat.
It reveals how deep this goes.” York paused.
“Martin told us that Britta and President White are the final play—he just doesn’t know what the play is.
We struck a deal with him: He’ll go in and see if he can suss it out.
In the meantime, we need her locked down. ”
“Locked down. She’s not going to like that.”
“Yeah, well, every hour she’s not in protective custody increases the risk.” York’s gaze held West’s. “You know I’m right. You just don’t want to admit it.”
West’s hands ached from being clenched.
He did know. Yes, keeping Britta with him was pride, not protection.
But knowing and accepting were two different things.
“I know what it’s like,” York said quietly, “to love a woman who’s in constant danger. You do the best you can. You fight with everything you have. You try to keep her safe.”
The word love hung in the air between them.
West’s pulse stuttered. His breathing stopped. Then restarted.
Love. No, that was…crazy.
He’d kissed Britta. Felt things for her he hadn’t felt for anyone in years. But love…
“I’m afraid I’ll make a mistake.” The confession tore out of West’s chest. “I’m afraid she’ll die because I missed something.
Because I wasn’t fast enough. Because I—” He stopped.
Swallowed. “But I’m also afraid that if I let her go, someone else will make a mistake.
And she’ll die anyway. And I won’t be there to stop it. ”
Silence.