Chapter 10 #3
He lifted his head, eyes narrowing toward the ventilation grates. The emergency light flickered again, throwing the shadows into motion. The hum of the generators masked softer sounds—cloth brushing metal, a faint exhale, then silence.
Vivian.
It had to be.
“Viv,” he whispered, just barely shaping the word.
No answer.
Only another faint sound—a footstep in shallow water, close, then stopping.
He shut his eyes, slowing his breathing. If it wasn’t her, he’d need the element of surprise. If it was—if by some impossible chance she’d made it back on board—then he couldn’t risk giving her away.
The seconds stretched. The storm outside cracked lightning through the small port window, flooding the hold with a single flash of white light. For that instant, he saw everything—the stacked crates, the dripping chains, the glimmer of water pooling along the deck.
And a shadow above.
Not large. Not confident. Careful. Moving toward the stairwell.
His throat tightened. Hope and disbelief warred in him.
He twisted his wrists again, biting back a sound as the rope tore into his skin. Blood slicked his fingers, but he kept moving. Each motion sent fire through his nerves, his vision hazing at the edges.
One loop gave. Then another.
He forced himself to breathe through the pain. Inhale. Twist. Exhale. Grind.
The fibers snapped with a soft, wet sound.
He pulled his hands free and went perfectly still, listening.
The door to the corridor outside hissed open. A single beam of light cut into the hold, sweeping the space like a searcher’s eye. Blake held still against the pipe, waiting for the light to pass, but it didn’t—it paused, hovering near him.
“Blake,” a voice whispered.
The sound hit him harder than the pain ever could.
It was her.
She was here.
“Vivian.”
The flashlight’s beam jerked once, then steadied. She slipped inside, moving fast and quiet. The door closed behind her, cutting the storm’s roar to a muffled heartbeat.
He could see her now—hair damp, jacket torn, eyes sharp and alive in the flickering red light. She looked like she’d walked straight out of a fire and didn’t have time to notice the burn marks.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he rasped, voice rough with pain and disbelief.
Vivian didn’t answer. For half a breath, she just stood there—rain streaming off her lashes, chest heaving, her silhouette framed by the flashing emergency light that painted her in alternating crimson and shadow.
Then she crossed the space between them in two fierce steps, caught his face in both hands, and kissed him.
It wasn’t soft. It was the kind of kiss that cut straight through the noise—the kind that made a man forget the pain, the storm, and every reason he’d ever had to hold back. Her mouth trembled against his, tasting of salt and adrenaline, of everything they’d lost and hadn’t yet given up on.
For an instant, the ship could’ve been burning, sinking, vanishing beneath them, and it wouldn’t have mattered.
Then she pulled back just far enough for him to see the truth in her eyes—raw, defiant, heartbreakingly clear.
“That’s why I’m here,” she said, voice barely more than a whisper. “Because you matter. Because I’m not losing you.”
He stared at her, chest tight, throat working around the thousand things he couldn’t say. Her hand lingered against his cheek for one more heartbeat before she tore it away, scanning the shadows for movement, her attention already back in fight mode.
“Can you stand?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said, though they both knew it was a lie.
She gave him the faintest smile and reached for his arm. “Then let’s move before the next wave hits.”
Blake huffed a laugh, low and rough. “You crash through a storm, break into a cargo hold, kiss me like that, and now you’re giving orders?”
Her eyes flicked to his, sharp and amused despite the chaos. “Would you rather I carried you?”
He smirked, wincing as he shifted his weight. “Don’t tempt me.”
She cut the rope from his waist, the knife gleaming once in the low light. “Lucky for you, I have bad instincts.”
He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh. “Where’s Mara?”
“Safe. Locked her in a supply hut onshore.” Her tone softened for half a second. “She’s safe for now.”
He nodded, wincing as circulation came rushing back to his hands. “Good.”
“We don’t have long.”
He leaned against the pipe, testing his weight. His shoulder screamed but held. When she moved to steady him, her hand brushed his wrist, and for just a second, everything else fell away—the pain, the noise, the cold.
She was real.
Alive.
“Viv,” he started, but she cut him off.
“They said Maddox’s name,” she whispered. “They’re expecting his team.”
“I heard,” he said, jaw tight. “But the way they said it—something’s wrong. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were military or ex-military.”
Her brow furrowed, shadows cutting sharp lines across her face. “Then we’re out of time. We get to the lighthouse; they’ll come for the tracker.”
“And if Maddox isn’t the one reading the signal?”
She hesitated. “Then we deal with whoever shows up.”
He almost smiled. “Still betting on him, huh?”
“Until he proves me wrong.”
They stood in the half-light for a heartbeat, the ship groaning around them, both too aware of the storm pressing in from every side.
“Let’s move,” she said.
He nodded, following her toward the stairwell, every step echoing against steel. His vision blurred at the edges, but he forced his focus to her—her movements, her pace, the way she scanned corners without breaking stride.
Somewhere deep in the ship, a door slammed and men shouted—too close.
Vivian froze, back pressed to the wall, her hand signaling him to stay low.
Through the sliver of open doorway, light flashed—a guard patrol moving past, their flashlights cutting through mist and smoke.
“Three,” she mouthed.
And he was sure they had friends.
Viv moved first—silent, lethal. Blake watched her slip behind the last guard, knife flashing once under the man’s arm before she eased him down without a sound. Smooth. Efficient. It hit him again just how capable she was.
He moved in before the body hit the floor, looping the length of chain he’d scavenged around the next man’s throat. The merc jerked once, boots scraping the deck, then went limp. Blake caught him before his weapon could clatter and give them away.
The third turned too late—Viv was already there, striking hard and fast. The man dropped without a sound.
They dragged the bodies behind the hatch, breath fogging in the chill air. They stripped weapons and ammo.
Blake’s shoulders burned from the effort, every muscle knotted tight, his wounded arm a dull, throbbing fire.
He gritted his teeth and crouched beside a wrecked console, reloading one of the rifles they’d stripped from the fallen.
The motion was automatic—muscle memory doing the work while his mind stayed locked on the next threat.
Across the hold, Viv checked their six, her movements quick, precise. She was running on fumes. He could see it in the way her hands trembled between bursts of control, but she was still standing. Still fighting. She was unstoppable.
“This is about to get ugly,” he said, voice low, conviction steady even if his body wasn’t.
She nodded once. “You take starboard. I’ll cover the dock approach.”
He didn’t argue. Didn’t need to. The trust between them ran bone deep now—no time for debate, no room for fear.
He moved into the corridor, steps quiet, rain-slick deck groaning beneath his boots. The air reeked of oil, cordite, and stormwater. Somewhere above, the wind screamed through torn rigging, a sound that could’ve been fury or warning.
He crouched behind a rusted support beam, scanning the docks through a shattered viewport.
The storm had swallowed everything in gray. Waves hammered the pilings below. Wind tore through the pier, driving rain sideways in sheets.
Then—light.
A flicker through the fog, faint and ghostly at first, then brighter. Headlights.
His chest went tight.
“Viv,” he called.
She appeared beside him, rifle in hand, rain dripping from her hair, eyes sharp despite exhaustion.
“They’re here.”
He nodded toward the glow cutting through the storm. Two sets of headlights became three. Engines growled, low and deliberate. Tires crunched against wet asphalt. Whoever they were, they weren’t amateurs.
Viv leaned closer, steadying the rifle on the sill; she sighted down the barrel.
The convoy reached the edge of the dock. Two trucks in front, another behind. Headlights glared white against the rain-slick metal, turning the pier into a stage of shadows and glare.
Blake’s fingers tightened on the rifle. “Let’s see who gets out first.”
The first truck door swung open. Figures spilled into the storm—armed, tactical, synchronized.
Blake’s pulse kicked up. The way they moved—fluid, trained—wasn’t merc work. This was organized. Precise.
Viv drew in a breath beside him. “Their formation’s paramilitary.”
He didn’t need to be told. He could read it in their spacing, their angles, the way they covered each other automatically. Whoever sent them, this wasn’t a cleanup crew. This was an execution squad.
The men fanned out along the pier, using crates and barriers for cover. One raised a gloved hand—signal. Then, in perfect unison, they leveled their rifles at the ship.
“Down,” Blake hissed, pulling Viv behind the console just as the first shots tore through the fog. Metal sparked and screamed above their heads.
“They know we’re here,” she said, breath sharp against his shoulder.
“Good,” Blake muttered grimly, checking his mag. “Saves introductions.”
He risked a glance through the window—and froze.
Another engine, deeper, slower, different. A black shape emerged through the haze—sleeker, civilian, out of place among the troop trucks. It pulled to a stop behind the convoy, headlights cutting out.
For a long, suspended moment, the pier went still.
Then the driver’s door opened.
A man stepped into the storm. Long coat. Hat pulled low. The kind of calm that didn’t come from ignorance—but authority.
Blake’s gut went cold. He didn’t need to see the face. He knew the way that man moved. Controlled. Calculated.
Viv’s breath caught beside him. “Maddox,” she whispered.