Everywhere.
She’s not here.
He grabbed a crew member busy mopping—a kid, maybe twenty, with windburn and startled eyes.
“There was a woman on the outbound trip. English, blonde hair, business clothes. Where is she?”
The kid blinked and pried Ryder’s fingers from his life jacket. “Hey?—”
“The English woman,” Ryder snapped, pulling back before he scared the kid. “She boarded this afternoon at two. Where. Is. She?”
Recognition dawned. “English lady?” He shrugged. “Yeah, she was on the outbound. Didn’t see her coming back though.”
Ryder’s vision tunneled, sound dropping out except for the thunder of his own heartbeat.
She didn’t make the return trip.
“What the hell do you mean she didn’t make it?” Lambourne appeared at Ryder’s shoulder, his accent laced with panic. “Where’s my sister?”
The crew member backed away, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. “I don’t know, man. Must’ve changed her mind.”
Ryder’s pulse roared. Changed her mind. Like it was that simple.
“When’s the next boat?”
“Tomorrow morning. Seven.”
Behind him, Lambourne swore. Something British and completely inadequate for the situation.
Ryder forced his brain to work, to think past the fear lodged in his chest. “We need to call the Vega.”
“Right.” Lambourne snapped his fingers. “Of course. We can call them. They have phones, satellite communications, whatever they use out there?—”
“We can contact them from the hangar?—”
He should go. Right now.
Ryder hurried off the boat, Lambourne clipping his heels, fresh sleet hitting his face. His Coast Guard radio burst into life inside his jacket.
“All units, emergency at Deepwater Vega Platform. Structural instability confirmed. One support leg compromised—seafloor collapse in progress. All personnel are ordered to muster for immediate evacuation.”
A beat of silence, then another voice—calm, professional. “Two BlackRock S-92s airborne for crew extraction. Coast Guard MH-60 Jayhawk inbound from Aurora Cove.”
Lambourne blanched. “Oh, God.”
Ryder yanked open the truck door and vaulted in, tossing the radio onto the dash.
The channel was alive with overlapping voices.
“Rescue One, this is Command. What’s your ETA?”
“Rescue One responding.” Ben Bishop’s voice, calm and clipped. “ETA three-zero minutes. Weather deteriorating—rising wind shear, heavy spray, low vis.”
Thirty minutes. Half a fucking hour before anyone reached that rig.
Lambourne barely made it into the passenger seat before Ryder had the truck in gear. The tires spun on the ice, then caught, throwing them forward.
“She’ll be evacuated, right”? Lambourne gripped the oh-shit handle as Ryder took a corner too fast. “They’ll get everyone off. She’ll be fine.”
