A wet crunch.
Blood sprayed across the deck.
Oh God.
Jen scrambled to her feet on the other side, hands on her knees, sucking in air. Fists pounded on the steel. Muffled screams in Russian.
She’d bought herself two minutes. Maybe three. They knew what they were doing, it wouldn’t take them long to override or take the long route around through the auxiliary passages.
She stumbled away from the bulkhead door, scanning the corridor.
Rooms lined both sides.
Electrical substation—yellow hazard warnings, locked panel, no help there. She spun. Shower room. An empty steel box, nowhere to hide. Equipment storage—red light above the lock, secured. No time to override it. Further down, the maintenance closet. She grabbed the handle and prayed.
It opened.
Thank God.
She slipped inside, shut it fast, turned the lock. Darkness swallowed her, thick and chemical-sharp. The air reeked of bleach and floor solvent—burning her eyes, stinging her throat.
Blind, she eased deeper, hands brushing metal shelving stocked with cleaning supplies.
Silence swamped her—but the red emergency lights kept strobing under the door, painting the floor in crimson flashes.
Her foot skimmed a bottle, knocking it over. It rolled across the floor, the hollow clatter sounding like an explosion in the tight space.
Shit.
She froze, flattening herself against the wall. Her pulse slammed so hard she felt it in her teeth, her vision fuzzing for a split second like the world was squeezing her down to nothing. When she didn’t die, she fumbled at her belt. Penlight. She clicked it on and swept the closet. Shelving. Mops. Trolleys.
Nowhere to hide.
Her light beam bounced across the ceiling. An air vent. Two feet by eighteen inches.
Just big enough.
Her throat closed.I don’t do small spaces. Not since the cave.
The caving team-building thing four years ago—the one where she’d lasted twenty feet before she lost the ability to breathe.
Deep voices. They were through.
Okay. I’m fine with small spaces. Totally fine.
The shelving unit was industrial steel, bolted to the wall. She tested the bottom shelf with her weight. It held.
She climbed, the metal groaning under her boots. Her tool belt caught on the edge of the shelf, jerking her back. She yanked it free. Blood dripped from her temple into her eye, turning the world bloody.
The vent cover had four screws. She pulled her power driver, flipped it to reverse.
The first screw came out clean. She caught it, held it between her teeth, tasting grit.
Second screw. Third.
The doorknob rattled.
Her hands shook so hard the driver slipped.
