Hell.She fought like she meant to win.
His grip loosened, and she twisted fast, reaching for the wrench on her belt.
Not happening.
He caught her wrist, applied pressure to the nerve cluster. The wrench clattered to the deck. “Hey. I don’t want to hurt you?—”
She kicked his knee.
He absorbed the impact with a grunt. “Can you listen for one goddamn?—”
She came at him again, her stance decent. Someone had drilled her on basics—but she was outmatched. He redirected her momentum, and she countered with a knee toward his groin. Wyatt twisted, took it on the thigh, hissed through his teeth.
Okay. Enough playing.
He swept her legs. She hit the deck hard, tried to roll, but he followed—pinning her beneath him, one hand securing both wrists, the other braced beside her head.
Warm breath ghosted across his throat. Soap, metal, adrenaline. Clean beneath the blood.
“I’m Coast Guard,” he growled into her ear. “I’m not?—”
Voices. Drawing close.
He clamped his hand over her mouth, her breath hot against his palm. She stiffened beneath him, panic flaring in her eyes.
Too close to the man he used to be. The one who pinned people down and didn’t let them up.Breathe.
“Don’t,” he murmured against her ear. “They’re right there.”
Russian voices drifted down the corridor, discussing sweep patterns. Moving slow. Careful.
Wyatt stayed still as stone. The armory door was still locked. He couldn’t open it. But maybe she could.
He leaned closer, his voice a whisper. “Can you open the armory?”
Her eyes flicked to his—terrified, angry, weighing odds.
The voices grew louder. Closer.
“Can you open it?”
She nodded against his palm.
Her gaze locked on his—storm-gray and sharp even under fear.
“Okay.” He eased his hand away and helped her up. She jerked free immediately, wiping her mouth on her sleeve, glaring daggers that could power the whole damn platform.
She pressed her palm flat against the door lock.
Green light.
The lock disengaged.
He pulled the door open, grabbed her arm, yanked her inside. The door sealed behind them with a heavy, echoingthunk. He held her against him, her breath fast and hot against his neck.
Emergency lighting only—red strips along the floor casting the armory in bloody shadow. Hexagonal, maybe twelve feet across. Weapon racks lined five walls. Pistols. Carbines. Ammunition stacked waist-high. His gaze snagged on shaped charges in a locked rack. Breaching charges. Enough there to make a hell of a mess if they needed one.
Outside—muffled voices.
