Her chest was too tight. The air too thin. She was going to get stuck?—
Light flickered ahead.
Thank God.
The exit grating. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.
She reached it, checked it was clear on the other side, and once she had freed the screws, shoved hard. The grating flew open, metal clanging.
She didn’t care about the noise.
Jen dropped through the opening onto the catwalk below. Her legs nearly buckled. She caught herself on the railing. Sucked in ocean air that didn’t taste like recycled fear.
Her coveralls were soaked through with sweat. Cold now in the unheated space of the exterior catwalk. Wyatt dropped down beside her in an effortless crouch. Straightened. Like he’d just stepped out for fresh air instead of crawling through a claustrophobic nightmare.
He raised an eyebrow as she scrubbed the back of her neck.
“I’m good.”
He gave a clipped nod. But he’d noticed. Of course he had.
She turned away, scanned the corridor. They were near the north exterior access. The exterior door at the end stood closed.
Wyatt checked sightlines in both directions. He mapped the space the way she’d map a wiring schematic—inputs, outputs, points of failure.
Movement ahead.
Jen’s hand went to her rifle. Wyatt was already moving—palm up in a stay signal. He shifted forward. Silent, his weapon held ready, but not raised.
A lone terrorist rounded the corner, radio clipped to his vest, scanning the corridor but not expecting threats.
Wyatt closed the distance in a blink.
The man didn’t stand a chance.
Wyatt caught the weapon's barrel. Redirected it. His other hand struck—palm heel to the throat. The man gagged. Wyatt spun him. Arm around his neck. Squeezed.
Seven seconds. Maybe less.
The man went limp.
Wyatt lowered him to the deck. Pressed two fingers to his neck.
Satisfied, he stripped the guard of his comms and sidearm. Zip-tied his wrists behind his back.
Jen’s pulse hammered in her throat. That wasn’t standard Coast Guard training. That was military.
Who the hell is he?
Wyatt met her eyes. “Clear.”
He slung his weapon across his back, then lifted the man and threw him effortlessly over his shoulder. He moved to the exterior access door.
Jen followed, the wind pummeling her the moment he cracked the door open. Cold. Wet. The mist had turned to sideways rain while they’d been in the vents. The exterior catwalk glistened under orange emergency lighting.
He dropped the guard, propping him behind the door, under the safety locker bolted to the wall. Out of sight unless you knew where to look.
Rain pattered on the man’s face, but he didn’t stir.
