He began to climb down.
She’d just put her life in the hands of a man she’d met thirty minutes ago.
A man who’d neutralized three armed terrorists without breaking a sweat, who’d just touched her with more care than anyone had in years.
She wasn’t sure which terrified her more.
7
Wyatt swungout onto the ladder.
The metal was slick under his palms. Rain sheeted sideways, the wind trying to peel him off the rig and drop him into the Pacific.
He’d done worse. Helicopter rescues in forty-foot seas. Fast-rope insertions in sandstorms. This was just cold and wet and a long way down.
His pulse settled into a steady beat as he slipped back into a skin he’d never fully shed. The part of him that hated the quiet eased into violence and danger like warm water after years in the cold.
He shut the thought down.Focus.He descended three rungs. Checked above.
Jen hadn’t moved yet. She was still clipped to the anchor point at the hatch, her face pale in the emergency lighting.
Fear made people sloppy. On her, it looked more like stubbornness trying to bend physics to her will.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he called up.
Jen grabbed the first rung.
Good. Keep her moving. Don’t give her time to think about the height or the wind, or the fact that she was dangling above the ocean.
He kept going. Hand over hand. Boots finding purchase on wet metal. The M4 slung across his back shifted with each movement. Above him, Jen descended slowly, her safety line bumping against the ladder with each step.
He checked his position. Seven rungs from the gap. The missing section stretched below him—six feet of nothing before the ladder resumed.
He reached the gap. No purchase. Just his hands and the cold metal and gravity trying to help him make poor decisions.
Too far to drop safely.
But the ladder’s support structure ran vertically alongside it. Maintenance rails. He could use those.
He shifted his weight. His left hand released the rung, grabbed the support rail. Right hand followed. Now he hung from the vertical rails instead of the horizontal rungs.
Shimmy down.Three feet. Four.
His shoulders burned. The rain made everything fucking slippery. His fingers cramped.Perfect timing. He clamped his jaw. Jen was depending on him.
Almost there.
Five feet. Six.
His right boot found the resumed ladder. He tested it. Solid.
Full weight down. Both boots locked. Both hands back on the rungs.
He breathed out and looked up.
Jen was three rungs from the gap, staring down at the missing section.
“Don’t look down,” he called. “Look at me.”
