He scanned their position. The platform jutted from the rig’s hull. Exposed. Visible from the tower catwalk above. From at least three different angles he could identify without even trying.
Fucking ambush heaven.
If anyone looked down, they’d be spotted. And there was nowhere to go except back up the ladder or into the ocean.
Fuck.
Instinct said pull her closer. Shield her from the wind, the height, the whole damn mess.
He let her go instead.
“How long to get the transmitter working?”
She blinked, pulling herself together. “Ten minutes. Maybe more if the connections are corroded.”
“You’ve got five. After that, we’re too exposed.”
She shot him a side-eye but moved to the equipment housing. It looked older than he was. Riveted steel, painted over a dozen times, bleeding rust at every seam.
Jen pried the access panel open. Water poured out. “Shit.”
He checked over her shoulder.Damn.Wiring that should’ve been replaced twenty years ago. Connections eaten through by salt air.
“Can you fix it?”
“Yes.” She pulled her multi-tool. “But it’s going to take time.”
Wyatt positioned himself between her and the most likely threat vectors, scanning the catwalks above. The deck access. The tower windows. “Like I said. You’ve got five.”
“Yes,sir.” Then she muttered something under her breath that might’ve been creative profanity.
He suppressed a smile. Even half-drowned in fear, she had bite.
Good. Anger kept her sharp.
He blinked rain from his eyes, spotting movement on the tower. Lone gunman. Not looking down. Yet.
“Talk to me,” he said. “What’re you seeing?”
“Corrosion everywhere.” Her voice was tight. Focused. “Main power line’s eaten through.”
She traced the circuit path with her flashlight.
“Okay. I can bypass it. Running directly from the backup cell.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know. I’m working as fast as I can.” There was a snap in her tone. Stress. Cold. The shakes from the climb probably hadn’t fully stopped yet.
“Not pushing.” He kept his voice level.
Above, a cigarette glowed orange in the rain. The gunman leaned on the railing, looking out at the ocean. Twenty feet above them.
Wyatt’s finger moved to the trigger guard. He settled his breathing. Calculated the angle—upward shot, rain, wind from the east.Doable.
Behind him, Jen was still working. If this went loud, every hostile on Seven would know exactly where she was. One look down and the man was dead. Either way.
After interminable seconds, the guard flicked his cigarette into the ocean and retreated from view.
