Eighteen months. She’d fixed coolant pumps at 3 a.m. with these people and celebrated birthdays over sheet cake. Argued about coffee and safety codes and whether anyone should trust the mess hall fish.
My people.
And these bastards had them kneeling on the floor like they were nothing more than collateral. She crawled past the vent before instinct dragged her into something terminally stupid—like dropping down there with a torque wrench and a death wish.
Twenty feet later the shaft widened at a junction—just enough room to turn.
She twisted around. Wyatt filled the space behind her, broad shoulders blocking the dim light.
She grabbed his arm and whispered, her whole body shaking. “We have to help them.”
“No.” His head shook sharply, decisive.
“We can’t just leave them.”
“Two of us, Jen.” He held up two fingers. “Against eight in there, plus another God knows how many within shouting distance.” His eyes held hers. “We go in there, we die. They die. And the terrorists get the missiles anyway.”
He was right, damn him, but still. “So we do nothing?”
“We complete the mission. Then they get rescued.”
“Five hours,” she hissed. “Do you think they have five hours?”
“Charging in gets them killed. And us.” His jaw flexed.
His logic was infuriating, but it didn’t quench her anger.
“Max is down there.” Her voice cracked. “He saved my life.”
Something shifted in his expression, and his lips pressed into a thin line. “What if we don’t go in?”
“What?”
“What if we give them a chance instead?”
She frowned. “A chance?”
He pointed down through the nearby vent—toward the corridor outside the canteen. Toward the wall panel that controlled fire suppression, emergency lighting, and door locks.
“We create a distraction?”
“An opportunity. If your people are smart—and they are—they’ll use it.”
Not a rescue.
But a chance.
Something her people could turn into survival. Her anger sharpened into resolve. Anything was better than leaving her crew on their knees, waiting to find out if five hours was enough.
“Okay,” she breathed. “Let’s do it.”
“Scooch back.” He wiggled his fingers through the vent. He reached the quick-release latch and freed it silently.
“Clear.” He dropped eight feet to the deck—quiet, controlled, weapon ready. Then motioned her down.
Okay. Piece of cake.
Her pulse thudded. She lowered herself until she hung from her aching fingers. Her arms shook, gave out?—
