The fire suppression pre-charge engaged. On the security feeds, lights died across two decks as steam flooded the corridors—a failsafe designed to clear residual halon. Emergency lighting kicked in, dim red strips glowing along the baseboards.
She waited, too tense to blink, the way she used to during system reboots when one wrong flag meant catastrophic failure. Figures that had been stationary on the camera feed scattered. Flashlight beams slashed through the darkness and rolling white fog.
“That’ll hold them for five minutes. We go now.” She grabbed a second flashlight from beneath the counter and handed it to Wyatt.
He clicked his on. “After you.”
“Ladies first?”
“I was going to say, you know where we’re going.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “But sure. That too.”
Fair point.
She stepped toward the door—and his hand settled on her shoulder, warm and steady, holding her back for half a second.
He leaned past her, eyes sweeping the corridor.
“Okay. We’re good.” His stubble scraped lightly against her ear, his breath warm at her skin. “I’m right here.”
She exhaled.
Right.
She opened the door.
The corridor closed in on her. So dark. The emergency lighting barely cut through the gloom.
Steam poured from overhead vents in thick white clouds, settling damp against her skin and clothes. And she’d just gotten dry.Suck it up, Jen. The air tasted metallic and wet, condensation already gathering in rivulets along the bulkheads as her plan unfolded.
Shouts echoed somewhere ahead.
Wyatt squeezed her arm. “Move. Fast.”
On it.
She hurried along the corridor, Wyatt’s hand firm on her shoulder, his body close behind her, angled just enough to shield her without slowing her down.
His hand on her shoulder kept her moving when her nerves wanted her to stop.
The service stairwell was twenty feet ahead. Then three levels down to maintenance where they could gain exterior access.
Simple.
If we don’t run into anyone.
If the distraction holds.
If—
Voices ahead.
Flashlight beams cut through the haze.
Wyatt’s grip shifted to her arm, and he hauled her sideways into a recessed stairwell alcove, pulling her in hard—her back to the bulkhead, his body between her and the corridor.
She held her breath.
The patrol advanced toward them. Two men. Maybe three. Flashlights slashed white through the fog as they cursed in Russian, one of them coughing hard. The steam was doing its job—blinding, disorienting, forcing them to duck around the still-venting pipes.
