Ten feet.
Five.
Wyatt shifted his stance, broad shoulders blocking her completely from view. His hand rested on his sidearm—not drawing, but ready.
The patrol passed.
Footsteps faded, and their voices thinned into the distance.
She stayed pressed against the bulkhead, Wyatt solid and unmoving in front of her, frozen for a slow five-count.
“Too close,” Jen whispered.
“Yeah.”
She rolled her shoulders to shake loose the place where fear had glued her coveralls to her spine. “This way.”
She took the stairs fast, her flashlight beam bouncing wildly off the metal treads. Three levels felt like thirty. Her legs burned by the third landing.
Wyatt tracked behind her like a shadow. Six flights of metal stairs and she could barely hear him. Every corner they reached, he was already checking it before she’d finished the last step—weapon up, eyes sweeping, then a curt nod that meant clear.
Bottom floor.
Another corridor. Darker and quieter. Farther from the chaos she’d unleashed above.
“It’s at the end,” she whispered.
They ran. The exterior hatch waited at the far wall—a heavy circular door with a manual wheel lock. She’d never used it, wasn’t sure anyone had in the last year. She grabbed the wheel with both hands and pulled.
Nothing. Not even a quarter turn. “It’s stuck.”
Wyatt stepped in beside her. “Rust or pressure?”
“Both, probably.”
He wrapped his hands around the wheel. “On three. One. Two?—”
They pulled together.
Metal groaned. The wheel broke free with a shriek that made her flinch at its loudness. Unlocked, the hatch swung inward. Freezing air whipped through the gap, reeking of salt and fuel, driving icy rain into her face.
Beyond the hatch—nothing but whistling wind.
Her stomach dropped.
Sunset had been over an hour ago. There was no ambient light. No moon behind the cloud cover. Just black water and a blacker sky, the distant running lights of the rig’s superstructure barely visible through the rain. Not seeing the ocean was worse. Her imagination filled in the drop with brutal enthusiasm.
Hell.
“Jen?”
She cleared her throat. “I’m fine.”
She wasn’t fineat all. But this was the only way.
A maintenance locker was bolted into the bulkhead beside the hatch. She yanked it open, wincing as the hinges screamed in protest. Inside she found two safety harnesses.
She pulled one free and tossed it to Wyatt. “This time, we both get to be safety nerds.”
