She stepped into her own harness, cinched the straps tight with shaking fingers, and clipped in before he moved in front of her.
“I’ve already checked all my straps,” she said.
He looked down at her. “Humor me. You’re my responsibility.” He tugged the final D-ring across her chest, testing the connections. The motion pulled her up onto her toes, her body barely an inch from his. Close enough to feel the heat of him and remember—unhelpfully—what he looked like without a shirt.
Then he stepped back and shrugged into his own harness. He was done in thirty seconds flat.
Jen turned back to the hatch.
The ladder ran straight down the exterior of the rig—vertical steel rungs bolted into the superstructure. A safety cable tracked alongside it, waiting for their carabiners. Emergency lighting strips glowed every ten feet, the orange light swallowed almost immediately by rain and dark.
Way below.
“You first,” Wyatt said.
She eyeballed him. “Again?”
He lifted one eyebrow. “If anyone spots us, it’s easier to shoot them without you in the way.”
Okay.She sucked in a breath. “I can work with that.”
The wind tried to shove her back through the hatch, rain needling her face and stealing what little breath she had. She grabbed the first rung and clipped her harness to the safety cable with a reassuringly loud click, then rattled it anyway.
Just to be sure.
The metal rung was slippery beneath her palm.
She wiped her hand on her coveralls and grabbed the rung again.
Don’t look down. Just climb.
Hand over hand. One rung. Then another.
The wind pulled at her, impatient and relentless. The entire rig swayed—not much, just enough of a sway to remind her this was a structure moored in open water, not solid ground.
Wyatt climbed onto the ladder above her. His carabiner locked into the safety cable with a sharp click.
“You okay?” he called over the howl of the night.
“Define okay.”
“Not falling.”
Her jaw locked, teeth aching from the pressure. She stared at her knuckles.Breathe.“Yes. Barely.”
Do not look down, Jen.
Her arms burned, muscles trembling as she hauled herself lower. Rain blurred her vision, but she didn’t dare loosen her grip to wipe it away. The missile bay exterior hatch came into clear view—ten feet below, maybe less. A rectangle of orange emergency light glowing through the rain.
Almost there.
Her foot slipped.
Fuck.
The harness snapped tight, jerking the breath out of her. For one suspended, breathless second she swung, rain lashing her exposed skin, the ocean baying for blood somewhere beneath.
Wyatt’s hand locked on the safety cable, bracing the line automatically, taking her full weight, swinging her back to the ladder.
