The men slammed into the rig just past her, the impact snapping the line taut.
“Bitch,” the man spat.
Her shoulders and forearms were incandescent. Her vision blurred. She didn’t care. She wouldn’t let them hurt him.
Faster. Faster.
The harness line frayed, fibers splitting free under the blade.
Thick fingers closed around her elbow, crushing bone, dragging her closer.
Snap.
The last fiber severed.
Jen jerked back, gasping. The grip on her elbow released.
The terrorist’s eyes went wide as Wyatt’s arm locked around his throat.
“Nyet—”
Wyatt’s arm cinched tighter before he wrenched hard and kicked free, sending them both spinning away from her. For an instant the terrorist clung to Wyatt, both of them swinging on Wyatt’s line alone.
The man screamed as Wyatt let go.
He fell.
The dark took him.
The scream cut off.
Jen sagged against the ladder, her multi-tool rattling against the rung as her grip failed. Her whole body was shaking—violent tremors she couldn’t control.
She’d almost died. Almost fallen. Almost watched Wyatt die.
But she hadn’t left him.
She’d made the choice. Climbed toward danger instead of away. And God help her, she’d do it again. She fumbled getting her multi-tool back into its holster, breath coming in sharp, broken sobs.
Wyatt was alive.
He slammed back onto the ladder just in time, gripping the rung as his safety line, severed by the men above, whipped past and vanished into the storm below.
“Jen—you okay?” His voice roughened for the first time all night.
She nodded, the motion automatic. She couldn’t have formed words if her life depended on it.
Above them, boots hit metal.
The chase was back on.
“Jen,” Wyatt’s voice was urgent. “Move. Now.”
She started climbing.
Hand over hand.
The ladder jerked beneath her as weight shifted above—men scrambling, shouting, close enough that she could hear their breath between bursts of wind.
