Eight feet.
Five.
The hatch.
Jen slapped the emergency release, and the door swung inward. She released her safety line and hauled herself through, barely landing on her feet before her legs gave out. She hit thedeck, boneless, and rolled away from the opening. Her shoulders throbbed. Everything hurt. But she was alive.
She lay flat on her back, rain-soaked hair plastered to her face, breath stuttering. The floor beneath her was cold but solid.
She might never move again.
Wyatt came through a heartbeat later, vaulting inside in one fluid motion. He spun, slammed the hatch shut, cranked the lock, then rammed his automatic rifle through the circular wheel, jamming it solid.
Metal rang. But for now, the lock held.
She stared at the weapon wedged in the lock. His weapon, gone. He hadn’t even hesitated.
He staggered to his feet, bracing himself against the wall. Blood darkened his thigh where the knife had caught him, another smear running down his forearm.
Cold fear punched through her exhaustion.
“Wyatt—”
He shook his head, already reaching down to clamp a hand over the wound on his leg. “I’m good.”
A voice cut through the ringing in her ears.
“Chief? Chief, is that really you?”
A face loomed above her, blurry. Then clear.
Caro.
13
Wyatt’s thighwas on fire.
And not metaphorically. A deep burn tore up his hip and down his thigh with every heartbeat. Blood soaked through his coveralls, hot against his chilled skin.
Ahead of him, Jen lay flat on the deck, gasping, rain slicked hair stuck to her face.
But breathing.
Relief hit him harder than the knife wound.
Jen was alive.
She dragged herself upright with a low sound, moving as if everything hurt, and wiped wet hair from her eyes with the heel of her hand. She’d had a clean path to safety, but she’d turned around.
For him.
That wasn’t bravery. It violated every rule that kept people alive.
And yet—it had worked.
“Chief? Chief, is that really you?”
The voice yanked him out of his thoughts.
