A young woman hurried toward Jen. Mid-twenties. Auburn curls, eyes red from crying. Terrified, trying to pretend she wasn’t. Had to be Jen’s junior engineer. Caro.
Behind her, the missiles dominated the bay.
Sixteen of them, suspended in steel cradles, halfway between machinery and ritual. Each one was the length of a city bus, matte black casings scarred with stenciled warnings and serial numbers that meant nothing to the people who would die if they were ever launched. Their noses vanished upward into the dark, tips lost in shadow.
Wyatt had called in strikes before, put fire on targets that vanished from maps. But this was different. This was violence scaled beyond faces and names—patiently waiting for someone to decide it was time.
“Caro.” Jen’s voice was hoarse. “You’re okay.”
“Me?” Caro burst forward, words tumbling over each other. “You’re covered in blood—both of you! What’s happening out there? The alarms went off, the missile bay locked down, and I couldn’t get a signal to Command and?—”
“Caro, breathe.” Jen climbed to her feet and took hold of Caro’s hands. “Terrorists have control of Seven. They’re trying to steal the missiles. We’re going to stop them.”
Caro froze for half a beat, then she squared her shoulders. “Bloody hell and a half.” She scrubbed her hands down her face, then looked over Jen’s shoulder at Wyatt. “First aid kit?”
“Yes. Bring it here.” Jen turned back to him, and her eyes flicked to his leg.
“Jesus, Wyatt. That’s a lot of blood.”
He glanced down. She wasn’t wrong. The orange fabric was soaked through, dark and spreading. “Looks worse than it is.”
“Is that right?” She dropped to her knees in front of him, one eyebrow cocked. “You say that to all the ladies?”
Caro hauled a large white case across the deck.
“Sit.” Jen indicated a stool next to one of the large control panels.
Wyatt did as he was told.
“I’m Caro.” The junior engineer crouched to pass Jen the kit, hands shaking just enough to be noticeable. “Caro Sparks. Junior engineer. From Skye. It’s a Scottish island. Not that it matters, but—” She stopped herself, flushed. “I’m blabbing.”
Wyatt shook his head. “Hardly.”
“Sorry,” she blurted. “I’m slightly terrified. I want to work in ocean research. This was just to pay off the loans.” Her lips pressed together. “That plan worked out just splendid, huh?”
Jen rested a hand on Caro’s forearm. “You’re doing great. Really.” She nodded toward lockers. The far wall. “Do you have any water? Bottled if you have it.”
“On it.” Caro scrambled to her feet, then hurried off.
Jen flipped the first-aid kit open and laid out the contents. Gauze, antiseptic, surgical tape. She squirted antiseptic gel on her hands, rubbed them together, then jerked her chin at his thigh. “Let me see, Wyatt.” Her eyes lifted to his, calm but immovable. “Move your hand.”
He blew out a breath and lifted his hand.
Blood welled up immediately, dark and slick, spreading fast. The blade had bitten shallow, chewing muscle and skin.
“Christ,” Jen breathed.
“It’s fine,” Wyatt said, though the room tilted slightly at the edges.
“It’s not fine.” She pressed gauze to the wound. “Caro, the water?”
“Yup,” came the reply from the other side of the bay.
Jen shifted closer, settling between his knees so she could work properly. “This is going to hurt.”
“Already does.”
“Good.” She tipped the antiseptic bottle. “Then it won’t be a surprise.”
