But they were out of options.
“We’re leaving,” Wyatt said. “Right now.”
Jen crossed to the far side of the bay. She stopped next to a rectangular steel hatch set into the corner where the bay wall met the exhaust trunk. Warning stencils marked the surface in faded yellow:
OVERPRESSURE RELIEF / DO NOT BLOCK.
Behind her, boots hit the deck. Wyatt, following without argument or debate.
He moved with her as if they’d been doing this for years instead of hours—falling into step with an ease that felt dangerously close to trust.
“Right. We’re climbing into the ceiling. That’s happening now.” Caro drew level with her, neck craned, staring up at the vent, her breath coming too fast.
Not panicking yet, but an edge showing through.
Jen dropped to her knees beside the access hatch, hands on the wheel lock. Frozen solid. “Wyatt.”
He was already beside her. They wrenched it together—one grinding revolution, then another, until the seal broke with a metallic shriek and the bolts disengaged.
Caro paced, hands clutched across her chest. “You know maybe I was hasty. Just because there’s a ladder inside doesn’tmean we should use it. It’s not an exit. It’s the vertical exhaust trunk.”
“It’s our only option,” Jen answered. “Unless you want to be here when Akilov comes through that door.”
Wyatt had positioned himself between the door and the two of them. His sidearm was in his hand now, held low against his thigh, finger indexed along the frame.
Heat bled through the main door, visible as a wavering distortion in the air. Sparks didn’t just shower—they poured through the widening gap in molten streams that hissed and spat against the deck.
Time was running out, compressing until every second felt too small to hold everything they had to do. If they waited another minute, they’d lose the vent. If they rushed, they’d lose Caro.
Jen climbed back to her feet, wiping grease from her hands on her thighs.
Caro had gone pale, freckles standing out stark against bloodless skin. She’d stopped moving—frozen in that space between flight and paralysis where fear pinned you in place and made you watch your own death approach.
Jen knew how that fear tasted. She’d experienced it every time she’d had to crawl through the station’s ventilation system over the last few hours, fighting claustrophobia and the weight of tons of steel pressing down from above.
“Caro.” She took hold of her junior’s upper arms and gave a gentle squeeze. “We are doing this. And you’re going to be fine.”
“No.” The word came out small and broken. “I can’t. I don’t do heights, and that’s…that’s straight up, and if I fall?—”
“You won’t fall.” Jen caught Caro’s trembling hands. “I’m going first. Wyatt’s going last. You’re between us. We’ve got you.”
“Chief—”
“Caro.” Jen squeezed once. “You can do this. I know you can.”
The cutter shrieked, and rough voices shouted urgently in Russian.
Wyatt yanked the hatch open.
Heat rushed out—warm and carrying the stink of old grease and metal oxidation. The opening was maybe two feet square, barely large enough for shoulders to fit through, and beyond it, welded ladder rungs rose through the vent shaft like vertebrae. A thick grille blocked the route ten feet up.
She led Caro by the hand over to the hatch.
“I’m going up first so I can remove the grilles. Caro, you’re next. Wyatt brings up the rear.”
“Jen—” Wyatt started.
“No arguments.” She met his eyes, reading concern there, maybe even the urge to go first himself and take point, like he’d done all night. “I know this system. You don’t.”
