The vent shaft swallowed sound.
Wyatt’s breath bounced back into his face in the cramped space. Six inches of clearance. Every pull of the ladder drove his elbows into metal.
The M4 was dead weight—no angle, no room. He ignored it and kept going.
Above him, Jen climbed. He couldn’t see her but he could hear her—the scrape of boots, the clink of her tools, the low curse when something didn’t cooperate.
She was terrified of these spaces. Yet, she climbed anyway, every single time.
Most people froze when fear hit them like that. Jen kept moving. Something about that wouldn’t leave him alone.
Caro had stopped climbing.
Her breathing had gone fast and shallow, rasping in the narrow shaft. Wyatt knew that sound. He’d heard it in cockpits and flooded compartments, right before someone locked up completely.
“Caro?”
Her breath hitched.
Wyatt hooked his elbow through a rung and shifted his weight. His thigh protested immediately—as torn muscle pulled against the edges of the wound.
“Tell me about Skye,” he said in a measured voice. Like this wasn’t a steel coffin thirty feet above armed men hunting them. “The Isle of Skye.”
A shaky exhale. “W—what?”
“You’re from there.” Cold metal bit into his palms as he shifted his grip. He ignored the burning sensation in his thigh. “You ever climb through places like this back home? Sea caves or something?”
Her boots scraped the rung close to his head.
“Sea caves? Yes. Below the cliffs at the Quiraing. But I never—I don’t like heights.”
“That’s the one. The Quiraing.” He smiled, though she couldn’t see it. If she was picturing home, she wasn’t picturing the drop beneath her boots. “What’s it like?”
She didn’t answer right away. Her breathing stuttered, then slowed—just a fraction.
“They’re big,” she whispered at last. “Black rock. Volcanic. They drop straight into the sea.”
“How far down?” His thigh throbbed in time with his pulse.
“Hundreds of feet.” Her voice steadied as the image took hold. “You can hear the waves from miles away. Taste the salt in the air.”
Good. She was talking now.
“What’s at the top?” he asked.
“Heather. Green in winter, but every shade of pink and purple in the autumn.” A breath. “You wouldn’t believe it unless you saw it.”
“And you’re going back there. But first—two more rungs.”
“I can’t.” Panic surged back into her voice, sharp and thin. “I’m stuck.”
“Hey. Slow breath. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”
Her breath huffed, slower now.
“Good. Do it again.”
“You’ve already done over thirty feet. That’s thirty feet you didn’t think you could do.”
