Silence.
Then her grip shifted. Just a little.
Wyatt’s head snapped toward the hammering fists on the vent door.
Someone barked commands in Russian.
Shit.We need to move.
“Caro. What do you see at the foot of the Quiraing when the tide comes in?”
“The water rises.” Her voice was breathy. “Fast.”
“And what do you do?”
“You move,” she whispered. “Or you'll drown.”
“Exactly.” He squeezed her knee. “Move.”
“Y-yes.” Her boot lifted one rung higher. Then another.
Thank fuck.
“You’re doing brilliant,” he breathed. “Keep going.”
He followed. Every pull tore at the seal Jen had glued together. He cataloged the damage and climbed anyway. His hands cramped around the rungs—too much time gripping cold metal, not enough circulation.
Above, metal scraped against metal. Jen muttering. Then, a different sound. Tools. The clink of a wrench against bolts.
Wyatt tilted his head back. He could just make out the outline above Caro—the maintenance grille at the top of the shaft, maybe twenty feet up. Bolted down. Jen was working on it with her power drill.
Below them, a new sound cut through the darkness.
Metal on metal. Akilov’s men opening the vent access.
Wyatt shifted his stance, ready. If they came up behind him, he’d have maybe two seconds to turn, brace, and fire. The angles were bad. Ricochet risk in this confined space could take out any of them.
But he’d put himself between the shooters and the women.
Especiallyher.
That wasn’t negotiable.
The door mechanism screeched open, and a flashlight beam lanced up through the shaft.
Wyatt stopped moving. The light skimmed past him—missed by inches—and swept higher, illuminating Caro’s legs above him, the underside of the grille where Jen was still working.
A man shouted in Russian.In the vents.
Wyatt drew his pistol and twisted on the ladder.
From above, a blast of fresh air. Jen had gotten the final grille open.
Jen’s voice, tight with urgency. “Caro, now!”
Caro scrambled upward to the opening, Jen’s hands grabbed her, hauling her out into whatever lay beyond.
Muzzle flash.
