Focus. Armory. Don’t die.
Voices.
She stilled. Two men. Speaking Russian. Close. Maybe thirty feet ahead around the next corner.
Her pulse thudded painfully in her throat.Hide. She ducked behind an equipment locker on her right. She pressed herself flat against the wall, making herself small.
The voices grew louder. Footsteps. Two sets. Heavy boots on deck plating.
They were coming this way.
Jen held her breath. Her heart hammered so loud she was certain they’d hear it. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t exist.
The footsteps reached the corner. Paused.
One of them said something. A question. The tone was casual. Not alarmed.
The other man laughed. Replied. Still in Russian, but the cadence was easy.
The footsteps continued past her hiding spot. Three feet away. Close enough that cigarette smoke and sweat stung her nose.
Jen remained frozen, waiting until the sound of them had faded completely down the corridor. She held out her hands—shaking. She tucked them under her arms, bent forward, and took a breath.
Okay.
She straightened.
Move. You’re wasting time.
The closet was twenty feet away.
Her hand gripped the door handle.
A groan. From inside the closet.
A vent access panel hung open on the far wall. Her route through.
The sound came again. Human. In pain.
This could be a trap. Could be one of Akilov’s men, injured and armed and desperate.
Or it could be crew. Someone who needed help.
Jen opened the door.
The closet was dark. She could make out a shape slumped in the corner. Male. Something metal in his other hand—a wrench, raised defensively.
“Don’t,” the man said. His voice was rough. Exhausted. “Don’t?—”
“Max?”
His head came up.
“Chief?” The wrench hit the floor with a clang. “Jesus. Chief. Thought you were dead.”
She crouched beside him. His face was a mess—a split lip, bruising around his left eye, blood crusted under his nose. His coveralls were torn at the shoulder and bloody.
“What happened?”
