“Let me help, Chief.” Max got one arm under the guard’s shoulders, and together they dragged him into the armory. By the time they finished, sweat stuck her coveralls to her back, and her arms were wet noodles.
When she stood back up, Max was leaning against the wall, breathing ragged, his face waxen. The blood on his shoulders gleamed fresh. He needed first aid and soon.
She handed Max the M4 and grabbed the backpack of explosives, swung it onto her shoulders. The weight settled across her spine—forty pounds pulling at her shoulder blades, straps cutting in.
The means to end this.
“Ready, Max?”
“Not really.”
“Good. Me neither.”
“Let’s go.”
At the door, she checked the corridor. Clear for now.
But twenty minutes had already passed.
Wyatt would be wondering if he’d made the wrong call letting her go. She gritted her teeth and adjusted the weight of the explosives on her shoulders.
She wouldn’t make him regret trusting her. Not if she could help it.
Please let him still be there when I get back.
21
Wyatt checked his watch.
Three minutes since Jen disappeared into the sleet.
Four since she kissed him.
Kissed him.
He could still feel the softness of her mouth. The shape of her waist in his palm. The warmth of her pressed against him for half a second too long.
And he hadn’t even kissed her back.
His pulse kicked hard enough to hurt. And for the first time in years, he didn’t shut down.
Jen hadn’t kissed the protector.
She’d kissed the man.
Nothing more.
And that changed things.
It gave weight to what he’d have to do tonight. Not just stopping Akilov—but getting her out alive.
Protected.
He pushed his sleeve back over his watch. He couldn’t think about this. Not now.
The wind slammed into him as they crossed the deck, and sleeting rain lashed, sharp enough to sting. His thigh burned with every step, torn muscle pulling against the adhesive dressing.
Jen was counting on them. That was enough. He wouldn’t let her down.
