Blake’s shots dropped the two men chasing them.
“Keys?” Vivian demanded.
He held up the lanyard. “We’ve got boats.”
“Port?”
“Port. Move.”
She hesitated—only for him. “With you.”
He couldn’t afford that. “Viv…”
A round screamed past.
She shielded Mara’s face into her chest, her elbow brushed his forearm—heat in the chaos—then sprinted for the launch bay.
Blake backed after them, firing punishing bursts that kept heads down.
Vivian shoved Mara through the bay door. One last look—warning, promise, all of it—then she vanished inside.
Blake took the doorway and let the corridor come for him. Gunfire shredded the air. He gave them nothing but angles and return fire. A round clipped his ribs, but he stayed upright. Counted breaths.
Fifteen.
Seventeen.
Nineteen.
Time’s up.
He slipped into the launch bay, dropping the crossbar. It wouldn’t hold. Didn’t matter.
Vivian already had Mara in a lifejacket. She grabbed the keys, jammed them into the davit. The winch groaned.
A professional appeared in the doorway—clean stance, rifle up. Blake blew out the floodlight—better to blind than miss—and the man recoiled into darkness.
“Blake!” someone jeered from behind the door. “We were told you’d come.”
He didn’t answer.
The lifeboat swung out over roiling water. Mara clung to the gunwale. “Is it safe?”
“It’s the way out.”
The bay door bucked violently. Laughter seeped through. “Storm’s hungry tonight, Blake.”
“Charming,” Vivian muttered.
“Get in,” Blake ordered.
“I’m not leaving without you.” Quiet. Fierce. True.
His hand found her cheek—brief, steadying. “You’re not. You’re just going first.”
She climbed in. Blake hit the release. The boat lurched downward, cables screaming.
He shoved the painter line into her hands. “Go.”
