Vivian moved, boots striking slick wood, eyes on the storm-torn horizon.
The rain came harder, driving needles of water into her skin, but she didn’t slow. Every step hammered one thought through her head—he’s still alive, he’s still alive, he’s still alive.
“Hold on, Blake,” she whispered, willing him to know she was going to save him.
The wind roared louder as she reached the main wharf, slamming into her so hard she had to crouch to keep balance. Water rushed between the slats, icy foam swirling around her boots. Somewhere across the bay, the deep thud of thunder rolled over the water, closer each time.
The cargo ship loomed in the distance—half listing, its deck lights still flickering in defiance of the blackout. A dark smear of smoke trailed from midship.
Vivian’s heart clenched. He was still in there.
She jogged low along the dock, using stacked shipping containers as cover. Rusted chains rattled in the wind. A crane groaned above, its arm swinging lazily with each gust like a beast too tired to die.
Several feet below, she spotted the gangway—tilted, half submerged, waves slapping its metal spine. The main boardingplatform was gone. Her only way aboard was the narrow maintenance ladder that clung to the hull like a last lifeline.
She hesitated only long enough to check the magazine in her pistol, then slung her bag tight and climbed over the railing.
The water below heaved black and furious, a living thing trying to swallow the world whole. The ladder swayed with the pier’s shudder, each rung slick like oil beneath her boots. Her breath came fast, white in the cold, fogging against the storm.
Halfway down, a wave reared up out of the dark, a wall of salt and roar, and slammed into her legs. Metal screamed. The impact tore one hand free and ripped both feet from the rungs. For one blinding heartbeat, she hung suspended, nothing between her and the freezing void but her grip on one rusted rail.
Her shoulder wrenched. Pain shot through her arm like fire, her ribs screamed in protest, her boot scraping uselessly against slick metal. The ladder swung out over empty air. Below, the sea boiled, whitecaps breaking like teeth.
She forced her fingers to hold, nails cutting her palms, muscles trembling with effort. The weight of her soaked jacket dragged her sideways. The storm wanted her—pulling, promising the easy end of letting go.
She kicked, found the next rung by instinct more than sight, and hauled herself back inch by inch. Every movement was agony—cold, heavy, desperate. A second wave crashed higher, drenching her to the waist, but this time she was ready. She clung tighter, forehead pressed to metal, heart hammering so hard it felt like a countdown.
She hooked a boot over the next rung and exhaled shakily, half a sob, half defiance. The ladder groaned under her, but held.
One more step. Then another.
At the bottom, she didn’t wait. She launched herself toward the ship’s hull and grabbed the lowest rung of another ladder that led up into the shadow of the open cargo bay.
Her hands shook from cold and adrenaline and fatigue. She climbed anyway.
By the time she hauled herself over the edge, her arms shook. She rolled onto the deck and lay there for half a second, breath coming in shallow bursts.
The smell hit her next—oil, burned metal, salt. The faint tang of something else: blood.
“Blake?” she whispered.
No answer. Just the wind shrieking through broken vents and the hollow clang of something swinging loose below.
She crouched low and moved forward. The floodlights above flickered erratically, cutting the deck into stripes of light and shadow.
Her boots slipped once on the slick metal, sending a small splash echoing through the corridor. She froze, pulse in her throat.
Footsteps answered. Heavy ones.
Vivian ducked behind a supply drum, gripping the pistol tight. A flashlight beam swept across the walkway, catching rain in its cone. Two men in dark gear crossed in front of her, rifles slung, voices low under the storm.
“…still searching the lower decks. The engine room’s flooded.”
“Only mixers down there. Someone probably screwed up. Team’s here to move products out before too much attention.
She waited until their footsteps faded toward the bow, then slipped out from behind the drum and ran.
The hatch to the lower decks had been blown off its hinges, bent like foil. Inside, smoke curled thick, making her eyes sting.
