He flexed his fingers again, feeling for weakness in the knots. The ropes didn’t budge. His wrists were bleeding freely now, slick and useless. He angled his weight, grinding his shoulder against the pipe, letting the pain ground him.
Above, a hatch slammed open. More boots. He counted three, maybe four. Voices again—one of them new, lower, with a commander’s edge that didn’t need to shout.
“Negative on visual. Recheck the hold, then torch.”
His stomach dropped cold.
Whoever was running this ship wasn’t taking prisoners.
He stared at the floor, forcing his mind to line up the facts even as the pain tried to fog everything over. Maddox’s name had been used over the radio. They’d mentioned “the tracker.” On the surface, it sounded like internal chatter—but the tone was wrong. Too rehearsed.
They were baiting someone. Maybe Maddox himself.
If they’d compromised his command line, if they were using the tracker to lure his team…
Blake’s jaw clenched.
Was this all designed by Laurel Tide? Were Maddox and his team driving into an ambush?
He shifted again, careful, working the rope against the jagged edge of a weld seam. Each motion scraped skin rawer, but fibers gave. Tiny threads popped.
He could do this.
Hewoulddo this.
A thud echoed above—metal shifting underweight. He froze, every sense reaching outward. The rhythm was different from the boots before—lighter, more deliberate.
Someone was moving slow. Controlled.
Not a patrol.
His pulse jumped.
That wasn’t random movement. That was someone avoiding being heard.
He lifted his head, eyes narrowing toward the ventilation grates. The emergency light flickered again, throwing the shadows into motion. The hum of the generators masked softer sounds—cloth brushing metal, a faint exhale, then silence.
Vivian.
It had to be.
“Viv,” he whispered, just barely shaping the word.
No answer.
Only another faint sound—a footstep in shallow water, close, then stopping.
He shut his eyes, slowing his breathing. If it wasn’t her, he’d need the element of surprise. If it was—if by some impossible chance she’d made it back on board—then he couldn’t risk giving her away.
The seconds stretched. The storm outside cracked lightning through the small port window, flooding the hold with a single flash of white light. For that instant, he saw everything—the stacked crates, the dripping chains, the glimmer of water pooling along the deck.
And a shadow above.
Not large. Not confident. Careful. Moving toward the stairwell.
His throat tightened. Hope and disbelief warred in him.
He twisted his wrists again, biting back a sound as the rope tore into his skin. Blood slicked his fingers, but he kept moving. Each motion sent fire through his nerves, his vision hazing at the edges.
