He leaned against the pipe, testing his weight. His shoulder screamed but held. When she moved to steady him, her hand brushed his wrist, and for just a second, everything else fell away—the pain, the noise, the cold.
She was real.
Alive.
“Viv,” he started, but she cut him off.
“They said Maddox’s name,” she whispered. “They’re expecting his team.”
“I heard,” he said, jaw tight. “But the way they said it—something’s wrong. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were military or ex-military.”
Her brow furrowed, shadows cutting sharp lines across her face. “Then we’re out of time. We get to the lighthouse; they’ll come for the tracker.”
“And if Maddox isn’t the one reading the signal?”
She hesitated. “Then we deal with whoever shows up.”
He almost smiled. “Still betting on him, huh?”
“Until he proves me wrong.”
They stood in the half-light for a heartbeat, the ship groaning around them, both too aware of the storm pressing in from every side.
“Let’s move,” she said.
He nodded, following her toward the stairwell, every step echoing against steel. His vision blurred at the edges, but he forced his focus to her—her movements, her pace, the way she scanned corners without breaking stride.
Somewhere deep in the ship, a door slammed and men shouted—too close.
Vivian froze, back pressed to the wall, her hand signaling him to stay low.
Through the sliver of open doorway, light flashed—a guard patrol moving past, their flashlights cutting through mist and smoke.
“Three,” she mouthed.
And he was sure they had friends.
Viv moved first—silent, lethal. Blake watched her slip behind the last guard, knife flashing once under the man’s arm before she eased him down without a sound. Smooth. Efficient. It hit him again just how capable she was.
He moved in before the body hit the floor, looping the length of chain he’d scavenged around the next man’s throat. The merc jerked once, boots scraping the deck, then went limp. Blake caught him before his weapon could clatter and give them away.
The third turned too late—Viv was already there, striking hard and fast. The man dropped without a sound.
They dragged the bodies behind the hatch, breath fogging in the chill air. They stripped weapons and ammo.
Blake’s shoulders burned from the effort, every muscle knotted tight, his wounded arm a dull, throbbing fire. He gritted his teeth and crouched beside a wrecked console, reloading one of the rifles they’d stripped from the fallen. The motion was automatic—muscle memory doing the work while his mind stayed locked on the next threat.
Across the hold, Viv checked their six, her movements quick, precise. She was running on fumes. He could see it in the way her hands trembled between bursts of control, but she was still standing. Still fighting. She was unstoppable.
“This is about to get ugly,” he said, voice low, conviction steady even if his body wasn’t.
She nodded once. “You take starboard. I’ll cover the dock approach.”
He didn’t argue. Didn’t need to. The trust between them ran bone deep now—no time for debate, no room for fear.
He moved into the corridor, steps quiet, rain-slick deck groaning beneath his boots. The air reeked of oil, cordite, and stormwater. Somewhere above, the wind screamed through torn rigging, a sound that could’ve been fury or warning.
He crouched behind a rusted support beam, scanning the docks through a shattered viewport.
