Page 75 of The SEAL's Duchess
Her mind raced through the logistics. The rig had regular boat traffic—workers commuting daily. This was routine, not dangerous.
But Henderson’s words pushed back.Methane hydrates are temperature and pressure sensitive. You risk triggering a release.
That was a long-term drilling risk—not something that made the rig unsafe to visit. She’d be careful, quick, in and out before dark. Just long enough to convince Jack to come back with her, to help stop George before tomorrow’s signing.
The alternative was doing nothing. Letting George commit their family to a disaster because she’d been too cautious to act.
She tried Ryder’s number. The line didn’t connect.
Damn. Probably the weather.
Her battery flashed, 8%.
He’d tell her not to go alone.
He’d tell her to wait.
And she would—if waiting didn’t risk everything.
She typed fast, thumbs trembling:
Going to talk to Jack at the rig. Supply boat leaves at two. I’ll be back before dinner.
She added,don’t worry about me, then deleted it. This time, she wanted to take up space—to be seen, even if it scared her.
Her thumb hovered. Waiting might cost everything. She hit send before she could lose her nerve. The word glowed for a heartbeat, then the tiny checkmark appeared. Delivered. She stared at it until the screen dimmed.
No turning back now.
She quickly changed into her own clothes, unplugged the charger, shoved it in her bag, and reached for her coat. Twenty-five minutes to make the boat.
This was what she did. What she’d always done. Fixed problems before they became disasters. Stepped in when no one else would.
The marine servicesoffice sat near the docks, a small prefab building with salt-stained windows and a faded sign. The wind had picked up, but the sky had cleared. No storm in sight.
Inside, an older man sat behind a counter scattered with shipping manifests, barely glancing up when she entered.
“Help you?”
“I need a seat on the supply run to BlackRock Vega platform.”
Now he looked at her, taking in her business casual clothes and obvious lack of work gear. “You sure? It’s not exactly a cruise.”
“I’m sure. I need to speak with someone on the rig.”
He shrugged. “Your money. Got ID?”
She handed over her passport. He photocopied it with bureaucratic slowness. “Eighty-five dollars. Three hours round trip.”
I’ll be back long before dark.
She pulled out her credit card. “I’ll take it.”
The man ran it through an ancient machine that beeped erratically. “Boat leaves in fifteen minutes. Don’t be late.” He handed her a ticket that looked like it’d been generated on a dot matrix printer. “Dock three.”
That easy.
At the dock, the supply boat looked exactly as advertised—industrial but well-maintained, its hull scarred by years of saltwater but clearly seaworthy. Other passengers were already boarding. Men and women in coveralls and work boots, carrying toolboxes and duffel bags. They moved with the casual efficiency of people making their daily commute, chatting and joking.
