Page 89 of The SEAL's Duchess
Wyatt was right. Ryder pulled out his Coast Guard radio and switched to Command frequency.
“Aurora Cove Command, this is Ryder Meyer. Two individuals unaccounted for on the Deepwater Vega platform—request immediate search and rescue authorization.”
A cracking pause of static.
“Meyer, we’ve checked all manifests. All confirmed personnel have been evacuated.”
“The manifest’s wrong. Someone tampered with it. They’re still on that rig.”
Another too-long pause.
“We can’t authorize a search based on speculation, Meyer. All confirmed personnel are accounted for. We’re establishing a two-mile safety perimeter. Catastrophic structural failure estimated in two to three hours. Weather’s deteriorating. Winds are gusting to forty-five knots. Air ops are suspended.”
Wyatt grabbed the radio. “This is Wyatt Meyer. We can reach the platform by boat in twenty minutes. Just give us clearance.”
“Negative, Meyer. Without confirmed personnel at risk, we cannot justify sending assets into an active disaster zone. You’re both to remain on standby for confirmed emergencies.”
Translation: Command wouldn’t risk Coast Guard lives for people who officially weren’t there.
The line went dead. For a second, Ryder’s jaw locked, pulse pounding so hard his vision swam. They were leaving her out there.
“Command said they need us for confirmed emergencies.” Wyatt’s mouth curved without humor. “She’s there. That’s confirmed enough for me.”
Ryder’s watch read 6:47 p.m. That put total collapse between nine and ten, maybe earlier if the damage accelerated.
He remembered how she felt in his arms this morning. Warm and soft, looking at him like he was worth keeping. He’d let her walk away because he’d been afraid to tell her what she meant to him, afraid to admit he’d fallen for her so hard and fast it terrified him.
“Ryder.” Wyatt’s voice cut through the spiral. His brother’s hand was on his shoulder, grip firm enough to hurt, steering him toward where his boat was berthed. “We’re going to find her. You hear me? We’re going to bring her home.”
Twenty minutes to reach the rig. Maybe an hour to find her and get out. That was cutting it brutally close—assuming everything went perfectly.
And nothing ever went perfectly.
Didn’t matter.
He’d find her. Bring her home. Whatever it took.
34
The cold hit first—metalagainst Ivy’s cheek, so frigid it burned. Pain flamed from her temple down her neck. Then the smell. Rust and oil and something so acidic it made her throat close. Her head felt split open, pressure building behind her eyes until even the darkness hurt.
She was on the floor.
Agony pulsed through her shoulders, radiating down her spine. She opened her eyes, blinking against absolute blackness.
Where—
The floor lurched. Not a sudden drop, but a slow, sickening tilt that made her stomach revolt. She pressed her palms flat.Where am I?
She’d gone down Leg C looking for Jack. The man coming toward her, relentless. Jack crumpled, bloody?—
“Jack?”
Her voice came out frayed. No answer except the groan of metal under stress, vibrating through the floor and into her bones.
Ivy pushed up to sit, swallowing against rising nausea. She touched her temple with careful fingers. A lump. Size of ahen’s egg and tender enough to make her vision dim when she pressed. She probed carefully along her collarbone, down her ribs. Everything hurt, but nothing felt broken. The worst was between her shoulder blades, where the bruising felt bone deep.
She’d been dumped here. Like cargo.
