Page 99 of The SEAL's Duchess
The sea sucked him down in a suffocating embrace of industrial cold that knocked the air from his lungs. The shock clamped his chest, every nerve firing wildly.
Exhale, kick down, locate the obstruction.
His headlamp cut a tunnel through black water seething with oil and debris. Pressure crushed his skull, even his teeth ached. He worked by feel, hand over hand to the prop.
Cable and netting snarled the propeller, snagged tight so the blades couldn’t turn. He sawed at the mess with his knife, feeling for tension in the strands.
His lungs convulsed, his heartbeat thrumming in his ears, too loud and fast. The knife slipped, slicing across his knuckles, blood mixing with the oil.
One more cut. Come on, come on?—
The cable released. The prop jerked free, spinning.
Ryder pushed for the surface, lungs on fire, spitting filthy water, his eyes scalded by oil.
Wyatt’s hand locked on his harness and hauled him aboard. Ryder hit the deck, gagging black water, hands shaking so hard he could barely unclip.
Behind him, the engine caught—roaring clean and strong.
Wyatt gripped his shoulder hard enough to grind bone. “You’re insane.”
“It’s clear.” Ryder spat filthy water on the deck. “Keep her nose into the wind.”
Wyatt stared at him as if trying to decide if he’d lost his mind, then turned back to the helm, checking his watch. “We’ve got half an hour, tops.”
“So, we don’t waste a minute.” Ryder scanned the distance. The lowest gantry—forty meters. One chance. “We need to get close enough so I can jump.”
Wyatt shook his head. “You’re out of your mind.”
Ryder joined him at the helm. “I have to try.”
“Ryder, it’s a suicide mission?—”
“I have to try.”
Wyatt’s mouth thinned, and he nodded. “I can take her in hard and fast. The gantry’s close enough to jump if the timing’s right. Close enough to die if it isn’t.”
“Do it.”
Wyatt palmed the throttle. “No changing your mind?”
Ryder closed his hand over his brother’s and pushed the throttle forward toward the sinking rig.
Debris rained into the water around them as they closed the gap—chunks of railing and sections of deck plating that hit the surface like gunshots. Scaffolding tore loose and spun down into the dark. The tilt worsened with every second, the Vega screaming as the sea tore it apart.
Ryder unclipped his safety line, the weight of his trauma pack against his hip. He wouldn’t need the line.
Not for this.
He had a daughter waiting. A woman he couldn’t stop thinking about trapped above.
He couldn’t choose between them.
So he didn’t.
He breathed out, finding his center.
Instead, he chose to fight.
