Page 90 of The SEAL's Duchess
“Jack?” Louder this time.
A groan. Human, not structural.
Ivy crawled toward the sound, hands outstretched in the dark. Her palm hit something soft—fabric, fingers. She felt along an arm until she found a shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“Jack. Can you hear me?”
Another groan, then a sharp intake of breath. “Fuck.”
Ivy’s head dropped.Thank God. She’s alive.
She kept her hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Tell me where it hurts.”
“Where doesn’t it hurt?” Jack’s voice was thick, slurred at the edges. “Head’s ringing like a bell. Ribs? Christ, feels like I got hit by a forklift.”
“Can you sit up?”
“Give me a minute.” Jack shifted, pain hissing between her teeth. “Where the hell are we?”
“I don’t know.” Ivy turned, trying to map the space through touch. Her fingers found a wall—corrugated metal, rivets at regular intervals. She stood slowly, fighting dizziness, and reached up, fingertips brushing the low ceiling. Condensation dripped, sliding wet under her sleeve. Three paces left—wall. Five on her right—another wall. “Some kind of storage container?”
The floor listed again, more pronounced this time. Ivy braced herself against the wall, heard Jack scramble for purchase.
“That’s not normal.” Jack’s voice sharpened, the fog of confusion burning off under adrenaline. “The rig’s moving.”
Henderson’s data. The seafloor instability. The methane hydrates.
“It’s happening,” Ivy whispered. “Right now. The platform’s failing.”
“Fucking fuck.” A shuffling noise. “We need to get the hell out of here.”
“I think this is a door.” Ivy ran her fingers over it, searching for a handle, trying to ignore her racing heart. The dark was disorienting, amplifying her terror.
“It’s locked.” She pressed her hands flat against the surface, feeling for any weakness. “Or jammed. I can’t?—”
The rig convulsed around her. A deep, grinding vibration that came from below, from the legs driven into the seafloor. Ivy spread her feet wider as the floor pitched another degree. Adrenaline flooded her blood like liquid ice, leaving her short of breath.
“There are equipment storage containers in the legs,” Jack muttered. “I think that’s where we are. There’s an entire section of them bolted to the interior support structure.”
Ivy closed her eyes, forced herself to breathe through the panic threatening to close her throat.
Think.
She forced her eyes wide to the same darkness, but her mind was clearer. “Your tool belt. Do you still have it?”
A pause. The sound of hands patting pockets, fabric rustling. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve got it.”
“What have you got?”
Metal clinked. “Adjustable wrench. Wire cutters. Voltage tester. And this big bastard of a screwdriver I keep meaning to replace with something smaller.”
“The screwdriver. Let me have it.”
Jack pressed it into her hand—solid weight, the grip worn smooth from years of use. Ivy turned back to the door, runningher fingers along the seam where the two doors met.There. A gap, maybe a quarter inch. She wedged the screwdriver tip into it, gripped with both hands, and gave it a wiggle.
Nothing.
She adjusted her stance, planted her feet, and threw her weight into it. The screwdriver slipped, the warped metal edge of the door catching her palm. Pain lanced hot and immediate, blood making her hands slick.
