Page 130 of Wilde and Deadly

Davey’s stomach turned, and sweat dripped down the side of his neck despite the cool temperature. “Elliot, tell me you’ve got something for a fast exfil.”

Elliot’s voice was sharp in his ear.“Exfil options are limited. Nearest clear tunnel is behind you, but if Brody really left a remote trigger, you’re still in blast range.”

Weston let out a low curse. “This is a bastard of a setup. The wrong cut trips the secondary trigger. I need more fucking time.”

Elliot’s voice was tense.“Daphne and I are working on it. We think we can disrupt the countdown for an extra minute—maybe two.”

“Make it happen,” Davey said.

“I’m not a miracle worker, asshole, I?—”

“But I am.”Daphne’s voice cut in, cool and confident.“Shut up and give me ten seconds.”

Davey exhaled, blowing out a breath that did nothing to settle the tightness in his chest. His mind ran the numbers, the contingencies, every possible outcome. Even if Daphne bought them an extra minute, it still wasn’t enough. But leaving Liam to his death wasn’t an option either.

Weston stayed calm and cool as he worked. Sabin swore in a constant stream of French as his long fingers popped one lock after the next. Bridger gripped Liam like he could hold him together through sheer will alone.

This was a fucking coin toss.

And if it landed wrong?

Liam wouldn’t be the only one who didn’t walk out of here.

Davey’s gaze flicked to Rowan.

She was exactly where he’d told her to be—holding the perimeter, scanning for threats, her back to him.

And that made it worse.

He couldn’t see her face, couldn’t read her expression. Couldn’t tell if she was afraid.

He was fucking terrified, because he knew what came next if Weston ran out of time. Not from stories. Not from training videos. From experience.

He remembered the blast wasn’t a sound—it was a force. A violent, consuming thing that crushed the air from his lungs and sent him weightless for half a second before he hit the ground.

He remembered the pressure wave slamming into his chest like a freight train, his ribs creaking, his ears ringing so loud it felt like his brain was trying to escape his skull.

He remembered the heat. The shrapnel. The smell of burning fuel, burning flesh.

The way everything fractured in an instant—steel, bone, bodies.

The way his Humvee had turned into a coffin.

The way he’d clawed his way out of it, feeling pain but not understanding where it came from, knowing something was wrong, but not knowing what.

The way his teammates hadn’t crawled out at all.

And if Weston ran out of time now, Rowan would die. Just like his teammates did. Broken, burning.

He wanted to grab her, shove her out of the blast zone, force her to run, but she’d never go. She’d fight him every step of the way.

So, instead, he just gritted his teeth and forced the thought down.

No time for this.

Not now.

“West, you’re getting more time. Not much, but enough.”

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