His Last Defense. Karen Rock

      “We’ve only got enough fuel for fifteen minutes on scene. I need to get you off this vessel.”

      Her mouth worked for a moment, and she peered at her laboring crew members. She nodded slowly, her expression inward, then shoved back her shoulders. “Get everyone to safety, but leave me be.” She turned to the guys working on the pipe and pump. “Everett. Pete. Tell the crew they’re abandoning ship.”

      “The hell we are,” one of the guys swore.

      “That’s an order.”

      The man shook his head and dropped the wire into his pocket. “Roger.” He and the other crewman climbed up and out.

      Nolee squinted back at Dylan for a moment then held out a hand for the hoses. He cursed under his breath. He’d left her before, once, when she’d given him no choice, but history would not repeat itself today.

      Not under these conditions.

      Not a chance.

      Still. She was a civilian and captain of the vessel; he couldn’t compel her to follow his orders, much as he wished otherwise. After he got the crew off, he’d return for her and make her see reason.

      “I’ll be back,” he vowed. He handed over the nozzle, snapped down his visor and headed topside. It took every ounce of will and training to leave her in the belly of the doomed ship. He’d learned to live his life without her, but that didn’t stop his instinct to protect her at all costs from surging back to life.

      On deck, the fishermen continued bailing as the guy Nolee had called Everett lugged the dewatering pumps’ outtake lines to the rail and dropped them over the side of the unstable boat.

      “6039 this is Holt,” Dylan spoke into his headset. When a wave swelled off the port side, he grabbed an oblivious guy, a young kid barely out of high school by the looks of it, and scrambled for cover by the winch. Water buffeted them for several seconds as they huddled and then he tried again. “6039 do you copy?”

      “6039 copy,” his Jayhawk pilot and mission commander, LCDR Chris Abrams, said in the flat monotone they adopted in even the worst situations. “What’s your onboard assessment? Over.”

      The wide-eyed teenager stared at him, his skin pale. When one of the men hollered, “Tyler!” he jumped to his feet then trudged back to the line.

      Dylan stayed behind, listening hard. “They’ve got three feet of water in the hull and rising fast. Vessel is listing heavily. Structural integrity severely compromised with inadequate time to attempt repairs. We’re abandoning ship. Basket requested. Over.”

      “Roger that,” Chris said, his voice crisp. “Basket is being deployed.”

      Another oceanic blast tipped the vessel so that the rail drove to the surface before righting itself. He pictured Nolee below. He needed to get moving to return to her.

      Inside his neoprene suit, his slick skin flushed hot, his blood humming with adrenaline. He emerged from cover and joined the crew who now held on to lines as the boat rose and dipped violently.

      He cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered, “We’re abandoning ship. Who’s coming first?”

      The fishermen eyed him, then one nudged an older crewmember forward. The man, with white hair and a craggy face, glared at him with red-rimmed eyes, uneven teeth bared between cracked, flaky lips. “I ain’t going first.” He pointed at the young guy in the blue slicker. “Take the kid.”

      “Right.” Dylan nodded, understanding that it’d be a waste of time arguing with a sailor who’d rather risk losing his life than his pride. “Let’s go.”

      For the next several minutes, Dylan toiled as the storm refused to lessen its grip, placing survivor after survivor into the basket until only he and Nolee remained on board.

      “We have one minute,” he heard his commander say through his helmet’s speakers. “Is your captain ready? Over?”

      “She will be,” Dylan answered, his back teeth pressing together hard. He slung an arm over a rope line and held fast when another swell lifted him off his feet, dragging. The ship groaned as sheets of metal strained against each other like fault lines before an earthquake. The lashings clanked. “Send down the strop. Over.”

      Given the helo’s low fuel state, he had barely enough time for the dangerous hypothermic double lift.

      “You have fifty seconds and then I want you on deck, Holt,” barked his commander. “Over.”

      The sea receded and Dylan shoved his way along the slick deck, propelling himself forward across its steep slant. “Roger that.”

      He would get Nolee out. End of story.

      Descending as fast as he dared, he fought the wind and dropped down into the hull again. Icy water made his breath catch even with the benefit of the dry suit. Nolee should have been out of here long before now.

      “I’ve almost got it.” Her strained voice emerged from blue lips. Her movements were jerky as she twisted wire around the still gushing pipe.

      His eardrums banged with his heartbeat.

      She was losing motor function. Hypothermia was already setting in. With only thirty seconds left, he made an executive decision.

      “It’s over, Nolee. Come with me now.”

      He would haul her out by force if necessary. Braced himself for just that.

      Yet when she opened her mouth, her head lolled. Her eyelids dropped. Reacting on instinct, he grabbed her limp form before she crumpled into the freezing water.

      His throat closed, and he had to make himself breathe. He hauled her up and out of the hull and across the deck where a rescue strop dangled. Damn, damn, damn. His hands weren’t cooperating, his own motor function feeling the effects of this cursed sea. Once he’d tethered them together, he gave his watching flight mechanic a thumbs-up for the hoist. The boat flung them sideways, careening over the rail.

      Swinging, their feet skimmed the deadly swells. The line jerked them from harm and sped them up through the stinging air. He tightened his arms around her. Imagined them made of steel. With only a tether connecting her to him, he couldn’t lose his grip. It was the difference between saving her life and causing her to fall to her death.

      As they rose, he forced himself not to look at her. He’d dreamed about that face too many times, even after he left Kodiak to forget her.

      But he wouldn’t be doing his job if he didn’t hold her close. And heaven help him—no matter how much she’d gutted him nine years ago—he couldn’t deny she felt damned good in his arms.

       2

      NOLEE WAS LYING on warm, gritty sand, water circling around her toes, breathing in the Alaskan summer fragrance of salt water and dense cedars. There was a delicious, decadent taste in her mouth—berries and chocolate, and possibly wine. She lifted her head and the afternoon sun glinted off the blue ocean so brightly, she had to squint through sparkles of light to see her feet in front of her.

      Her toenails were painted a deep rose. Girly and sweet. Not her style at all. And the nail polish had even been applied well. No smudged cuticles or bumpy surfaces. Someone was lying next to her, propped up on his side. Someone she cared about, who made her laugh, with big feet, nails unvarnished and clipped.

      Dylan.

      He stroked her bare stomach with a firm hand, the circular touch languid, deliberate, filling her with teasing heat, a pleasant ache beginning between her thighs.

      Somewhere in the distance, gulls cried and the cool ocean thundered as it crashed ashore, swirling up and over her calves, then suctioning her skin as it receded. A throaty chuckle sounded beside her. She curved toward it, her body fitting against Dylan’s