The shark still circled lazily as Dane descended along the anchor line half an hour later. Scalpel, now wearing the wetsuit and equipment that had originally been purchased for Willis Sanders, was just a few feet behind him. Dane’s new diving partner carried a harpoon gun, but Dane didn’t have so much as a knife; his had been confiscated as soon as he and Bones had returned from the first dive, and Scalpel did not seem inclined to let him have it back. That was fine with Dane; let the other guy worry about the local wildlife. He was focused on the task at hand.
It took only a few minutes to reach the bottom. This time Dane didn’t pause to take in the scenery, but swam directly toward the dark opening on the main deck. He glanced back just once, verifying that Scalpel was right behind him, and then pulled himself through the doorway.
On the swim down, he had rehearsed this moment in his head a dozen times, recognizing that there would be only this one opportunity to act and no second chances. As soon as he was through, he switched off his light and pulled to one side, pressing his body tight against the bulkhead. For a moment, he was in total darkness, but then a rectangle of illumination appeared above him as Scalpel shone his light through the opening.
Dane didn’t hesitate. When Scalpel poked his head through, Dane struck like a viper, tearing at the other man’s mask and regulator. A cloud of bubbles enveloped them both, momentarily obscuring Dane’s field of view, but he fumbled blindly until his fingers closed around his foe’s equipment harness. He hauled the struggling man through the doorway.
Amid the oddly muted sounds of the struggle, Dane heard a loud snap and felt something brush his arm. It was the trident-tipped harpoon from a spear gun. He ignored the dull throb of pain that followed and continued grappling with Scalpel, tearing at loose equipment and doing everything he could to keep the man from finding his air supply. One hand found the familiar knurled grip of a dive knife, sheathed and strapped to Scalpel’s calf. He ripped it free and stabbed it into the yellow flotation bladder of his foe’s buoyancy compensator.
Through another rush of bubbles, Dane saw the dark silhouette of the other diver struggling ineffectually as he settled toward the tangle of skeletons below. Dane didn’t linger to assess the results of his attack but hauled himself through the opening and began kicking furiously away from the wreck.
In his haste to put some distance between himself and Scalpel, Dane blew through the first two of his decompression stops. He’d spent only a few minutes at depth, so the danger was probably minimal, but he added a few extra seconds to each of the remaining stops. The time passed by quickly. There was no sign of the other diver, and if by some miracle Scalpel had survived, the chance of him actually catching up to Dane was just about nil, unless of course the mercenary was willing to risk a debilitating bout of decompression sickness.
It was only when Dane was halfway to the surface and saw a dark shadow moving in the green expanse overhead that he remembered being hit by the harpoon. Sure enough, there was a hole in the neoprene of his wetsuit, and beneath it, a stripe of red. The cut wasn’t deep, but it was nevertheless an open wound, leaking blood into the water. He tugged his wetsuit sleeve up to cover the cut and swam up another ten feet to the next decompression stop.
The shadow turned his way; the tiger shark had smelled his blood.
The shark’s movements were hypnotic and as it circled closer, Dane had to force himself to look away long enough to check other avenues of approach; if there was one shark, there might be others.
As he moved up another ten feet, the tiger made its move.
It was big, easily fifteen feet, which probably explained why there weren’t any of its relatives in the neighborhood. Its jaws gaped wide, and Dane found himself staring into a maw that was almost big enough to swallow him whole. He twisted out of the way at the last instant, felt the beast’s rough skin scrape against him, the solid muscular body underneath striking him like a full body tackle. The blow shuddered through him, driving his breath out along with his regulator. His mask was knocked askew and cold water splashed into his eyes, blurring his vision, and despite all his training and experience, Dane felt a rush of primal panic.
He slashed the knife back and forth blindly, encountered nothing. He could imagine the shark just hanging back, waiting for him to wear out or drown.
Calm down, damn it. Focus. You need to see. You need to breathe.
He straightened his mask, blowing through his nostrils to clear the water, and even as he pressed it tight to his face to seal out the salt water, he began looking around, frantic to locate the monstrous predator.
The shark was gone.
He didn’t question this bit of good fortune, but instead found his regulator and jammed it between his teeth. After several calming breaths, during which time he kept a constant lookout for the tiger, he resumed his ascent.
He soon located the outline of the Jacinta, and subsequently found its anchor line which he followed back to the surface. After his final decompression stop, he shrugged out of his equipment harness and after taking one last deep breath, allowed the nearly spent tanks to sink into the depths. He swam up the remaining length of cable, breaking the surface an arm’s length from the Jacinta’s overhanging bow.
He trod water there for a few seconds, scanning the bow rail above to make sure that no one had noticed him. To the south, perhaps a mile away, he spied the outline of the motor yacht that had brought Scalpel and his team. Hopefully, the crew wouldn’t notice one lone figure trying to steal aboard; if they did, he was sunk.
He kicked off his flippers and then began ascending the taut anchor line. The neoprene of his suit and the rubber soles of his dive booties gave him a little bit of traction on the greased metal cable, but it was still probably the most difficult thing he had ever attempted. Every time he trapped the line between his feet and pushed up, he felt himself sliding back almost as much as he was advancing, and with each minute of struggling, his strength waned and the lactic acid in his muscles burned hotter.
Inch by incremental inch, he drew himself up out of the water and was able to reach the grommet in the bow where the anchor was stored when the boat was under way. He got one hand around a protruding bracket, and let go of the cable altogether, bracing the soles of his dive booties against the mostly dry hull. He lingered there for a few seconds, gathering his strength for the final pull to the deck, and then with an effort that seemed almost superhuman, he heaved himself the rest of the way up.
He crouched low behind the anchor winch, mindful of not attracting the notice of any watchful eyes on the yacht, or for that matter, alerting the four gunmen holding Bones, Professor and Willis hostage. Voices drifted across the deck, low and indistinct at first, and then a very familiar deep rumble.
“Seriously dude, how long do you expect me to hold it?” Bones complained. “My kidneys aren’t what they used to be.”
“Shut up,” growled another voice, louder this time.
Dane decided that if Bones started talking again, he would use the distraction to move up. Bones did not disappoint. “Come on, man. If you’re gonna kill me, just shoot me, but at least let me die with dignity. Don’t make me piss my pants first.”
“Shut…the hell…up!”
“Just gag him,” suggested another voice.
Dane low crawled until he could just see the four gunmen, along with their hostages who were now bound with zip-ties and lying face down. Two of the gunmen were standing over Bones, discussing how best to shut him up, while the other two attempted to display at least a semblance of discipline; one of them was watching the dive platform, no doubt awaiting Scalpel’s return.