Sergei hurried out to the sundeck, past the two bodies, slipped off the rocking boat’s stern, and eased himself soundlessly into the water. He swam up between the hulls and grabbed onto the rope securing his equipment.
Teeth clenched to keep them from chattering—he was sure someone would hear him if he made a sound—he clipped the karabiners to his wetsuit. If the boat moved, he’d be dragged along with it, but at least he wouldn’t be left behind or caught in the props. As he cut away his tank, a heavy splash startled him. That wasn’t a crab pot dropping. Much too big and heavy.
Like a body.
Fuck! Now there was blood in the water. Which meant sharks.
Heart pounding, Sergei worked even faster, cutting away the ties that had secured his tank. Putting it on was a challenge when he was also clipped to the network of ropes, but it was a necessary evil. No way in hell was he getting left out here with no fins, no tanks, and a bleeding corpse nearby.
The tank was the most cumbersome part, especially since he couldn’t let it touch the hulls, or else the sound might echo and give him away. Finally, though, he had it secured to his shoulders. Once he had the regulator in his mouth and the air was flowing, he unclipped himself and the rest of his gear and dove beneath the surface.
He was right about the splash—the dead man floated on the surface, a rusty plume swelling beside his torso.
Definitely time to get the fuck out of here.
Safely away from the propellers and hopefully out of sight, Sergei pulled on his fins, cleared his mask, and then started toward the shore. Considering some of the Italians thought it was fun to attract sharks and then shoot them, he dived deep to make sure they didn’t see him.
He looked at his watch. Shit. He was running out of time. Getting off the boat had taken a lot longer than planned, and Baltazar wasn’t going to wait for him.
“I don’t see you by 10:30,” he’d reminded Sergei last night, “I’m assuming you’re shark chum and I’m outta there.”
Which had seemed more than reasonable right up until Sergei’d found himself unable to make his planned escape from the yacht. He’d lost precious minutes. And not just minutes—the yacht was farther out than he’d anticipated.
It was going to be a long swim anyway, but if he didn’t make it to Baltazar in time, that was going to be a long swim back to shore.
He checked his compass and started swimming. He had to swim hard—between the current and the time crunch, he had no choice. And damn it, even the exertion wasn’t enough to keep him warm this far down. The water was fucking cold. Inside his fins, his toes were already getting numb. His gloves did almost nothing to keep him warm either. Gripping the regulator with his mouth kept his teeth from chattering, but just barely.
Just what he needed—hypothermia. But that wasn’t his biggest concern. Between the cold and the exertion, he was asking for the bends, but he’d be okay as long as he could surface gradually.
He passed one of the red navigational buoys, which had been marked underneath with a number six. Only two to go. Thank God.
Motion above his head caught his eye, and he looked up as a catamaran sliced two white gashes into the surface. Another boat—single hull this time—shot past. Moments later, another went by, crisscrossing the wake from the previous one. The closer he swam to buoy five, the more boat traffic cut across the water. It didn’t get any better as he neared buoy four.
Damn it. Too many boats out today, and no way to tell if they were friend or foe. He didn’t dare surface out in the open. Even without the goons who liked shooting divers for sport, the harbor was too busy to come up just anywhere. He had to surface beside a boat with a diver down flag flying to warn other boats, or else a hull or a propeller could kill him even before a coked-out Mafioso with a pistol did.
Finally, he saw the buoy he was looking for, and the boat bobbing nearby.
He ascended a few meters at a time, doing decompression stops for as long as he could. Still too far beneath the surface for a fast ascent, he looked at his watch.
10:27.
His heart sped up. He was almost out of time.
All he had to do was let Baltazar know he was here, then go back under and come up again slowly. It would take time—he’d have to go down slowly and carefully since he’d already been down and up once—but the alternative was being left out here in a harbor full of boats, sharks, and trigger happy Italians.
He made a few more decompression stops. Not much farther to go. Maybe he could still—
The props came on.
Sergei cursed into his regulator, and then swam upward for all he was worth, his heart pounding all the way.
The instant he broke the surface, he yanked the regulator out of his mouth. “Baltazar!”
The Greek turned and leaned over the side. “Oh, shit, kid. We almost left without you!” He extended his arm. “Get in! Now!”
“I can’t.” Sergei shook his head, teeth chattering furiously. “I need to go back down and come back up so I don’t get the fucking bends. I need at least—”