Chapter 2 #2
The distance closes with each stroke. Fifty yards.
Forty. Thirty. The boat's stern is underwater now, bow pointing almost vertical as the ocean claims it.
Debris floats everywhere. Pieces of fiberglass, equipment, papers scattering across the waves.
A fuel slick spreads across the surface, rainbow-sheened and reeking of gasoline.
Still no Fallon.
My lungs burn from the sprint and the cold water shock, but I push harder. Twenty yards out, I see her. A flash of orange vest, there and gone beneath a swell. Not moving on her own. Either unconscious or tangled.
I dive.
The water off Virginia in January is cold enough to kill in minutes if you're not prepared. I am prepared. Conditioned for it, ready for it, trained for it. What I'm not prepared for is the jolt of fear that goes through me when I can't immediately locate Fallon in the murky water.
Visibility is maybe six feet. Sediment churned up by the explosion turns everything brown and hazy. I sweep my gaze left, right, down. There. Below me and to the left, sinking slowly. She's caught in a tangle of netting or rope, the orange vest bright against the murk.
I stroke down hard, equalizing pressure in my ears as I descend. Fifteen feet. Twenty. My chest is already tight from the cold and exertion, but I've done this a hundred times in training. Control the breathing. Focus on the target. Execute.
Except training never included watching auburn hair drift in the current like seaweed. Never included the way her body hangs limp and wrong in the water, arms floating loose, head tilted back.
Twenty-five feet. I reach her and immediately assess the situation. She's caught in a cargo net that must have been stored on the boat, the weighted edges pulling her down while the vest tries to bring her up. The result is slow descent toward the bottom. She'll drown long before she reaches it.
The net is wrapped around her torso and right arm, tangled tight enough that I can see it cutting into her skin through the thin fabric of her tank top. Her face is pale, lips already taking on a blue tinge. How long has she been under? Two minutes? Three?
My dive knife comes free from its ankle sheath. I grab the net with my left hand and start cutting with my right, working fast but careful. The rope is thick, industrial-grade, designed to hold hundreds of pounds. Each strand requires multiple sawing motions to sever.
First section falls away. She doesn't move.
Second section. Still nothing.
My lungs are screaming now. Forty-five seconds since I submerged. Maybe a minute. I need to surface soon or I'll be no good to her. But I can't leave her tangled. Can't let her sink deeper.
Third section. The net loosens enough that I can pull it over her head. She starts to drift upward, the vest finally doing its job.
I grab her around the waist and kick hard for the surface, one arm locked around her torso while the other strokes upward. Deadweight in my arms. Completely unresponsive. The vest helps but she's heavier than she looks, all that muscle under soft curves making her dense in the water.
My vision is starting to tunnel when we break the surface. I gasp air, shake water from my eyes, and immediately tilt her head back to clear her airway. No breathing. No coughing. Nothing.
Wade's face flashes through my mind. Eyes open and empty when they pulled him from the kelp. Too long. Too late.
Not this time.
I position Fallon so her head stays above water, pinch her nose, seal my mouth over hers, and deliver two quick breaths. Her chest rises. Good seal. But she still doesn't respond.
Shore is too far. At least two hundred yards. I need to get air into her now.
Two more breaths. I check for pulse with my fingers pressed to her carotid. There. Weak and thready but present. She's alive. Just not breathing on her own.
I start swimming for shore, one arm locked around her torso to keep her face above water, the other stroking hard.
Every few strokes I stop, tread water, and deliver another breath.
Swim. Breathe. Swim. Breathe. The rhythm is automatic but exhaustion is setting in.
Cold water is leeching heat from my core, and the adrenaline dump from the sprint and dive is leaving my muscles shaky.
One hundred fifty yards. I can hear sirens now, getting closer. Base emergency response is mobilizing. But they're not here yet and Fallon's lips are turning bluer with each passing second.
One hundred yards. My shoulders are burning. My legs feel like lead. But I keep stroking, keep breathing for her, keep dragging us both toward shore.
Seventy-five yards. Fifty.
Her body convulses in my arms.
She coughs once, harsh and wet, and seawater erupts from her mouth. I roll her to her side, supporting her while she coughs and chokes and gasps for air. Her whole body shakes with the effort but she's breathing. On her own. Without my help.
Relief hits me so hard I almost go under myself.
Shallow water now. I get my feet under me and half-carry, half-drag Fallon toward the beach. She's coughing continuously, bringing up seawater with each harsh breath. Her hands clutch at my arm with surprising strength.
We reach the sand and I lower her gently, rolling her to her side in the recovery position. She coughs again, violent and painful, but her color is improving. Less blue, more pale. Her chest rises and falls in ragged gasps but she's breathing.
She's alive.
I'm kneeling beside her in wet sand, one hand on her shoulder to steady her, when her eyes open.
Green. Sea-green with flecks of gray, more vivid up close than I expected from watching her at a distance. They focus on my face with startling intensity, recognition flashing through them even as she struggles to draw breath.
"You," she rasps, voice raw from seawater and coughing. "The runner."
Recognition in those sea-green eyes. Not suspicion like this morning on the beach. Something else entirely.
I should say something professional. Something reassuring. Something that sounds like a SEAL team leader who just executed a textbook water rescue.
Instead, I brush wet auburn hair back from her face and meet those green eyes head-on.
"Yeah," I say. "The runner. And you're going to be fine."
She coughs again, turning her head to spit out more seawater, but her gaze comes back to mine. Questions in those green eyes. Suspicion. The beginning of fear as realization sets in.
She knows it too. That flash of light was too bright, too concentrated. That explosion was too deliberate.
Someone just tried to kill her. And she's looking at me like maybe I'm the threat.