Roland was close enough that Sam could smell his sour nicotine breath. She let out an exaggerated groan and doubled over, as if in pain. “Get up!” hissed Roland.

In the same movement, she managed to pull the small blade from its sheath and conceal it in her palm. She stood up, facing Roland. Her head was pounding. Bending over had made her light headed. Don’t pass out now!

Roland held up his knife. It was the same one he’d always carried on the skiff and around the dive shop, corroded and probably dull. He poked its tip through the front of her wetsuit at her chest and slid the blade up, parting the neoprene. Up near the neck, where the rubber seal was thicker, the blade snagged and Roland used both hands to saw at the material. Now! Sam pivoted the tiny Spyderco in her hand so she gripped the hilt. In one motion, she grabbed the back of Roland’s sweaty head with her free hand and punched the knife into his left eye. He screamed and fell away, clutching his face. Both knives hit the ship’s steel decking with a clatter.

“Bitch!” Roland screamed.

Sam was already running. She’d been brought aboard forward of the moonpool, which was open to the sea. Sam could hear waves lapping deep within it and she briefly thought of jumping into it. But then she’d be trapped. She skirted the moon pool on the starboard side and when she reached the ship’s railing, she looked both directions. To her right, she saw her two captors jogging towards her. Above them at the pilothouse railing was Rausing, glowering down at her with those pale eyes. Sam turned and continued running, finding herself suddenly on the open aft deck. Two men were busy maneuvering the hoist, which hung suspended from the crane over the moon pool. She sprinted past them.

“Stop her!” Rausing shouted from behind. Two more men, who were at the ship’s aft hoist near the stern, registered what was happening and started after her. But she had a head start and was dodging the puddles of hydraulic fluid and coiled cable on her way to the back of the ship, where she assumed she’d find a motor skiff or dinghy tied up. When she reached the ship’s stern, sure enough, a rubber boat was there, bobbing on the swells, tethered to a bollard, but only accessible from the next deck below.

Sam looked back. The two thugs from the pilothouse and the two men from the moon pool were now fanning out to surround her. It was at least a 25-foot drop to the Zodiac. If she landed on it, she’d break an ankle at the very least. It was no use. She turned to the men and held up her hands in surrender. Roland walked up behind them, clutching his eye socket, which was still pouring blood.