How do I get inside? There must be some kind of hidden mechanism designed to trigger the door. He checks his air gauge again. Fifteen minutes. Grab a fresh tank, then hurry back down.

Mick continues his ascent, surprised to find Dominique’s legs dangling below the surface. He glides upward along her body, then pops his head out of the water. “Dom, what are you—” Her frightened expression causes him to look up.

Fifty feet above the surface of the sinkhole sits the redhead, the Miami asylum’s head of security smiling down at him from the edge of the pit. The red laser dot jumps from Dominique’s neckline to Mick’s.

“There’s my bitch. How dare you keep my woman waiting so long.”

Mick moves closer to Dominique, groping underwater for the end of her BCD hose. “Let her go, asshole. Let her go and I won’t put up a fight. You can bring me back to the States in chains. You’ll be a real hero—”

“Not this time, motherfucker. Foletta’s decided on a new approach to your therapy. It’s called death.”

Mick locates the BCD hose and quickly deflates the air from Dominique’s vest. “What’s Foletta paying you?” He positions himself in front of her, the laser dot appearing on his wet suit. “There’s money in my truck, hidden beneath the seat. You can have it all. There must be a good ten thousand in gold coins there.”

Raymond looks up from the gunsight. “You’re lying—”

Mick grabs Dominique and lunges sideways, dragging her underwater. She thrashes about, fighting him as she inhales a mouthful of muck.

A stream of bullets shoots past them as Mick shoves his regulator into her mouth and pulls her deeper. Dominique gags, exhales water, then manages to draw a breath. She shoves her flooded mask over her face and quickly clears it, then locates her own regulator.

Mick purges, then sucks in a lungful of air. He grabs Dominique’s hand and descends blindly as a bullet glances off his air tank.

Dominique’s heart is pounding a mile a minute. Hovering in fifty feet of water, she flicks on her flashlight, nearly dropping it, as Mick replaces his face mask and clears it. She stares at him, terrified, unsure of what will happen next.

Mick reties the end of his rope around her waist, then points below.

She shakes her head no.

Another flurry of bullets ends the debate.

He takes her wrist and descends, dragging her down with him.

Waves of panic ripple through her insides as she plunges headfirst into darkness. The silent oblivion closes in upon her, the ache in her ears telling her she is going too deep. What’s he doing? Untie the rope before you die. She struggles to undo the knot.

Mick reaches up and stops her. He takes her hand, patting it, trying to reassure her, then descends again.