None. If they had stayed put, they would have either run out of air or been swallowed by the tide. Descending through the merfolk-infested water was a do-or-die moment—desperate, extreme, yet inescapable. In all of her years of cave diving, Elsa had never experienced anything so harrowing, not even during the deep dive to retrieve Ron’s body. That had been a dangerous undertaking, but she had spent weeks planning it and had been ready for any contingency. Conversely, what she was doing now had been conceived on a whim and felt about as reckless as swimming with sharks while smeared in chum.

You didn’t have a choice! So shut up and keep your eyes open! You’ll reach the bag, you’ll get the gun, and you’ll get out of there—

Suddenly there was a swirl and boil of water, a flash of a tail. Elsa felt as though she’d been punched in the chest and realized the merfolk had thrust a spear at her. She swung her light back and forth, probing the black water. She raised her knife, readying to slash the creature if it returned.

It didn’t.

Marty was aiming his light at her chest. She glanced down, expecting to see blood leaking out of a gaping wound. There was none. The stingray barb attached to the tip of the spear had deflected off, or shattered against, one of the steel cylinders. She was uninjured.

Slowing her rapid breathing, Elsa made an okay sign.

Marty did the same.

They continued the descent.

Chapter 43

Chapter 43

MARTY

When Marty’s light illuminated the black ripstop bag sitting on the cavern floor, his chest tightened. It was only a few meters below them and an equal distance from the wall. He halted his descent, touched Elsa’s shoulder, and pointed with his light. She saw it too and nodded.

As they’d discussed, they promptly moved their twin tanks to the proper positions on their backs. They had reasoned that, being this deep, any attack would now likely come from above and not below. When they were ready, they finned quickly toward the black bag. Almost immediately Marty sensed movement swooping toward them from above and felt a sharp prick in his shoulder. Guessing the merfolk had misjudged the distance to him, hence the ineffectual jab, he rolled over in anticipation of a second and more violent attack.

The merfolk—or perhaps it was a different one—appeared from nowhere and thrust its spear at his torso. He tried twisting out of the way but was too slow. The stingray barb impaled his side. This time the pain was hot and fierce.

As the merfolk yanked the spear free, Marty grabbed the shaft and tugged it—and the merfolk gripping it—toward him. Simultaneously he drove his dive knife in an overhead hammer strike, plunging it into the side of the creature’s neck.