The engine sputtered twice, belched a cloud of noxious fumes, then chortled, rattling my skull against the back wall. David entered the pilothouse, shirtless, followed by Owen Hollifield, who barked out orders to Brandy. "Head south, their last reported position wis jist north of Urquhart Bay."

Loch Ness
1:09 A.M.

The notion that maybe they'd made a big mistake was firmly planted in Ron Casey's mind as he watched sections of plank tear away from the transom, the rotting fibers disguised behind a fresh coat of paint.

"Chad, hit it again!"

Exhaust billowed from the port outboard as Chad Brager took another whack at the steel cable with the hand axe. "No good, I can't get any leverage, it just keeps bouncing off. If we can …"

Chad paused, he and Ron staring at the cable, which had suddenly gone slack. "What happened?"

"Don't know. Either the cable snapped underwater, or …"

Free of its biological anchor, the Wiley leaped forward and accelerated.

Chad and Ron looked at one another, unsure, then backed away from the transom, their eyes searching the water.

* * *

Chuck Jones leaned over the captain's shoulder, staring at the red blip chasing after them on the fish finder. "What do you mean it's rising?"

"Look for yourself, hotshot. It can't free itself by going deep, so now it's coming after us."

The captain stared at the fish finder's depth gauge as its numbers rapidly spun backwards… 43 meters… 29 meters… 14 meters… "Sweet Jesus… hold on!"

Captain Lindner veered hard to port.

Wha-boom! The starboard flank exploded out of the water as if struck by a tank, the blow driving the already listing boat beyond its center of gravity.

The vessel rolled, sending its captain falling sideways as a wall of frigid black water burst through the pilothouse windows. He tumbled in blindness, unable to right himself as the Wiley continued to roll hard to port, seeking its new equilibrium.

Wood and steel groaned in his ears, was muffled, and then the pilothouse settled underwater beneath its breached hull.

The captain pulled himself to his feet, stunned to see the inverted pilothouse filling rapidly with water. Heart pounding, his hands and arms burning from the cold, he pressed his face to the floorboards above his head and sucked in several desperate breaths of air, his mind racing.

Sparks of light sizzled in protest along the navigational consoles. Cans of beer free-floated past his face, startling him in the darkening cabin. The water level continued rising, forcing him to swim in order to breathe. Somewhere below his kicking feet was the ceiling and the sound of a creaking door—his escape route.

Below and to the right.

Captain Lindner ducked his head and kicked for the cabin door. Feeling for the knob, he managed to push it open, then froze.