“No,” she blurted out, tears filling her eyes. “I can’t leave you here. The tide’s coming in.”
“Baby . . . that’s exactly why you have to go. Listen to me. You swim back to the beach, okay? First thing you do when you get there is call the emergency number. Tell them what’s going on and to get someone out here yesterday. Then get my scuba tank and regulator out of the closet and bring it back here. That’ll buy some time. Then we sit back and we wait for the Calvary to arrive. We’re golden, okay?”
Only they were more like tin than gold. She didn’t need to know that. He’d purposefully left the tank low after his last dive, knowing he was done diving for this trip and wanting to lessen the weight for their flight home. If he remembered right, he’d left the tank with 500 psi— one-fourth full. Theoretically, the average diver could get an hour out of a tank. So, that left fifteen minutes of air for a recreational diver. With his SEAL training, he might be able to stretch that out to twenty to twenty-five minutes as long as he kept his cool and didn’t exert himself too much.
Speaking of exertion—that tank was going to be all Val could handle. Even only one quarter full the sucker would weigh her down.
“You need to go, babe,” he said with an encouraging nod even though his mental calculations of time vs. distance left him helplessly on the short end. Thirty minutes for her to get back to the cabana, five to make the call and gather his gear. Then weighted down by the gear—even the nearly empty the tank would weigh around forty pounds—it would take another forty-five minutes for her to get back to him. An hour and twenty minutes total.
It was cutting it close that she’d make it back with the air tank before he met Davy Jones. And even if she did make it, he only had fifteen minutes of air—twenty-five max—between now and the afterlife. Factor in that after her thirty-minute swim and a call to the mainland, a chopper or a boat needed a minimum of sixty minutes to get out here and then find him . . . well, he was a betting man but this hand was coming up deuces and treys. It was a loser. And so, he figured, was he.
“Pace yourself, okay?” he said thickly, knowing that this might be the last time he ever looked upon her face. “You can do this.”
“Oh, God.”
“It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. “
Her eyes told him he wasn’t fooling her. She knew that every second counted and they were on the short end of a race against the clock. And she wasn’t stupid. As fast as the tide was rising, the odds of help arriving to free him before he ran out of air were sinking by the second.
“Just go, babe. And while you’re there, check out that little shed behind the cabana. I figure it’s a gardener’s shed or something. It’s bound to be full of tools.” He swallowed thickly. This was going to be even harder to say than it had been to think. “You’d better look for a hand saw. Bring it back with the tanks.”
It took a moment before the significance of the saw registered. She started crying then.
“You can do this, babe.”
She cupped his face in her hands, searched his eyes then kissed him. Hard. “You are not going to die. I’m not going to let you.”
Then she was gone.
He watched her swim steadily toward the beach. Thought of how much he loved her. Thought of how romantic it had sounded being alone on this private island . . . civilization a good hour away by boat or chopper. And that was figuring she could even reach civilization on a phone system that was sporadic and unreliable at best.
Damning his stupidity, he watched until her head was only a speck on the surface of undulating aqua blue. Until the water started lapping over his shoulders. Then he sucked in a deep breath, dove down and tried to move the rock again.
He surfaced spitting sea water, swearing and hoping to God that she wouldn’t have to watch him die.
Thirty minutes later, Val half swam, half crawled to shore. She stumbled and fell down on all fours when she finally hit the beach. Winded, muscles burning from the hard swim and shaking with fear for Luke, she ran to the house, flew inside and dialed the emergency number.
“Please, please, please,” she begged, gripping the receiver with both hands as the sound of broken rings beat faintly across the line.
“Oh, thank God,” she breathed when someone finally answered. She quickly told them what had happened.
“We’re on our way,” a disembodied voice answered. “ETA—sixty minutes.”
“Please . . . you have to get here faster. I don’t know if he can last that long. The tide’s coming in fast.”
“Sixty is the best we can do, ma’am. I’m dispatching a chopper now.”
The line went dead.
She had a moment of stunned numbness. She stood, dripping on the floor, hands trembling and she could not move.
Luke was counting on her. Luke’s life depended on her.
“You can do this, babe.”
She heard his voice as clearly as if he’d whispered in her ear. And in that moment, she knew exactly what she had to do. She had to save him. Help was not going to get here in time.
She tore through the kitchen, remembered seeing a hammer and screwdriver and a flashlight in one of the cabinet drawers. She found the drawer on the second try, grabbed all three items and raced back outside. The stone walk way was warm under her feet as she ran to the shed. The door was padlocked shut. She didn’t hesitate. She slammed the lock with the hammer. Over and over until she was screaming in anger and frustration. Finally, the lock’s hinge broke away from the wooden doorframe.
The door swung open with a creak. It was dark inside. Like a cave. Like a cellar. She pushed past the familiar rise of claustrophobia and shined the flashlight around. The first thing she saw made her heart stop. A hacksaw. She grabbed it from its hook on the wall and tossed it outside. She breathed a huge sigh of relief when she found a long, heavy metal bar with a flattened edge. The bar was almost five feet long . . . must have weighed thirty pounds but adrenaline had a hold on her and she lifted it away from the corner where it leaned against the wall and heaved it outside with the saw.
With that and the scuba gear, she could help him. The question was how to get it all out there in one trip—no way in hell was she heading back there without the pry bar. There had to be more she could use. She shined the light toward the little shed’s roof and almost wept with joy when she spotted four big white bumpers—the kind used to hang over the side of a boat to protect it from bumping the dock—tucked in the rafters.
They were too high up for her to reach. She found a wooden crate and quickly moved it to the center of the shed, stepped up on it and dragged all four bumpers down. After finding several lengths of rope, she was ready to head for the beach.
First she dragged the pry bar, bumpers, rope and the horrifying saw to the water’s edge. Then she ran back for the scuba gear, hauling the heavy tank through the sand with the help of adrenaline and single- minded determination. Her muscles burned with fatigue by the time she’d fashioned a sling between the bumpers—two on each side—then secured the scuba gear, pry bar and saw between them with the ropes.
One final, muscle-wrenching drag and she had her ‘raft’ in the water.
It actually floated! Too overcome by her sense of urgency to celebrate her small victory, she tied a rope attached to the raft around her waist. Before heading out, and figuring it would be much easier to get his tanks ready on land than in the water, she quickly connected the octopus to the tank and opened the valve, checked the pressure and tested the regulator—thanking God that Luke had taught her how to prepare for a dive.
Satisfied that she’d set everything up correctly, she headed back to Luke.
She didn’t think about the fact that forty-five minutes had passed since she’d left him. That another forty-five would pass before help would arrive. That with the weight of the scuba gear and the pry bar and the current going against her, it might possibly take her another forty-five minutes to get to him.
Forty-five minutes. His life had come down to that.
Her life had come down to that because without him, she didn’t think she could go on living.
So she swam. Didn’t think about sharks. Didn’t think about high tide. Didn’t think about failing. She thought about him. About the life he’d breathed into hers. About his smile that made her feel fifteen and carefree and renewed. About how he’d once risked all to save her and she could not fail him.
Her lungs screamed for air as she slogged on, towing her heavy weight. Her muscles burned with fatigue as she stroked steadily onward. To Luke. To life. To everything that mattered in her world.
Chapter 5
In the field, as the team medic, the guys depended on Luke to have a cool head, steady hands and nerves of steel. They did not expect him to screw up. If he did, someone would most likely die.
Well, he’d screwed up. Big time. And it was starting to look like he’d dodged his last bullet. A Mara Salvatrucha hit squad had almost gotten his number in San Salvador last year. He’d almost bought the farm. That hadn’t been his fault.
This was.
And he’d miscalculated. The tide had risen faster than he’d thought. Val hadn’t been gone an hour when the seawater had risen to his chin. Fifteen minutes ago, it started lapping over his nose. Only his mask and snorkel were keeping him breathing air and hanging on.
He’d tried—many times—to pull his foot free after she’d left. All he’d gotten for his efforts was blood and pain . . . and yeah, a constant three-sixty head swivel to watch out for the sharks that so loved blood and warm, tropical water. So far, his luck was holding on that count.
But luck was a relative term, wasn’t it? And training was only as good as the circumstances permitted. Hell, to pass drown-proofing in BUD/S training he’d had to jump into a nine-foot-deep pool with his hands and feet tied, bob for five minutes, float for five minutes, swim 100 meters, bob for 2 more minutes, do a forward flip, a backward flip, survive a mask grab and bob some more until he was finally called out. He’d aced the challenge. Of course, there hadn’t been a frickin’ rock involved.
And there’d been an instructor on standby to pull him out if it looked like he was going to drown. He hadn’t panicked then.
Alone, out here with nothing but miles of endless ocean, he’d passed panic fifteen minutes ago. And then he’d settled, somewhat reluctantly, into acceptance. He was going to die here. It royally pissed him off. He’d wanted so much more time with her. Wanted to make beautiful brown-eyed babies and watch them suckle at her breast. Wanted to teach his son to toss a baseball, ride a bike. Wanted to teach his daughter how to protect herself. Wanted . . . hell. He’d wanted to make Val happy. She’d had so little happiness in her life and now . . . God. Now she was going to come back and find him dead.
It so wasn’t fair to her.
A huge wave pounded overhead, filled his snorkel, and he sucked in a draft of salt water. He coughed around the mouth piece . . . managed to choke himself before he finally cleared the snorkel and dragged in a breath of dry air.
Close. When the next big wave rolled in it was going to be all over.
His ears were already plugged with water. Thin wisps of blood drifted up from his captured ankle around his face. He felt very tired suddenly. And very sad. He’d failed her.
He didn’t consciously close his eyes. They just drifted shut as he, too, drifted back and forth in the water, tethered to his ocean grave by an anchor of rock.
She’d made it. She was sure she’d made it. This was where she’d left Luke. Val treaded water and searched frantically for signs of him. Nothing. Maybe she’d miscalculated. Maybe she’d overshot his position. The waves had grown more volatile. The chop was a good two feet, churning up the water and sand and cutting surface and dive visibility to almost nothing.
She fought panic as she whipped her head back and forth, searching, searching . . . and finally spotted the very tip of a snorkel sticking out of the water not ten feet away.
Oh, God.
She swam frantically toward him, dragging her raft behind her. And cried out in anger and denial when she ducked beneath the surface and saw that his eyes were closed. His arms floated listlessly out to his side.
Refusing to believe he was gone, she grabbed the regulator and opened the valve. Then she reached for Luke, jerked the snorkel out of his mouth and shoved the mouthpiece between his lips.
“Breathe, baby. Breathe!” she demanded, sobbing and fighting and praying all in one breath. For an eternity it seemed, he didn’t respond. She scrambled to remember what he’d taught her.
“Scuba regulators are demand valves. You only get air when you inhale.”
She had to do something to make him inhale.
So she punched him hard in the chest. Once. Again. Finally, thank God, he coughed and clutched at her hand.
“Breathe!” she pleaded again, until she could see the life returning to his eyes and the strength returning to his limbs.
And her life became worth living again.
Relieved and hopeful but knowing they weren’t out of the woods, she sank beneath the surface so he could see her face.
“Hold on,” she mouthed then squeezed him hard when he nodded.
Bobbing up above the water again, she pulled and pushed and finally maneuvered the pry bar to the edge of the raft. This was going to be tricky. Once she slid it completely off, it would sink like lead and take her with it into around seven feet of water.
Making certain Luke had a good grip on the raft holding the air tank, she untied the rope from around her waist, breathed deep several times, sucked in a huge breath and pulled the pry bar free.
They sank to the floor together. Still it was easier to handle it in the water than on dry land. She struggled and worked and finally maneuvered the tip of the bar between the two rocks trapping his foot. By then, she was out of breath.
Luke’s hand reached down and steadied the bar while she shot to the surface. She clung to the raft, refilling her lungs and, when she felt strong enough, dove down again. This time, she was able to get under the bar and pull down.
The rock moved a fraction of an inch.
Revved on adrenaline, she tugged again, putting all of her weight into it. It shifted a little more.
For several minutes, she repeated the process. Surfacing, replenishing, diving, tugging. On her last trip down, she got a look at the gauge on the octopus connected to Luke’s air tank. The digital read out said the tank was empty.
This was it. She had to get it this time.
She dove again and this time Luke had regained enough strength that he was able to drop down with her. He pressed his free foot on top of the bar and bounced while she swam under it again and tugged. Finally, just when it looked like nothing was going to happen, the rock tipped then rolled to the side and Luke’s foot slipped free.
She shot to the surface with him, laughing and crying and hugging him so hard she dragged them both under again. Luke’s strength pushed them back up. He grabbed the raft, hooked an arm over the top of a bumper, and hugged her to his side.
“I thought I’d lost you.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist and hung on like Tango hanging on to a banana leaf.
“I thought you had too, Princess,” he whispered tiredly into her hair and clung while overhead, a chopper flew into sight. “I thought you had, too.”
Chapter 6
“So,” Luke said, setting his crutches aside and propping his bandaged foot up on the conference room table at BOI headquarters in Buenos Aires a week later. “I’ve got another poem.”
The entire situation room lapsed into suspended silence.
Johnny Reed was the first of the assembled BOI team to break it. “I thought you hurt your ankle in Palau. Didn’t know there was a brain injury involved.”
“Har, har,” Luke grumbled. “Just shut up and listen.”
“Listen to what?”
Luke whipped his head around when he heard Val’s voice. God, he loved knowin
g that she was a part of his world now. This world. Black Ops, Inc. No, she hadn’t joined the team like Rafe’s wife, B.J., or like Johnny’s Crystal had, but she was still a regular around BOI headquarters, stopping by to check in on him and the guys, or to bring them those amazing éclairs she’d discovered at the Hotel Sofitel, just off Cinco de Julio in downtown B.A.
“Hey, babe.” He held out a hand to her. “I have another poem for you.”
Her smile was filled with the kind of indulgence one reserves for the village idiot. “Another one?”
“What?” Luke glance around the room where the rest of the team was making kissy faces his way. “A guy can’t express himself around here unless it involves an action plan, C-4 or an M-16?”
“Nothing wrong with self-expression.” His boss, Nate Black, tossed a stack of files on the table. “But please don’t call the drivel you’ve been spouting poetry.”
“The sea is green, the sky is blue,” Reed said in a mocking, sing-song. “Colter once was a SEAL, now he’s a tool.”
“That doesn’t even rhyme,” Luke muttered. “And I don’t write like that.”
“Yes, darling,” Val said gently as she pressed a kiss to his forehead, “you do. But I love your poems anyway. They come from the heart.”
“Maybe you should consider writing for one of those greeting card companies,” Rafe Mendoza suggested with a crooked grin. “You know . . . make up rhymes to help people feel good when their life turns to crap.”
Okay. Maybe he deserved this grief they were dishing out. Since he and Val had returned from Palau, he had gone a little off the deep end in the ‘expressing his love’ department.
But she’d saved his life. Overcome her own fears, charged in like the heroine she was, and literally saved him in the nick of time. He’d been gone. For real. Sounded hokey but he’d actually felt his—hell, he didn’t know what to call it. His spirit? His essence? His soul? Whatever, he’d felt it leave his body. Known it was all over. And then she was there. Offering him precious air. Willing him back to life. Using her ingenuity and clear thinking to bring the tools she’d needed to free him from that cursed rock.
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