She hated vulnerability. Hated giving in. But if she continued with her current mode of attack, they could both die.
God help her, she would have to surrender.
* * *
What the hell was Darcy doing? Max swung clear of an arcing knife while Darcy sank.
She descended. Deeper.
Another ten feet and she'd be below the hundred-foot point, in danger of nitrogen narcosis. If she succumbed, she'd be all but helpless.
She had to know that.
She was leading them deeper to disorient their attackers, as well. The consummate warrior and wingman, she knew how to relinquish ego for the good of mission survival. Giving Max an advantage because she trusted he could combat the increased pressure. And he could.
He dodged the next swing of the spear by going deeper. Deeper still. With any luck, the divers would peel away and give up.
Or not. Three bodies powered after them.
Max fought the narcotic effects of the depth. Years of training and experience shifted into overdrive. Lethargy pumped through his veins with a tempting drunken draw, like a six-pack buzz just waiting to grip him. If he let it.
With seasoned practice, he shook it off. Unlike two of their attackers. Already their motions slowed. Turned sluggish.
Victory teased.
The other diver swam straight for Darcy. So damned close. Only a few yards separated them. The attacker caught her flailing arm. Darcy kicked. Struggled. Wasn't any match, not now with the intoxicating effects threatening.
Rage roared in Max's ears, obliterating the rush of air pumping from his tank. He reached...
The attacker's arm cut through the water. The large blade of a hunting knife gleamed in the glistening depths. The jagged edge raced down toward Darcy. Sliced across her arm. Severed her regulator hose. Bubbles spewed behind her into the blooming red of blood staining the water.
Hell, no!
Resolve iced away the haze. Keeping blood out of the water was no longer a concern, now that Darcy's already leeched all around them.
Max plunged his knife into the attacker's chest. Hefted. Flung him off Darcy.
Her arms slowed until they stopped moving altogether. She stared back with dazed eyes, eyes that slid closed.
Hang on, Darcy. Hang on. From his tank he yanked free the octopus attachment for a second diver and shoved the extra mouthpiece between her lips. Breathe. Breathe, damn it.
Crimson blood diffused into a pink haze around them like one he'd seen before. Max shoved those thoughts away before they stole reason faster than a lack of oxygen.
He needed her conscious and breathing before he started the rise. She had to exhale the expanding air in her lungs during a rapid rise.
Time was running out before their attackers might recoup—
Her lids flickered. Foggy, but awake. Not even a second to waste on relief.
He pointed up and locked her slick, too-damned-cold body to his. He had to get her into the boat and the hell away before the other two goons shook off the lethargy.
Rapid rise.
Max secured his hold around her waist. She flung her limp arms over his shoulders in a weak attempt. He unsnapped her weight belt, then his. Infused air into his BC vest. They shot up.
She slumped in his arms. Dead weight.
Exhale, damn it. He tapped her stomach, a light punch to push the air out and combat an insidious threat as deadly as the men lurking beneath them.