Private Maneuvers (Wingmen Warriors 4)

No!

She powered an elbow back into the attacker's neck. Bought a moment's freedom while Max maneuvered out of reach of a spear and knife.

She sucked in more air. Gritting her teeth for a battle she feared she couldn't win.

And then it came to her. The only plan with a chance of succeeding. She'd just been too trapped in the past to recognize it.

Only minutes earlier she'd vowed that she'd learned, that she would see the big picture in relationships and service. No longer would she seek glory at the expense of what others needed from her.

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.