The Meridian Cross lies on her side in ninety meters of black water. She took three men Mara loved down with her. Now Mara hangs above the torn hull, her own breath bubbling against her helmet, the signed salvage claim folded against her chest. Two hundred meters off, the Vares team's dive lights swing toward her through the dark. They have no claim. They came anyway.

Mara drops fast toward the wreck before Vares can beat her to it. She slips through the torn gash in the hull and into the flooded cargo hold. Whatever they want down here, she will reach it first. Her light catches the edge of a steel crate, chained shut.

Mara cuts the chain and pries the crate open. Inside, sealed in plastic, are bricks of cash and a logbook stamped with her late husband's company. The Meridian Cross wasn't just hauling freight. She was carrying something illegal, and the three men knew.

Mara stuffs two bricks of cash into her dive bag. The men she loved died for this, and she figures she is owed. But the moment she turns, a Vares diver blocks the breach, hand out. "Half," he signals. "Or neither of us leaves."