Free Dirty Harry 04 - The Mexico Kill by Dane Hartman

again.
    Half-climbing, half-crawling, he managed to get to the top of the steps that ascended to the deck. The water was pursuing him, attacking the steps and leaving only a foot and a half below the ceiling of the cabin that was not flooded. What made all this worse was that there was no light, just pitch darkness permeated by the pungent smell of salt water and the sound of the bay breaking through the fragile walls of the ill-fated Hyacinth.
    Gasping for air, coughing with the water he’d already inhaled, Harry reached the handle of the door and pulled. Nothing happened. The door wasn’t budging. Could be the men who’d bludgeoned him had locked it just to ensure the certainty of his death. The water was nearly to shoulder level now, allowing him little room to maneuver and scarcely any purchase at all. He pulled again, struggling to maintain his hold on the handle which was growing increasingly slippery not only with the water but with his sweat. When it seemed that nothing was going to work he drove his body against it, hoping to batter it down.
    Just then the whole boat tilted, sagging way over to the right. With this sudden jolting motion everything turned practically upsidedown. Harry was no longer ramming the door, he was falling on it. Water swirled around him, getting into his mouth and nose and eyes so that he couldn’t see at all, though with it so goddamn dark there wasn’t anything to see to begin with. He fought to get his head above water, which was not always possible.
    Still, there were pockets of air here and there and when he found one he took full advantage of it. Responding to the pressure of Harry’s body and the massive weight of all the water that had collected on it, the door to the cabin yielded, and Harry found himself propelled right through the opening.
    But he wasn’t free. Water only gave way to more water. The boat was almost completely sunk; only the roof of the pilot house and the tops of the masts remained visible. The rest of the Hyacinth was taking its last voyage and gaining speed with every additional foot it descended.
    Harry wasn’t in a particular mood to go swimming, but that was the only choice available to him. But the problem now was that he had no idea where he was, whether on the deck or above it, the world was just wet and black, with a great many obstacles: all he could do was keep trying to head in an upward direction, though what was up and what was down was hard to distinguish.
    He couldn’t breathe lest he take in more water, and he couldn’t not breathe because his lungs were demanding oxygen and with every passing second threatened to burst with the pain.
    He thought he discerned a light but it was very far away and even as he made for it he had no idea whether he was hallucinating or not. It just was the only thing to aim for, this blurry luminous speck obscured by the murky green substance of water. By concentrating on the light, Harry managed to put a distance between himself and the pain he felt. Not much of a distance but enough for him to make some headway against the water.
    Now there was a groan. It came from the complicated machinery that held the Hyacinth together; it was a dying chant. The boat was fully under. It might have been the way the current was moving, but whatever it was, the Hyacinth keeled sharply to the left, in the opposite direction from where it had been listing before. One of the masts came down on Harry. It didn’t hit him head-on, rather it grazed him, catching him on his left leg. Though the injury to his leg was slight, the blow slowed Harry’s momentum and forced him off course. He lost the light and had no sense of where to look for it again. Not that it mattered; he hadn’t the strength left to do anything about it even if the light should magically reappear. The pain in his body was so immense that it didn’t seem reasonable to fight it anymore. His straining lungs could not continue to endure the agony he was subjecting