Thorn had stayed in fighting shape, but the rest of his gang hadn’t. He made up his mind. “That’s it!” he shouted. “We’re done. No more. We gave it a good shot. We’ve been up and down the bank.”
“No!” Bink shouted back. “I’m not ready to give up. I know where it is.” He pointed directly to the turn in the river, the place where the water ran black and furious.
“We’re not going there,” Thorn said. “Out of the water!”
Dusso started splashing toward the bank, but Bink shook his head. “I need that money!”
“It was two hundred just for going in,” Thorn said, treading water. “Come on, mate. Let’s get out of here.”
“I ain’t taken no charity in my life,” Bink said, his jaw setting. “And I ain’t going to start now. I’m going after that damn bag.” And with that he let go of the branch and began plowing through the water toward the bend.
Thorn shouted, knowing Bink wouldn’t hear him—or listen, if he did. Dusso howled something from the bank and Thorn started out to swim, planning to drag Bink back to the bank by force if necessary.
But the man had a good start, and even though Thorn slashed through the water as if it were air, Bink had disappeared below the surface by the time Thorn arrived at the river’s bend.
He followed the pale flash of legs down through the murk. Bink was no fool: he was using the current to propel himself against the bank, his gloved hands outstretched to bounce off the looming rock, pushing him lower to a pileup of silt that likely included everything from dead rats to broken crockery.
A stream of curses went through Thorn’s mind. What in the hell had he been doing, putting his lads at risk? One wrong move and Bink would be swept sideways, straight into the rock that the water was smashing into with a throbbing roar.
With a powerful kick, Thorn reached Bink, grabbed his arm, and hauled him up.
They broke the surface, both gasping. Bink brought his hand up to the air. It was clutching a slimy, moldering leather hat; he shook it and let it fall. “Damn you,” he shouted. “The place is ripe. The pouch is there, I tell you!”
“I don’t give a damn. If I hadn’t grabbed you, you’d have been driven into the rock.”
“Well, you did,” Bink said defiantly.
“You’re bleeding.” A thin red rivulet trailed down Bink’s cheek.
“A flea bite. I’m going down again. I’m going to get that damn pouch. You’ll marry the bloody marquess or his daughter, and I’ll earn me reward.” And with that, he slipped beneath the water again.
Thorn swore, and dove. Bink was like a fish. With a grim curse, Thorn swam after, eyes straining to see through the murk. The water was full of silt cast up by Bink’s first attempt.
This was the Thames at its worst, black as soot, with a current that clutched with a hundred fingers, no matter how agile the swimmer, seeming to purposefully drive him against a shard of rock or a broken bottle, each perilous in its own way.
The heel of Bink’s foot flashed ahead like a fish scale. He was precisely where Thorn had decided the bag had likely lodged, if it was there at all: under the shadow of the rock that the current had cut into, leaving the great bulk hanging above them like a black shelf.
With almost no oxygen left in his lungs, Thorn reached Bink, only to see his body jerk in the way of a man who is trying to tug something free. He was making silt explode into the water, clouds of sediment spreading as fast as smoke.
Thorn swam blindly toward the place where he’d seen Bink’s heel. His hand closed on a slick leg, and he felt forward. If a man is caught in spirals of fishing line, tugging could tighten it, trapping the swimmer until, panicked, he choked on sludge-laden water.
Bink knew that as well as he did, and yet he still pulled. Thorn joined in, pulling with every bit of remaining strength he had. Bink lurched backward, kicking madly.