The harbor was a frigid, oily throat swallowing our screams.One second, we were dropping from the warehouse ledge-a "leap of faith," you could call it-into the greasy, churning maw of the East River. The next, it was all frantic, pressurized salt and silt and I couldn't breathe. My lungs scorched the second they filled. My primal, animal need to kick and break the moonlight shimmering on the water was overwhelming.So I kicked. My head broke the surface and I gasped for air before I was yanked violently under again with a bone-jarring lurch.Mikhail was still down there, the silver chain between our wrists taut, buzzing with a low, high-pitched hum.The pylon.Somewhere between falling and the dizzying descent into the abyss, the chain had looped around a sharp, barnacle-encrusted steel pylon just under the pier. We were anchored to the riverbed. Below me, Mikhail was flailing, hands clawing at the rusted metal, a desperate shadow against the murk.I kicked down again, burning eyes b