J.F. Kirwan - 66 Metres - A chilling thriller that will keep you on the edge of your seat!

Of course she had, once. A bear. As a kid she’d loved animals. Her father taught her to shoot, but when he took her hunting in the woods she would aim to miss, to scare away a deer or a rodent. He never reproached her, just repeated the same phrase: ‘Next time’. Then one day a bear had been terrorising the village, and the men were called out to track it down and kill it. She and her father joined the search, and after several hours, spotted it. He gave her the shot. But even though it had maimed two people already, she aimed high, and it ran off. The other men were furious when they found out, and her father had to send her home with her rifle. As she neared the house she heard Katya screaming in the back garden. Nadia raced around and found the bear on its hind legs, incisors bared, Katya and her mother pinned against the shed. Nadia didn’t hesitate, shot it through the mouth, blew out the back of its skull, and put another two bullets in its chest to make sure. Nadia would never forget the look of horror on her mother’s face.

But a bear wasn’t a person.

Her father had been a killer. She’d not known before his death, but had found out later. Her mother had made sure of it. Maybe some of those he’d murdered had deserved it. But one had been a journalist doing an anti-corruption piece on the government. Later, during a short break from Kadinsky’s training camp, Nadia had gone to see his widow, tried to give her money. It didn’t go well, once the woman realised who Nadia was.

‘I don’t want your fucking money, suka , I want my husband back!’ She’d slapped Nadia’s face hard, then attacked her. Nadia could have defended herself, had been trained to, but she didn’t, just let the blows rain down on her. After a while the widow, exhausted, tears in her eyes, held up a trembling hand in the crude shape of a pistol, her second finger the trigger. ‘Back of the head. Just a small movement’ – she made a clicking sound with her tongue – ‘and my man’s life was gone.’ She looked down at Nadia. ‘Why the fuck are you crying?’

‘I don’t know,’ Nadia answered, because she didn’t. She left the money on the table, went to a bar and got seriously drunk.

But the question remained. Could she kill?

Next time.

She got up and walked around the crumbling edge of the dock. The horn-blast of the Scillonian, the massive blue and white ferry bound for the remote Scilly Isles, made the seagulls take flight. The Scillies. Her hideaway destination. Off the mainland. Smallville. Most people on the run wouldn’t go there, because it was difficult to get away from. Like retreating into the corner of a chessboard. Limited moves remaining. But that also made it a blind spot for the authorities, and the local police there would be little more than village bobbies. No detectives, no serious military presence.

She’d considered taking the ferry, until the heightened security made her think again. The heliport was out of the question. Hopping down a few steps onto the creaking gangplanks of the floating jetty, she searched for a smaller boat, ‘Scilly Boy’. She’d met Mike, the boat’s red-haired skipper, in a bar the night before. He’d said he was heading to the Isles. Mike had shown interest in her, though he’d seemed shy. She’d noticed that his second finger had a ring-shaped patch less sunburned than the rest of his hand. Probably married. Only wore his ring when back home. Not that she was interested. Since the ordeal with Slick and Pox, she’d forged herself into the female equivalent of a eunuch. Besides, Katya more than made up for Nadia’s abstinence. Maybe when this was all over.

Maybe.

At the end of the jetty she spied him preparing to leave. ‘You headed where I think you are?’ she shouted.

Mike raised his head. On seeing her, his freckled face lit up.

‘St Mary’s, Hugh Town.’ He paused, as if gauging his luck. ‘You want a ride? It’s a long trip, won’t be there till dark. The ferry’s much faster.’ Mike appeared to be standing perfectly still, despite the rocking of the boat. ‘You get seasick?’

‘Only on large boats.’ Flashing a smile, she passed her backpack down to him.

‘Hey, it’s pretty heavy; what have you got in there?’

Nadia locked her smile into place. ‘Oh, you know, lipstick. Girl stuff.’

Mike shook his head. ‘Whatever you say.’ He set it down on the short bench at the back of the boat, helped her in, and began casting off. She knew he’d be busy slaloming his way through the other boats anchored in the harbour, so she knelt down with her back to him and delved into her backpack. She’d bought some tape earlier, and tore off three strips and fixed them to one side of the Beretta. Glancing around to ensure that Mike was engrossed, she leant forward and fixed the gun to the underside of the bench, made sure it was secure, then slid her bag underneath it.

As they chugged their way out of Penzance Harbour, she laid her head back on the smooth fibreglass edge of the boat. Mike was still occupied, and left her alone with her thoughts. Unfortunately, these consisted of Janssen’s last moments, over and over again. She wondered what she could do to change the disk inside her head. She found herself staring at Mike’s fit body, especially his muscular forearms. But images of Pox and Slick kept intruding, and her hormones beat a hasty retreat, as usual. She pitied the next man she slept with. He’d have to be patience on a pedestal.

Relief spread through her as they quit the choppy waters in the sheltered harbour for the long, smoother rhythm of offshore rollers, finally putting some distance between her and the warehouse. Her right hand dangled over the side. A hissing, cool spray rinsed it every few seconds, and she inhaled the rich scent of the sea, letting it clear her mind.

Mike came over and planted a hat on her head so she wouldn’t burn, stared at her a moment, then returned to the front of the boat. Her thoughts drifted to Katya, wondering what she was up to, dreamy thoughts of the two of them living together in some small house somewhere, anywhere, nowhere.

Seagulls trailing the boat peeled off one by one, and headed back to shore. As the engine settled down, she listened to the slopping of the water against the hull, allowing it to lull her as she curled into a foetal position under her anorak, and closed her eyes.

When she awoke, it was night. Mike was gazing at her, a hint of a smile on his lips, his hair rendered brown by the red and green running lights. A dull yellow lamp behind him shone on the boat’s compact steering console. She returned his smile, but suddenly it stalled, as the blood-soaked image of Janssen pushed into her mind. She pulled her anorak close around her. Mike looked away, and got up to check the controls. He was a genuinely nice guy. Unlike most of the men she’d had to hang out with in the past five years.

She glanced toward the slowly rocking horizon, stars reflecting on smooth waves, and spotted the distant lights Mike hadn’t yet seen. Another boat, slicing like a shark through dark water towards them. It was moving fast, but was downwind, so they couldn’t hear it. Police boat. No, Navy. She sat up. Not long till intercept. They must be checking all boats that left Penzance. Her pulse sped up as she predicted the consequences of being found with the Rose: accessory to murder; a long prison sentence; Katya in a shallow grave in the woods.

The Rose was still in her backpack. She’d have to ditch it in the water, without Mike seeing. But once he saw the patrol boat, she might not get the chance. She dug out her satellite-linked smartphone – Kadinsky was generous with his gadgets – and activated the GPS app, then let it drop into her bag while it fixed her location. Joining Mike at the helm, she checked the depth of water beneath them on the sonar display: seventy metres. Seriously deep, but not irretrievable.