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

The cockpit didn’t shatter when it slammed into the angled concrete, instead it ripped apart like paper, spilling the pilot into open, churning water, tearing the small air tank from his mouth. One arm gripping the orange box, he raised the gun and fired three shots. The first two fizzed past her, leaving slug-like trails in the gloom. The third punched into her chest, too slow to do serious damage. He might have fired again, but the wake slapped him into the arch wall, knocking him out.

She swam fast toward him. Divers above splashed into the water, cones of light from high-powered torches filtering through the blackness. They would find her in seconds. She grabbed the box, and readied to kick away from the wreck. But the pilot… The divers might not find him in time. Switching off her torch, she took out her regulator and rammed it into his mouth, purging it so it jetted air into his lungs. She closed off his nostrils with finger and thumb to stop him drowning through his nose, and checked he was still breathing. Then she finned fast, one arm wrapped around his torso, as they washed along with the current and the barge’s wake, away from the helicopter the divers were about to infest.

After thirty seconds her lungs were bursting. She found her stab jacket deflate hose and breathed from it, swallowing a mouthful of rancid Thames first. She and the pilot sank as she slowly breathed her jacket empty, until they hit the clay-like bottom. They drifted to a stop, and she tried to think. She dug out a nose-clip and clamped it to seal the pilot’s nostrils, so she would have a hand free. They were probably fifty metres the other side of the bridge. Lights flickered in the distance behind her from where the divers would be crawling all over the helicopter, looking for the box, presuming the pilot drowned, knowing he’d wash up later. Armed police would be scouring the area up top, looking for the drone and its pilot, who’d need line-of-sight to operate it at night. Added to that, Janssen wouldn’t wait long.

The solution was obvious: leave the pilot. Let him drown. There were all sorts of ways to rationalise it later. Instead, she knelt on the cloying river bottom, the Rose locked between her knees, and undid her stab jacket harnesses. She freed the tank and, with some effort, strapped the stab jacket around the pilot, and pumped a little air into it, so he’d be buoyant and she could still breathe. Then she disconnected the inflate hose. She clipped the VHF to her weight belt, held the tank under one arm, the Rose under the other, the regulator still in the pilot’s mouth, and finned up to the surface. The beauty of a stab jacket was that it was designed to keep even an unconscious diver’s face above the water-line.

She surfaced awkwardly, made sure he was still breathing, and removed the mouthpiece. Flashing red and blue lights lined both banks. A cacophony of sirens assaulted her as water trickled from her hood and ears. Searchlights from two police helicopters zigzagged methodically across the river, heading her way. Struggling to hold onto the box and her tank, using the diver as a float, she fished for the VHF and clicked it on.

‘Janssen, I have it.’ She switched channels. ‘Sammy, I’m coming.’

She let go of the pilot and immediately sank, weighed down by her belt and the tank. Suddenly everything was brilliant white, the pilot silhouetted above her on the surface. But then it grew dark again. Dammit! She finned hard, hovering just below the unconscious pilot. The searchlight swung back and stayed. Good. She descended again.

Nursing the tank under one arm, she swam along, hugging the bottom of the Thames, finning towards the Mirage pleasure boat that had now been evacuated due to Sammy’s hoax call. By the time she got there it would be deserted; the police would have worked out that it had been a distraction. It was the one place they wouldn't be. But she was late, and the banks were crawling with police.

She surfaced briefly, to get her bearings. The Millennium Bridge was right above her, people walking quickly across it. A few stopped to take selfies. Re-oriented, she descended again and began finning. What if Sammy wasn’t there? Worse, what if Janssen was there alone, or with his two cronies? She didn’t trust him an inch, he might just take the Rose from her outstretched arms and then shoot her in the face.

Calm down . Janssen was on the other side of the river. Sammy would wait, he’d never let her down before. Nothing ruffled him. All that would be waiting on the Mirage would be Sammy, a ladder, a towel, her clothes and backpack, and Sammy’s Suzuki to get them both out of central London before roadblocks locked down the capital.

Nadia’s heart rate eased off a few notches, and she got into a smooth, powerful finning rhythm. She had the package. Soon Kadinsky would have it. Then she and her sister could get an apartment somewhere, stay out of trouble, and live a normal, inconsequential life.

She craved normal.

Twenty minutes later, on the abandoned Mirage , she dried off and sipped bitter Irish coffee from Sammy’s flask. Sammy, as usual, wore a full-face crash helmet. All she could see were his ink-black eyes. He was still on an unofficial Irish-British blacklist due to IRA activities, and there were too many surveillance cameras in London.

As she took a last sip, she dared to think it was all over. Five years, tenth op. And in the previous nine she’d never had to kill anyone. The ops had all gone pretty smoothly, a few guards or rival mafia hoods had ended up in hospital. No graves. And all they had to do now was get the package to Kadinsky. Then she and Katya… She held back the thought. It’s not done yet. But she allowed herself a moment to savour the coffee and whiskey.

She donned her crash helmet, ready to escape London with Sammy and the package. She glanced at the bag where Sammy had stashed it, and for the first time wondered what it could actually do, how dangerous it really was. But as she swung her leg over the back of the bike, three gunshots rang out clear across the Thames, from a tall tower block. Janssen’s location. She and Sammy held their breath.

Sammy’s VHF crackled, and she heard Janssen, panting as if he was running, his voice more excited than scared.

‘Three police down, we switch to site B, tomorrow.’

Sammy shook his head. ‘Site B, affirm.’ He clicked off the VHF. ‘Fuck!’

Nadia stared across the river, a gnawing certainty in her gut that all hopes of a normal life had just slipped beneath the placid waves.

Sammy nudged her arm. ‘Let’s go.’

As he threaded them through London’s smaller streets, she rested her crash helmet against his back. No matter how tough it had been up till now, everything was about to get harder. This had been their biggest operation ever, and Janssen had just upped the stakes by spilling blood. She might have to fight her way out of this one. And the question that had dogged her for the past five years, the one she’d hoped to finally put behind her, rose to the surface.

Did she really have killer’s eyes?

Chapter Two

Her father struggled, screamed at her. ‘For God’s sake, Nadia, pick up the gun, shoot them!’

The two commandos didn’t seem to know she was there. She walked calmly over to the table, lifted the newspaper, and picked up the Beretta. Odd. It had a silencer. She’d never noticed that before. As they threw the hood over his head, she stood sideways to them, feet splayed, raised the gun with a straight right arm, competition style, and fired two head-shots, one for each commando. The trio slumped to the floor. Her father lay still. She walked over, nudged his leg with her foot. No movement. Then she heard her father behind her. He sounded disappointed.