Hamilton's Deepcatch

He smiled grimly as the storm hurled larger raindrops horizontally; if they couldn’t see him, they couldn’t kill him, and tonight, he would become the hunter rather than the hunted.

His dagger slid sideways into the man’s neck, twisted just slightly, and withdrew almost soundlessly, allowing the storm to drown out the faint thump of the body collapsing onto the platform.

Obscured by the storm’s fury, he heaved himself onto a slick metal ledge, bruising his knee but positioning himself perfectly to ambush the killers stalking him through the platform’s shadows.

A loose halliard clattered above, the wind shrieked like a banshee, but Miles Glen moved silently through it all, preparing to strike as two assassins unknowingly closed in beneath him.

He waited until dusk cloaked the boat, then slipped aboard unseen, clambering past diesel fumes and leaking heads to hide, enduring a nauseating, sickening ride back to the Welsh coast.

Miles Glen’s voice, calm and baritone, carried an ease that belied the killer’s precision within; Patricia, instantly aware, thought to herself that this man was dangerous but invaluable.