Page 153 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

Three more jammers placed at strategic intervals mean I'm operating in a bubble of electronic blindness. If anyone's watching the security feeds, they'll see nothing but snow and static, just an equipment malfunction that won't raise serious concerns until morning. Hopefully.

I reach dock E and it's a narrow wooden finger extending into the water. I count the slips as I pass. Nine. Ten.

Eleven.

Miller's yacht isn't massive, maybe only sixty feet, but it's sleek and expensive, with clean lines and tinted windows. 'DIRECTOR'S CUT' is scrawled on the side in pretentious gold lettering. I roll my eyes. I hate everything about this fucking man.

The neighboring slip holds a similar vessel, though slightly smaller. The distance between them is maybe fifteen feet. The vessels are close enough that I need to be cautious about noise, but far enough that I should remain undetected if I'm careful.

I scan both boats for cameras and security systems. The neighbor's yacht appears dormant, with no obvious surveillance equipment aimed in this direction. Miller's, however, has a small camera mounted near the boarding area. It's standard for protecting expensive toys. I place my final jammer directly beneath it, blocking its feed.

The gangway to Miller's yacht is retracted, but that's only a minor obstacle. I position myself at the narrowest gap between the dock and vessel, gauging the distance. Six feet of black water stands between me and my target. It's a simple jump for someone with my training, though one slip means a swim and noise I'd rather avoid. And I'd rather not get my gun wet.

I take three quick steps forward and then leap, catching the rail with both hands and pulling myself over in one fluid motion. My boots connect with the deck, making only the slightest thud.

I freeze, listening.

Nothing but the gentle lap of waves against the hull and distant voices from across the marina. Good, that means the intel that—

A light flicks on inside the cabin.

Fuck.

I drop instantly, flattening myself against the deck behind a storage locker. The sliding glass door to the main cabin pulls open with a soft hiss, and a figure steps out onto the deck.

Alan Miller.

He's wearing a red silk robe that shimmers in the dim light. His hair is damp, like he's just showered, and he's holding a cigarette that sends a thin tendril of smoke up toward the stars.

Shit shit shit shit.

This isn't supposed to be happening. I was told he'd still be on set wrapping up a day of shooting that, according to Victor's contact, would run until at least midnight. Instead, he's here, fifteen feet away, contemplating the skyline while I'm pressed against his deck like a barnacle.

I control my breathing, taking slow, silent inhales through my nose. My hand inches toward my knife, not because I plan to use it, but because the familiar grip helps to center me. He shouldn't be able to find me, but his presence complicates my plans to get in and out quickly.

Miller takes a long drag from his cigarette, the ember flaring bright in the darkness, illuminating the angles of his face. He seems like a bored yacht owner just enjoying the cool air. But this is the man who tortured my beautiful Londyn and marked her skin with scars that will never fade.

I squeeze my knife handle as something hot and violent rises in my chest, a molten surge of hatred so intense it takes all my willpower not to cross the deck and drive my knife into his throat. My fingers curl against the fiberglass wall of the yacht, nails digging into my palms through my gloves.

Not tonight. I'm not here to kill him, only make sure he pays in some way for his crimes. Justice isn't clean, but it's coming for him all the same.

He turns toward the open door, speaking to someone inside. "Come out. The night air is decent."

I can't see who he's talking to from my position, and I can't hear the response over the gentle slosh of water against the hull. But Miller laughs.

"Suit yourself," he says, flicking his cigarette butt into the ocean.

He stretches, rolling his shoulders in a satisfied way, before turning and sauntering back inside. The sliding door remains open, but it's an invitation I don't intend to accept. I can't complete the mission with someone else on board. The risk is too high.

Mission abort. I'll have to try again early in the morning. The police will be here at nine, so I'll have to pray Miller and his guest leave before then. Doing this stealthily in daylight will increase the difficulty but I don't have a choice.

I doubt I can 'reschedule' the cops showing up when I'm already on thin ice with Victor.

But curiosity—or maybe it's instinct—pulls me toward the edge of my cover. I need to see who's with him and know what I'm dealing with if I come back and they're still here.

I edge around the storage locker, keeping low, until I can peer through the window into the main cabin.

What I see chills me like a New York winter.

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