Read Knife Edge (2004) for Free Online

you’re ready, Chief.” He gripped the handrail. So tightly that he felt as if he might never let go. What was it? Instinct, fear, or some unspoken warning?
    It was now.
    “Hard a-starboard! Fenders out port side! Hold on, lads!”
    The old launch seemed to come alive across the narrowing arrowhead of surging, trapped water. Small, blurred pictures stood out in the enclosing darkness. Seamen clinging to anything that was fixed down, one man seizing a boathook and pointing it at the looming shape as the boat squealed alongside, the motor tyres taking the full impact even as the engines went full astern, and then stopped.
    It was as if all other sounds had been blotted out, the harbour and its lights beyond reach, meaningless.
    Ross jumped from the launch and found himself clinging to wire rigging, broken strands tearing his skin, one of his feet kicking out to avoid being crushed as the two hulls sidled and groaned together again.
    He heard the sudden roar of high-powered engines, felt the junk shudder to the burst of power, and knew that another craft had been tied alongside, biding its time, invisible to the launch . . . until what?
    But all he could hear was the scream. Close enough to feel it. Like a tortured animal caught in a trap.
    It stopped just as abruptly. But he could still hear it.
    He was on the deck, unfamiliar objects catching his feet. There was the compass light, the tiller moving aimlessly, abandoned. His chest was aching, as if his lungs would burst, and he could feel blood on his hands, and on his face where he had tried to push the hair out of his eyes.
    He heard the clink of metal and Boyes’ hard breathing close beside him, his voice harsh but steady.
    “I’ll cover you, sir! I think the bastards have done a runner!”
    The deck lurched again as the two hulls came together in a deep trough. But others were following, and a grapnel clattered over the junk’s bulwark before gripping and taking the strain. A light flashed from a low door beneath the poop as it swung open and shut to the sickening movement.
    He knew some one had grabbed the tiller, and that the junk’s engines had taken on an even beat. He heard the Chief shouting to his men; the sound of the high-powered boat had gone, as if he had imagined it. But the scream still scraped at his mind, like a memory. A threat.
    He reached the door even as it swung open again. A heavy torch was rolling from side to side with the motion, its beam picking out items of scattered clothing, and a splash of scarlet where the inboard end of the material had snared on the edge of a square port.
    The torch rolled across the deck again and Ross swung on his heel, his arms outstretched like a wrestler caught off balance.
    Only seconds, but it was as if time had lost all meaning. Like the scream. A pair of eyes were fixed and staring directly at him, into his face, until the beam swung over again, cutting off the stare. The door creaked again and he tried to lick his lips, to recover his wits, yell out to Ted Boyes.
    But he could not move. Not shock, not fear. Like something in the past. The instructor’s voice on a battle course he had done. Even that would not register, only the voice.
Not the time to relax and pat yourself on the back, Mister Blackwood! It’s now!
    He sensed it, and his body braced, poised for the blow, the agonizing thrust of a blade. Even as he turned he felt the arm around his head, rough clothing scraping his skin, histhroat. He let his knee take the strain, then as he swung round he drove his elbow into the other man’s belly. They were on the deck, the flashlight’s beam following them like a spectator as he found a wrist and twisted it with all his strength, turning his attacker on to his face, sitting astride him, hearing him gasp with pain as his arm almost broke under the pressure.
    That same voice from the past. Like a madness.
Remember, Mister Blackwood, it’s him or you! Give it all you’ve got!
    He heard the knife bounce