The rain was their ally.
It hammered against the sleek white hull of the Admiral’s private yacht, the Seafoam, drowning out the sound of footsteps on the deck.
Ryn and Veyla moved like smoke.
They had swum through the oily harbor water, climbing the anchor chain in silence. Now, they crouched on the foredeck, watching the two guards by the cabin door.
"Two targets," Ryn whispered into her comms. "Standard Marines. Heavy armor. But they're bored."
"I'll take left," Veyla replied.
They moved simultaneously.
Veyla leaped, her daggers flashing in the rain. She landed on the left guard's shoulders, driving her blade into the gap between his helmet and chest plate. He crumpled without a sound.
Ryn was a split second behind. She didn't use a knife. She used a shock-baton she’d lif
