Penfold did not see the blow coming. He had underestimated the woman. Concentrated too much on the man. Her thumb dug deep into his left eye, cutting the eyeball. And it stayed there. The woman had been trained well. Not to go fist to fist with a man like Penfold. Instead she was trying to incapacitate him. To blind him. Her other arm swung up, targeting his last good eye.

Penfold, though, was a hard man to fight. He had an unusual tolerance for pain and a gift for giving it back. He caught her arm before her thumb reached his good eye. Gripped her wrist tight and pushed it backwards and down, against the joint. An instant later he felt it snap beneath the skin.

The woman screamed. The pressure in Penfold’s eye disappeared. Her right hand had pulled back, towards her left. Human nature had taken over.

Penfold stepped back and watched her fall to the floor, cradling her arm. A red stain was growing fast across her white T-shirt. The broken wrist bone had pierced her skin.

He looked around. The few passengers and crewmen on the lower deck had heard the scream. Most were stunned. But two had reacted. They were hurtling in his direction. Penfold was not stupid. He did not know either man. There was a good chance he could win, but just as good a chance he could not.

He did not intend to find out.

Penfold turned back towards the fallen woman. Helpless on the floor, all her attention was focused on her devastated wrist. Penfold accelerated towards her, timing his steps with the precision of a footballer. His right leg cocked back as the woman came within range. An instant later and it was swinging forward, powered by muscle and momentum. Penfold’s foot struck the woman’s jaw, cleanly and with full force. The impact sent her head reeling backwards and she was unconscious before her head hit the metal floor with a sickening thud.

Penfold did not stop to inspect the damage. Instead he hurdled her and headed back the way he had come. Towards the stairs to the upper deck. He grabbed his rucksack as he passed, hardly breaking stride.

Two short flights of stairs and Penfold was back in the sun. The metallic sound from below told him that his pursuers were close behind. Already on the staircase. Penfold took no chances. He ran to the bow of the ferry. Estimated the distance to the port.

Five hundred metres. Maybe a little more.

‘GRAB THAT MAN!’

The shout came from behind. Further than Penfold had expected. His pursuers had stopped at the top of the stairs and it had taken them a few seconds to spot him.

It gave him time.

Penfold turned away from the shout, while every other passenger on deck turned towards it. They all saw the same thing: a crewman, his arm thrust out, a finger pointing directly at Penfold.

The odds were against him. Massively. If only ten per cent of the passengers played hero, it was still one hundred per cent more than Penfold could handle.