Down at the waterfront…

You make it down to the waterfront without incident, head pounding from the drugs. Maybe they’re making you overconfident, or maybe they’re just exacerbating your fury; but either way, you’re ready to find Justin and finish this.

When you finally spot him, it’s almost anticlimactic.

He’s standing casually in a hut beside a three-seater seaplane, chatting to the pilot, dressed in flying leathers and a scarf. For a moment, you consider rushing him, but it would never work and you know it.

Instead, you scan the water desperately – looking for something, anything, you can use. Buoys bob in the water, yachts are anchored by the dock, and thick coils of rope with lifebelts attached stand at intervals along the dock. It looks like there’s nothing.