Page 26 of Velvet and Valor (Platinum Security: Shadows of LA #4)

AXEL

There’s nothing I can do but watch as Ricky’s yacht careens out toward the marina. I landed hard on my tailbone, hard enough that my legs are tingling but I drag myself to my feet anyway.

What in the Hell is Ricky up to? Just trying to impress my girl? Or did he see through our disguises? I hate unknowns.

There is no way for me to catch them now, so my best bet is to try to get as much information from the yacht as I can before Dane arrives as back-up.

I thrust my hands into my pockets and approach the yacht Go For Broke. I do everything I can to look non-threatening, but the two Asian men standing on the deck perk up suspiciously at my approach, nonetheless. I would bet money that these men are triad.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” I call out cheerfully. “Is there any way I could talk to the owner? Are they on board?”

The men don’t speak. They make no attempt to let me know if they understood me or not. They just stand there, staring.

“I mean, I’ve been all over LA looking at boats, and this one is exactly what I’m looking for. I’m willing to pay any price,” I say.

Again, nothing. I don’t see any weapons, but the long-tailed shirts and baggy pants they wear could easily conceal such. I know they understand me. But there’s no way they’re going to put the gangplank out for me.

Looks like it’s time for a different approach.

“All right, you fellas have a nice day,” I say, moving away down the dock.

I back up a few feet, gauging the distance between the dock and the yacht. It’s going to be tricky, because of the choppy water. And the high railing on the luxury yacht.

But I’ve got no choice. June can’t run from these people forever.

I burst into action, shoving myself forward with long, powerful strides.

I reach the end of the dock and push off, lifting my knees to my chest. I sail over the span of water and toward the rail.

The ship bobs up just as I am about to clear it.

My feet hit the rail, throwing me off my trajectory. I tumble through the air, curling my body so I land on my shoulders and absorb the impact. Rolling to my feet, I listen intently to see if anyone heard my clumsy boarding maneuver. So far, so good.

The guards are squinting into the distance, probably watching to gauge the importance of Ricky’s sudden departure. I take the opportunity to do a quick search of the area. I don’t see anyone else around, but I have a prickly feeling on the back of my neck that those two aren’t the only guards.

I creep along the lower deck, looking for the way to the higher sections of the ship. This is practically a private cruise ship. Swimming pool, hot tub, even a power boat that can be lowered into the water with a crane.

But as fancy as the yacht looks at a distance, up close you can see the cracks in the facade.

The paint is chipped and peeling in many sections.

The power boat has a hole in the hull, so I doubt it’s going anywhere anytime soon.

And the swimming pool is empty, while the hot tub is filled with greenish water.

The boat has a Chinese port of call, which makes it even more suspicious. It might as well have ‘triad’ stamped along the prow.

Footsteps cause me to seek a deep, dark shadow. There don’t seem to be any. Without anywhere to hide, I reach up and grab the support struts for the upper deck and haul myself up between them.

My muscles start to ache immediately after. It takes all of my willpower not to cry out with the effort of holding myself up here. Man, they make this shit look so easy in the movies!

One of the guards passes beneath me, busily scrolling through messages on his phone. My heart quickens. That could be a treasure trove of information, those texts. If he’s talking to Ming Xa or someone else…maybe even Moorcrock. I have to get my hands on that phone.

I swing down from the ceiling, my hands gripping the struts. The metal cuts into my hands but I cling on regardless. I swing my legs up over his shoulders and wrap them around his head and neck.

The cell phone clunks heavily to the deck, but I manage to stifle any sound coming out of him other than a gasping, gurgling hiss. I don’t have time to be gentle. I push myself off the struts--my hands are fucking killing me--and use my weight to drive the poor fucker’s head straight onto the deck.

I feel him go limp, and untangle myself from his unconscious form. I retrieve the cell phone. The screen has a new crack, but it still works. I quickly drag my victim into a crew compartment. I use his face to unlock the phone and scroll through the messages.

My Mandarin is a little rusty, but I should be able to puzzle some of it out. If not, there’s always Google Translate…

I don’t know whether to be angry or embarrassed. He wasn’t texting his boss or even Moorcrock. He was sexting with his girlfriend.

I go through the phone as best I can, but the crack in the screen keeps getting worse. Eventually, the screen stops responding to my touch at all, and I grind my teeth in frustration. This is not going the way I hoped it would.

The other guard comes around, blabbing his head off. He keeps saying a name-—Tsui-—over and over again. I bet the poor bastard I just knocked out is named Tsui. Great.

I heft Tsui up in my arms and balance him so he faces the door leading out to the deck. There are horizontal bars running across a rectangular window in the door that show little more than shadows on the other side. I hope it’s enough.

The second guard spots Tsui, and relaxes. He says something along the lines of hurry up and meet him on the bridge. Something, something, something—. Damn, I never was a cunning linguist, at least not in the literal sense.

The second guard leaves, and I lower Tsui back to the floor. He starts to stir, mumbling something.

“Sorry, buddy,” I say. I don’t want to crack his noggin again and give him brain damage. I might need to question him later. I apply a sleeper hold until he goes fully limp again.

I leave him in the storage area and creep toward the bridge. I pass by the pool on my way. A telltale smell hits my nostrils. Rot. Decay. Fetid stench. There’s a dead body nearby.

I come around the pool, and I’m able to see inside at last. There’s a crumpled body wearing swim trunks in the pool, its neck twisted at a grotesque angle.

It’s not hard to see what happened. This poor dude was forced to dive off the board into an empty pool, headfirst. Judging from the multiple abrasions on his blackened skin, they had to toss him in more than once to get the execution to take.

I hate the Tongs. They make the Italian Mafia look like a knitting circle.

When I make it to the bridge, the second guard is on the radio.

It sounds like he’s trying to call out to Ricky’s Yacht, now swerving wildly on the water a few hundred feet out, but I can’t be sure.

I come up behind him and snake my arm around his neck.

The trick to a good sleeper hold is that you’re not trying to choke anyone.

Cutting off someone’s air makes them panic and gives them an adrenaline rush as their body desperately tries to cling to life. A good sleeper hold involves cutting off the flow of blood to the brain by compressing the big arteries in the neck.

Proper technique means applying pressure so quickly and completely that unconsciousness comes in an instant. I’ve done this move in practice a thousand times but never quite mastered it. I squeeze and pull, but the guard is stubborn.

I grunt in pain as he slams his elbow into my ribcage. He does it again, and again, and on instinct I let go of the choke hold. The guard still has his back to me, though, so I try and grab him again.

Quick as a cat, he jumps up onto the console, landing in a crouch. He plants his palms on the console and launches both legs out with a mule kick. I cover my face with my arms but only block one foot. The other catches me flush in the sternum and the wind explodes out of me.

I stumble backward, struggling to heave air into my compressed lungs. The guard jumps off the console, twisting in the air like an acrobat. His leg lashes out like a whip, and his foot brushes me across the chin. I stumble to the side, but I keep my feet.

“Okay,” I growl, blood trailing down my lip. “You want to dance? Let’s dance.”

I adopt a standard boxer’s defense, holding my fists up to protect my upper body. He does that dancing around kung fu crap, moving constantly so I can’t find my range. I try a couple of jabs just to test the waters. It’s like he can see me coming a mile away.

Mr. Crazy Legs whips his feet into a frenzy. He’s kicking me in the shins, the thighs, the ribs, and the face before I even realize he’s on the offensive. He hits pretty damn hard, too.

But here’s the thing—every hit feels a little less solid than the last. He’s tuckering out. Using up all of his energy on one big barrage instead of pacing himself. I wait until his punches and kicks slow, and then I lash out.

My knuckles catch him just above the left eye, snagging on his skin and twisting, tearing along. He cries out, staggering back as his hand flies up to his face. It comes away, palm filled with blood as crimson pours down the left side of his face.

My stomach churns at the inch wide gap I’ve cut into his brow ridge. It’s nothing short of gruesome.

“You’re done,” I say. “Give up and I’ll let you have a bandage or something. Seriously, you’re going to bleed out—”

Jackass jumps into the air like Bruce fucking Lee, planting his foot in my chest and sending me flying back. I slam into the safety railing and almost pitch right over.

He’s on me in an instant, grappling my leg and trying to lift me fully over. I can’t hold him off forever, especially not since I still have trouble breathing from the first time he knocked the wind out of me.