Chapter 23
Salay
I’ve never killed a pirate before.
Tussled?
Tangled?
Third based?
Yes.
Merced?
Not so much.
I mean, it’s not like I’m pledging to be a fucking Lost Boy or doing Peter’s dirty work because I’m riding his recently turned eighteen dick or owe Captain Hook my first born so offing him would save my imaginary child’s life.
It’s just…never been necessary.
Even when I’ve been temporarily indisposed by one – or seven – over a financial dispute, dropping them permanently just wasn’t warranted.
However, just because I haven’t, doesn’t mean I can’t.
Or won’t.
Or will hesitate if – or more likely when – the opportunity presents itself.
You know.
Like if they’re trying to kill me first.
Climbing up the curved staircase for the above level deck is meant to be done slow and deliberate, but impatience and anxiousness lead to the man behind me repeatedly attempting to storm forward, disregarding all stealth ideas.
“Could you slow your flippers down there, Free Willy?” I quietly scold in tandem with extending my arm outward. “Your echolocation isn’t the type that’s gonna successfully stun the enemy so much as alert them to exactly what we’re doing.”
“I am not making that much noise.”
“You could be conducting the orchestra for ‘Under the Sea’.”
His eyes narrow in obvious displeasure.
Fuck him.
He’s the one who could potentially ruin the sneak element we’re actually relying on.
Upon our arrival at the door, I give a small twist to check its status.
Locked.
Because of course it’s locked.
You wouldn’t want the people you’re holding prisoner to figure out how to get out of their binds – like we did – and give them an easy escape.
“It’s locked,” Garcia needlessly announces out loud, rearranging the pillowcase, alarm clock concoction around in his grasp. “But if we can find something small and metal, I could pick it.”
A theatrical gasp escapes alongside my free hand clutching my chest. “Why counselor, I’m pretty sure that’s breaking and entering, which is a crime.”
“Breaking and exiting to seek help, which is lawful.”
“You know how to pick locks?”
At that, the corner of his lip kicks upward. “You don’t?”
“Of course, I do.” I flash him a similar expression at the same time my fingers slip further into my bikini top. “Jailbreak was even more fun than escaping getting caught by pirates.”
“Did you father just expect you to end up in danger?”
“Don’t you?” My lighthearted rebuttal precedes the revealing of a bobby pin. “I always keep one tucked into the padding of my bikini top for emergencies.”
“Eso me parece más sexy de lo que probablemente debería.”
“Or…maybe you should find that even sexier than you currently do.”
“Now’s not exactly the right time for that.”
“I don’t know that it’s the wrong time.” Unbending the small piece of metal to take the shape I actually need precedes me adding, “I may be bias-”
“May?”
“But it’s always a good time to tell a person how much they turn you on.”
The skeptical glare I’m shot is attached to a slow headshake. “No. It isn’t.”
“Disagree.”
“Middle of a possible homicide or suicide mission is not the right time, Salay.”
“Perfect time, Victor.” Leaning down to carefully align the metal with the tiny hole occurs. “Life and death situations always have a tendency to make people the most honest or the most reciprocal to honesty.”
“Courts have slightly different views on that…” There isn’t time for a rebuttal. “And let’s not call me Victor.”
“Why?” Gently moving around the object in search of the release mechanism is accompanied by further poking. “It’s your name.”
“It is, however-”
“Your legal name.”
“I-”
“The name I bet your parents call you.”
“It’s just not the name I want you calling me.”
“Zero?”
“Him either.”
“Why not?”
“Why are you asking?”
“Why are you avoiding?”
“Why aren’t you focusing?”
“Who says I’m not?” Another wiggle slightly to the left is executed. “Has is it ever occurred to you Victor-”
“Purposely provoking me.”
“You love it,” I offhandedly brush off.
“I do.”
“Now, has it ever occurred to you that maybe I need the noise, the conversation, the force of multitasking,” feeling a small catch freezes my action, “in order to concentrate? That the sound of your voice talking to me – even about bullshit – is actually helpful.” Success over my touch search leads to me readjusting the metal to push the button.
“That the only place I prefer silence or find true comfort in silence is when I’m in or under water?
” The door unlocks prompting me to smugly peer up. “And we’re free.”
“From the room.”
“Still a victory, Counselor.”
“That,” he unexpectedly says in tandem with me rising back to my feet. “I prefer you call me that.”
“Counselor?”
“Or Attorney At Law or Master or Garcia or pretty much any snarky title that finds its way past your pouty lips.”
“They’re not pouty. They’re perfect.”
“They can be both.”
An amused nose scrunch thoughtlessly occurs. “Why? Why do you prefer those?”
“Porque viene de ti.” He leans around me to remove the bent metal from the hole.
“And I only want names that mean something – whether you’re expressing distaste or dissatisfaction or dirty fantasies – to come from you.
” The offering of the material is made post him ending the conversation.
“You wanna put this away or give me that honor?”
Mirth floats around my stare as I snatch the tool, deliver a re-bend, and secure it back inside my bikini top. Next, I crack the door open just enough to see if we’re actively being guarded or if they expected the joke of lock to do the job it took minimal effort to make it stop doing.
Not seeing a figure or outline of one convinces me to cautiously grant us more access to the upper level.
Sliding along the outer wall beside the area we’re leaving is effortlessly done by me; however, the man – that I assumed would be a better escape accomplice than he is – brazenly prepares to step into plain view until I – once more – extend an arm to stop it.
“Against the wall!” I hiss in a reprimanding fashion.
Despite immediately completing the action he asks, “Why?!”
“We don’t know who is where or how many there are.” Instantly my eyes dart upward to the deck area above us where a pair of boots are peeking through the railing. Pointing my index in that direction, I continue to whisper, “Two on the upper level, means at least two on this level too.”
“I only see one pair of feet.”
“If there’s one on this side…that means there’s one on the opposite side.”
“You don’t know that. You shouldn’t just assume-”
“I’m sorry, which one of us has been kidnapped before?”
“That’s terrible evidence for your conclusion considering not all kidnappers operate the same.”
“Fine.” Sneering can’t be helped. “Law enforcement as well as military – and paramilitary – are trained to send their operators out in pairs. Most mercs have background in one or both of those departments; therefore, it’s natural for them to patrol in familiar patterns when out in the field.”
Rather than give me a victory, he challenges, “And what gives you the impression we’re dealing with paramilitary – or in that aspect – versus pirates or low-level foot soldiers or junkies just looking to make some extra cash?”
“Their footwear.”
“What?!”
“Footwear tells you a lot about a person before they ever will.”
“Is that so, Shirley Holmes?”
“Yours says you drink too much tequila and can’t run a full mile.”
“I can run a full mile!” Garcia sharply bites back.
“His says mercenary, military issued, meaning my previous conclusions are most likely correct, and that we need to get moving before one of those patrolling this level reach our prison – that we are not in, need I remind you – again.”
This time he nods and ushers a hand for me to lead the way.
Which is nice.
Which I appreciate.
But what’s not nice and what I fucking hate is not knowing the layout of this vessel.
Having to guess based on the specs I can view.
The direction we should probably be heading.
While yachts have similar features, size does have a major mapping effect on style and detail and positions, leaving me much more in the “jump and hope we can swim” category than I’m comfortable being.
Heading portside, we tip toe, doing our best to make as little noise as possible.
Sounds of the crashing waves give me a hint to how far out we may be, and the dark of night indicates how long we were unfortunately unconscious.
That sort of time having passed should mean that Zero is actively trying to find us somewhere, and my original notion of trying to get a message to him – or the coast guard – is truly our best bet.
Finally, coming to a new door closer to one end of the ship pushes me to immediately attempt to open it, only to discover it’s locked.
Not a huge surprise.
But not a great one.
And as if that’s not irritating enough, there isn’t time to contemplate what to do about it courtesy of a patrolling merc rounding the corner right into us.
Garcia’s immediate instinct has him forcefully swinging the pillowcase at the man’s ribs, successfully knocking him off to the side and the air out of his lungs.
This prevents him from yelling and reaching for a weapon and has him defenselessly hunching forward exposing the side of his neck, a space that I swiftly slash the letter opener across.
Despite it being in the territory of his jugular, it’s not enough to do fatal damage.
It is – thankfully – the right amount to get his hand flying up to the area instead of his weapon leaving him vulnerable to a second attack from my escape partner.
Being whacked across the face bucks his head backwards granting me the chance to ram the pointed object into the opposite side, possibly penetrating the vein.
Naturally, the fumbling, disoriented individual slaps his other hand on the new wound, allowing a repeated swing to the same territory, but instead of his head simply flying in reverse, his entire frame does.
Over the railing.
Making a splash so giant that we exchange cringes.
“Fuuuuccckkkk…” nervously grumbles Garcia, makeshift weapon dropping to his side. “Think anyone heard that?”
“You mean like me?” a familiar, feminine voice asks, causing us to whip our faces over our shoulders to see two weapon wielding men at her side, pointing their guns at us. “Because I saw it too.”