Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
The one that gave me skills and honed my determination to do whatever it takes to save a life that isn’t my own.
Even if it means losing mine.
Stealthily approaching the dock increases in difficulty not only due to the change in depth but tint to the water. Maintaining our lower level requires our strokes to slow and splitting in opposite directions to be done in a synchronized nature to avoid creating alarming waves. Blu heads for the front end of the yacht while I make my way towards the rear. We each slide underneath the wooden edge so that we remain out of sight until the guards gravitate away from where they’re having a smoke break with one another and back into their respective positions. My partner acknowledges the change in movement with a single nod prior to quietly following his mark to the other side. I patiently wade in one spot, listening for indications that his patrolling has finally resumed, and the instant, his heavy clomping reaches an unmistakable pattern, I push my plan into action.
Releasing the small rubber duck, I was storing in one of my pockets from underneath the dock works exactly as planned.
The member of security abruptly stops.
Leans slightly forward over the edge and reaches for the toy on a perplexed grunt, “What the f-”
One harsh pull is all it takes to drag him under. Knowing that the splashing sound is what’s going to startle his partner, which mine will then use the distraction to disarm him, I hastily yank the assailant against my chest and wind my arm around his neck. Squeezing tightly cuts off his ability to scream along with the one to breathe, yet it doesn’t prevent him from trying to sink his teeth into my arm once he realizes his firearm is headed for the bottom of the ocean. Desperate, backwards headbutts occur next; however, they’re short-lived courtesy of the knife I drive into his right kidney. It doesn’t take long for his frame to lifelessly slump, nor does it take long to relocate him further underneath the wooden structure he was just protecting to prevent the possibility of alerting one of the guards closer to the mansion.
Crossing the short distance from where I am to where I need to be takes an unexpected hit when I’m forced to sink back beneath the surface to avoid being spotted by one of the yacht’s interior protection details who has suddenly stepped outside. Yet again, I watch and wade and wait for the perfect opportunity to have the advantage. The security guard lingers a moment longer than I would’ve bet – you know if I were a betting type of man – before he turns on his heels to resume his post inside. Having his back to the water, unfortunately for him, becomes a deadly decision. Sliding my arms across the floor of the ship silently occurs, and the second his ankles are within snatching range, they are. The first harsh jerk drops him completely to the ground, forcing his knees and chest and chin to all take the brunt of the fall. The next pummels his ribcage like a xylophone as it thumps and bumps into every unsmooth portion of the weathered deck during our descent deeper into the cold blue. His flailing motions to fight or swim forward are pointless and easily ended by a knife strike to the kidney that precedes a swift, swipe upward to sever anything else it possibly can. Convulsions and choking begin in a surge of crimson that is now a countdown clock I have to race against.
Not because of sharks – which are not nearly as into humans as some of those shitty TV movies make people believe.
And not because of piranhas – which I personally find more fucking terrifying than Jaws.
But because splotches of red disrupting shades this gorgeous will inevitably catch someone’s attention very quickly.
Whether that’s a tanning topless neighbor or someone in the security tower who is actually watching the monitors versus jerking it to IG photos on their phone is a legit coin toss in a beachside paradise that houses models and mobsters alike.
After guiding the twitching male to his watery grave beside my other victim, I speedily swim back to the yacht, hoist myself up onto it, holster my knife, and collect the firearm that was dropped during the attack. I instantly check its status at the same time I begin moving, needing to verify that the Beretta 92 – a pistol I personally enjoy firing – is loaded and how many rounds there are to fire. Sweeping the first stretch I cover is fairly straightforward. There’s only one room to check, which houses nothing more than basic survival supplies. Life vests. Lifesavers. Flares. Ration kits. Ropes. Relief from the lack of a more hostile discovery doesn’t even bother entertaining the idea of settling into my system. Having spent the majority of my thirty-nine years of life in fight mode – and never in flight – ease is a language so foreign to me that even with help from Google Translate I’d still fumble to fully understand it.