Chapter 28: Peter Pays the Piper - Part 3

Laz heard the siren blare across the ship just as he stepped out of the quiet corridor and back into the chaos of the main deck. The sound was sharp, blaring. The wail cut across the party music. But the guests didn’t care. They just got louder, dancing as if they were in some alarm-themed part of the rave. A dozen strobe lights bounced off designer sunglasses and half-empty champagne flutes. The DJ didn’t even blink. He pumped up the volume.

Idiots, Laz thought.

He sprinted past the crowd, dodging drunk partygoers grinding in neon swimsuits and glitter-stained tuxes, until he reached the railing that overlooked the split-level decks below.

He spotted the upper catwalk, the third deck, lined with reinforced glass and guard rails. That’s where the tower had to be. He reached into his jacket and attached a gauntlet to his arm. It flicked open a hidden latch on the wrist.

Click!

A thin metallic cable shot upward with a sharp zing, anchoring with a mechanical snap to the upper rail.

Perfect shot.

He was just about to hit the zip-up button when he felt arms wrap around his waist.

“Hey there, Tarzan!” a woman squealed. “I’ll be your Jane!”

“What the—?”

She was in a glitter bikini and platform heels, giggling like this was a game. Before Laz could pry her off, her elbow slammed the button.

The grappling line whined.

“Wait, NO NO NO—!” he yelled.

They zipped upward. The line jerked mid-flight from the extra weight, and Laz’s body whipped sideways, slamming into the hull.

She giggled in response. “This is the coolest Uber everrrr!”

His legs dangled in the open air, and so did hers. Then the mechanism stopped halfway and jolted them. Her grip slipped slightly, and she became suddenly sober as she looked below her. She shrieked and gripped harder.

Above, the guards spotted them from the catwalk.

“HEY!” one shouted, already aiming.

Muzzle flashes lit up the side of the yacht. Bullets zinged past Laz’s ear, puncturing the metal hull around him. The crowd below screamed and scattered in drunken panic.

The woman clung tighter, crying now. “I don’t wanna die on a dirty boat!”

Laz grit his teeth, reached down, and grabbed her wrist as her grip gave out. He began to run side to side, dogging the bullets, and she began to swing. Her platform heel flung into the sea.

“Hang on!” he barked.

With his free hand, he tapped the control and re-angled the zip line, redirecting it diagonally toward the second-deck balcony just below the guards.

They zipped again, this time crashing onto the balcony.

They tumbled hard. Laz took a deep breath.

She just stared up at him, eyes glassy, mascara streaked. “You’re my hero!” she said.

Laz helped her off the ground. “Well, mam just be careful next-”

Then, without warning, she vomited.

Right on his jacket, and it splashed everywhere.

It was chunky, orange. Smelled like tequila and shrimp.

“Come on,” Laz muttered.

He peeled off the guard’s uniform in disgust, dropped it on the floor, and kicked it away. His face changer putty had smeared and warped in the chaos, so he ripped that off too, his features snapping back into his regular face.

He took one last look at the girl, who was now passed out beside a potted fern, and sprinted down the hall toward the command tower.

He had a mission to finish.

***************************************************************************************************

The siren hit her senses hard. She knew now that at any time, she could be caught. The guards would be on high alert now and weren’t as easy to fool or pass by.

Mango ducked behind a velvet curtain and pulled the ring from her bra. It glinted under the club lights. But what caught her eye wasn’t on the outside.

She tilted it just right, squinting.

There, etched inside the band, barely visible, was a line of tiny engraved text. It wasn’t in plain language. It was a string of characters. Long. Complicated. It was the launch codes.

A slow grin tugged at her mouth. Gotcha.

Then, a hand clamped around her wrist hard.

She spun to see Bullock holding her.

Up close, he was all rage and breath that reeked of cigar smoke. His scarred cheeks flushed red.

“You steal from me?” he snarled. “You little bitch!”

Mango widened her eyes, playing innocent. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb,” he said. “You were real cozy earlier. Where is it?”

“I didn’t take anything.”

“You think I don’t know when something’s missing from my own damn hand?”

His grip tightened. She tried to pull away.

“Let go of me!”

“Not until I get my ring.”

She twisted her wrist and kicked him hard in the shin.

Bullock barely flinched. Instead, his arm snapped forward.

Crack!

His fist collided with the side of her face.

Her mind froze for a second.

The impact hit her like a freight train. Mango collapsed to the ground, vision splintering. The world tilted. Her ears rang. The crowd still moved like shadows above her, swirling and careless.

She couldn’t think straight. How can anyone hit that hard?

F-fo-fo, she tried to think. Her head hurt too much!

Bullock loomed over her, reaching down. “You made a mistake.”

Then suddenly, something was on his back.

“BOO!” Star yelled.

She jumped onto Bullock’s back, arms slung around his thick neck like a scarf. Her legs locked around his waist.

“Miss me, big guy?” she said with a grin.

Bullock instantly became red with frustration. “What the hell—get off me!”

He staggered, trying to rip her off, but then came another and another.

Suddenly, he was surrounded by strippers. Two more slithered out of the crowd like predators in stilettos. One yanked at his uniform belt. Another pressed herself against his chest, cooing.

“Aw, you shy?” one asked.

“You’re so strong! How’d you get so big?” said another.

Bullock’s face turned bright red. “Stop! Stop that!” he barked, but he couldn’t grab them all.

Hands were everywhere. Sequins. Hair. Perfume. Laughter. His one weakness. Beautiful women. In all his muscle and menace, he couldn’t fight off a coordinated stripper attack.

One of them leaned down toward Mango and whispered: “Run, girl.”

Mango didn’t need more than a moment to take off.

She bolted. The crowd blurred around her, still cheering, still dancing.

She was already running for the nearest exit. Toward the escape boats. Toward her shot at ending this whole damn thing.

Mango’s feet hit the deck of the escape boat, loud and fast. Her chest rose and fell in ragged bursts as she jumped aboard.

She was almost free.

She dropped to her knees, still clutching the ring. Her palm had cramped from holding it so tight. It glinted in the moonlight. Silver and heavy, with a secret etched on the inside that could change everything.

The launch codes. They were hers now.

She looked at it like it was a winning lottery ticket. No, it was something better. This wasn’t just money. This was power. The kind people killed for. The kind people built empires on.

Her thieving brain kicked in fast. You could sell this. High bidder. Anonymous drop. Walk away a billionaire. You’d never have to run again. Never have to hide. No more cheap motels. No more slicing purses or hacking vaults for crumbs.

Just freedom.

She moved to the control panel to release the boat. Her fingers hovered over the ignition, ready to gun the engine and vanish.

But she didn’t press it. She stared at the ring again. Her grip tightened.

John. She saw his face in her mind. His warmth, his goofy half-smile, the way he called her Michelle.

Damn it. She should be able to just cut him off like all the ones before. She’d fallen in love. Really, truly in love.

And if she left now… Her stomach twisted. She didn’t want to be that person anymore. She couldn’t be.

“Damnit John, you better be the one,” she muttered to herself.

She raised her wrist to her ear and clicked the side of her communicator.

“John. Laz. Come in,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

A beat of silence.

“I’m here,” Laz said.

“I’ve got the codes,” she said. “I’m heading to the top balcony.”

“Wait, Mango, where are you—”

But before he could finish, a massive hand grabbed her from behind, and her body slammed against the rail.

Bullock.

He was bleeding from the forehead. His jacket was half torn, with lipstick smudged on his collar, glitter on his jaw. His eyes were pure rage.

“You little bitch!” he roared, dragging her back on the yacht. “You think you can play me?”

“FOCUS!” she called. “Knife Shade!”

<<<>>>

[Activating Talent: Knife Shade…]

<<<>>>

Mango twisted, and her hand shot down to her thigh, and a knife slid free from her holster.

“Wanna dance?” she hissed.

She slashed upward, grazing his forearm. He let go just long enough for her to spin out of his grip.

She landed a knee in his ribs and followed it with a backhanded slice. Her blade caught the edge of his jacket, tearing it, but he didn’t go down.

He swung hard. She ducked. Another swing. She rolled under it.

He was powerful, but slow.

She sliced low at his leg. He shouted, staggered. But then two more guards appeared on the upper deck, weapons in hand.

“Shit.”

She backed away. Bullock lunged again, and she ducked, rolling to her feet.

Then she ran. The guards shouted behind her. A shot rang out, pinging off the rail inches from her ear.

Mango didn’t stop.

The codes were in her hand, and John was still on this ship.

*******************************************************************************************************************

John's voice crackled over the comms. “Kinda busy right now, Michelle.”

His feet slammed against the deck as he ran, heart hammering in his chest. Behind him, the pounding footsteps of his brother and several guards.

“John!” Peter roared. “You think you can just walk away from me?!”

John didn’t respond. He kept sprinting, cutting sharp corners between lounge chairs and railings, dodging partygoers who were still too drunk or high to realize the alarms weren’t part of the show. He started to climb some stairs up to the topmast.

Then, three guards stepped into his path.

He skidded to a stop. No way through. Not with brute force alone.

“FOCUS,” he said. “Activate: Combat!”

<<<>>>

[Accessing Spy Skills]

[Skill Three: Combat. Level 1]

[Combing with ‘Underworld Legacy’]

[Combat (1) → (3)]

[Activating…]

<<<>>>

A rush of adrenaline coursed through his limbs. His fingers flexed. His back straightened. Time slowed just a touch.

John moved first.

He ducked a baton, slammed his elbow into a guard’s throat, twisted the weapon from his hand and flung it like a javelin into the second guard’s gut.

He side-stepped the third and swept the legs.

Then Peter tackled him from behind.

The two of them hit the stairs hard. John's head bounced off the steel step. Pain flashed white behind his eyes, but the dampening tech kept him conscious.

Peter snarled, eyes wild. “You should’ve stayed dead!”

“Don’t you think I know that?” said John.

John shoved him back and kicked up, but the third guard grabbed his arm. Then the second. A fist caught him across the jaw, another to the stomach.

They were dragging him, forcing him toward the railing at the edge of the topmast.

Peter cracked his neck. “Let me do it right this time.”

John fought, twisting, slipping. He caught one guard in the nose with his forehead, another in the knee with a snap kick. But there were too many.

Peter raised a hand and decked him.

John flew backward, head spinning, and then he was airborne.

Falling.

He hit something soft.

BLOOF!

A giant inflatable bounce castle wedged awkwardly off the side of the boat.

It launched him sideways and down into the black ocean.

Above, Peter leaned over the railing. Squinting. Scanning.

He didn’t see him.

“Check every room,” Peter barked at his men. “Find whoever else came with him! Send all the guests either inside or to the lower decks! I want the bow and stern empty! And this time, I want a goddamn body.”

******************************************************************************************************************

WHUMP!

John skipped like a stone. Twice. Three times.

Then, on pure instinct, he yanked his arm forward and activated the grapple belt.

The line fired, whipping through the wind. It hooked onto a rail near the stern of the ship.

John’s body jerked mid-air, the cable pulling taut.

He dangled now, one arm holding the line. He was soaked, bleeding but alive.

John stayed still.

Battered. Hidden in the shadows under the ship's hull. Breathing shallow.

This wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

************************************************************************************************

Laz didn’t kick the door into the communications room.

He knelt beside the main tower interface, a sleek black terminal blinking red and humming with power. His fingers danced across the keyboard, but it was too hard to crack. It was a 3D lock that was too hard to solve.

“Dammit,” he said. “Whose sadistic cousin built this firewall?”

Behind him, the metal door creaked.

“Don’t tell me you’re stuck,” Mango said, stepping in.

She looked like hell. Her face was all bruised. She was holding her side, breathing heavily, but still walking like she ran the ship.

“Little busy,” Laz said. “This is military-grade. Like, old-school Russian paranoid levels of locked.”

“Move.” Mango shoved him aside. “FOCUS, activate skill: Decipher.”

<<<>>>

[Skill: Decipher, Level 2 Activated. Scanning code… Analyzing entropy… Pattern recognized.]

<<<>>>

The screen glitched and then flickered green. Mango’s eyes locked in, her fingers became a blur. It was like watching someone slice through a maze they could see from above.

Laz turned back toward the door.

Bullock charged in, dragging a baton, and a shotgun slung across his back. Four guards filed in behind him, guns up.

“Well, well,” Bullock said. “The little mutt and the lying thief.”

Mango didn’t look up. “Buy me some time.”

Laz sprinted forward, his ‘Total Recall’ still active.

He stepped forward and hit the first guard in the face before the guy even raised his weapon. Then the room exploded into motion.

Bullets ricocheted off the walls as Laz spun into a guard, disarming him and flipping him onto the console. Another came at him with a stun rod. Laz ducked under, swept the guy’s legs, and stomped his chest as he fell.

Then, Bullock was there.

Swinging.

Laz barely dodged the baton’s arc. It cracked the screen behind him in half.

“Die, you bug,” Bullock sneered, swinging again. “Nothing but a—”

Laz caught his arm, twisted, and drove a knee into his ribs.

“Just shut up,” Laz said. “Does anyone around here just shut the hell up and fight?”

They traded blows. Bullock threw Laz into a bank of wires, and sparks flew everywhere. Laz came back swinging, blood in his mouth.

Behind him, Mango kept typing.

<<<>>>

[95% decrypted…]

<<<>>>

“Mango,” Laz grunted, blocking another blow. “Please tell me you’re almost done!”

“Hang in there!”

Bullock slammed Laz against the glass wall. Laz head-butted him. They staggered. Another guard grabbed Laz from behind, but he slipped free and used the man as a shield.

Another shot fired. It missed Mango by inches.

The system pinged.

<<<>>>

[Decryption complete. Access granted.]

<<<>>>

“I got it!” Mango shouted. “Satellite’s offline!”

Bullock froze mid-stride… then laughed.

“You think that matters?” he said. “You shut it off. I’ll turn it right back on.”

He reached for the controls.

“No!” Mango said.

She launched herself at him.

Her knives flashed in her hands like lightning. She struck fast, one blade slashing his forearm, the other jabbing into the side of his ribs. Laz joined in, working in sync with her.

They moved as if they’d trained together for years. Laz struck high. Mango swept low.

She slashed his leg; Laz elbowed his neck. Bullock caught Mango’s wrist. Laz kicked his knee sideways.

Still, Bullock came. Blood pouring. Face twisted.

Until Mango drove both knives into his shoulders and spun with Laz, twisting his momentum into a throw right into the console.

CRASH!

Sparks exploded. The console burst into flames. Bullock’s body twitched, then stilled, smoke rising from his shoulders.

The satellite control was fried.

Mango stumbled back, panting. The sweat on her face had completely soaked through the micro-putty disguise.

“Ugh,” she said, ripping it off. Her real face was finally free.

Laz laughed. “You good?”

“Never better,” she said. “That thing was gross.”

CLACK!

The sound of guns cocking.

They turned. Guards. Six of them. Full riot armor. Rifles raised.

And between them, Peter Nero stepped into the room pissed as hell.

“Oh, come on,” said Mango.

“So,” he said with a smirk. “Which one of you wants to die first?”

*****************************************

John’s body bounced off the surface of the ocean like a stone flung by a pissed-off god. The water hit harder than concrete, slapping every nerve raw. His arm flailed, one hand still clutching the grapple belt that tethered him to the yacht.

He was upside down. He couldn’t tell which way was the sky and which was the sea. Waves smashed into him, each one trying to knock the air from his lungs.

“FOCUS,” he coughed through saltwater, barely keeping his head above the foam. “Stabilize me!”

<<<>>>

[Orientation: 187° South. You are inverted.]

<<<>>>

“Yeah, I noticed,” he muttered, eyes burning.

He forced his hand to the latch on the grapple belt, fighting the instinct to let go completely. One wrong move, and the belt would snap away. He’d be nothing but chum. The wire buzzed tight, still dragging him across the waves like some aquatic punishment.

With a strained grunt, he released the back clasp of the belt and rotated it around. His whole torso twisted in the surf, and finally his feet hit the water first. For a split second, he found balance.

Now he was water skiing behind a criminal death yacht with a grappling belt in hand. Not how he pictured this going.

He took a deep breath. “Let’s do this.”

His fingers found the silver button on the belt, its activation switch. He gripped it tight and pressed.

Whirr-click!

The wire buzzed to life, pulling him forward with sudden, jarring speed. His body jolted upright, skimming across the surface like a bullet skipping through water. He leaned into the pull, arms tight.

The back of the ship was getting closer. Closer. Closer.

“FOCUS,” he growled. “Calculate landing point.”

<<<>>>

[Projection: rear cargo lift, 7.8 meters above current elevation. Hook to upper railing in 3… 2…]

<<<>>>

John angled the belt, aimed for the back corner of the lift railing and fired.

The hook shot forward and latched with a satisfying clang.

Then John let the momentum take him. Water splashed as he kicked up, swinging up along the hull like a pendulum.

The deck rushed toward him.

“Come on, come on—”

With a final burst, he vaulted onto the back deck, rolling hard and landing in a soaked, gasping heap behind a stack of lounge chairs.

He lay there for a second, coughing water and disbelief. He feels his face. It feels lighter than before. The putty is clearly gone, which means he looks like himself again.

Then he whispered, “I’m back, assholes.”