Page 68 of Velvet and Valor
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 ofjabs 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.
I bring my arm up over my head, then drive it back down with the point of my elbow leading the way. I catch him on the deltoid the first time, making him grunt but not doing much damage.
The second hit, though, catches him on the clavicle. I feel something give, like wet cardboard, under his skin. This time he screams, and flops to the deck, clutching his crippled shoulder. He can’t see out of one eye, and he’s covered in blood.
“Aw man,” I groan, looking at how I’m painted with his blood, too. “I hope you don’t have Hep C or anything, dude.”
His response is to spit blood at me.
“Oh, that’s real, real classy,” I say. “Gold star for you, asshole.”
“Fuck off,” he snaps.
“So, you speak English. Good, that’s going to make this easier.” I walk over to him and shove my heel onto his injured shoulder. His scream splits the air. “Now you are going to tell me what in the Hell has everyone so riled up, and why you are all after June.”
“I don’t know,” he growls.
“That’s too bad, because I’m going to hurt you until you tell me,” I say. “I won’t enjoy it, I promise you, but I also promise you I won’t stop until I get what I want.”
“I swear I don’t know!”
