Page 2 of Shatterproof

Does the reward of returning an innocent victim back to somewhere they belong outweigh the other bullshit?

Every. Fucking. Time.

Blu’s eventual arrival nearby signifies that it’s time to start moving. In tandem, we lower ourselves back below the undulating surface and begin to swim north for the beachside territory we need to infiltrate. Unlike when I sporadically take a couple days off to snorkel and surf and submerge myself in sex on the beach with a beautiful lady who has beendrinkinga sex on the beach, I ignore the alluring colors. Disregard the hypnotic blue magic and mysterious creatures calling to me to come play, to investigate more about them than the eye can merely see. I swiftly glide through the water, effortlessly crossing the miles of space we need to cover in great time.

Not record breaking though.

That number is still attached to my maroon beret.

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 thanJaws.

But because splotches of red disrupting shades this gorgeous will inevitably catchsomeone’sattention 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 themajorityof my thirty-nine years of life in fight mode – andneverin flight – ease is a language so foreign to me that even with help from Google Translate I’d still fumble to fully understand it.

And that’s coming from a man who has an impressive amount of in the field linguistics capabilities.

Irarelyever let my guard down.

I even fuck within reach of a weapon at all times.

Whether it’s a public place or hers.

Post mentally noting markers of my surroundings along with the exits – gotta always have an exit strategy – what can be used to defend me or us in an attack is always next.

Most people have this false sense of security wherever they go.

This thought process that no matter where they are in the world, they’re going to get back home without a hitch.

Lucky them.

Some of us had a different type of reality check before they even started kindergarten.

Hell, some of us didn’t even get to gotokindergarten.

Clearing the corner allows me to creep down the stairs in a prompt execution that provides me with the advantage on the attack. I don’t hesitate to unload one bullet into the first approaching assailant’s forehead nor is there reluctance to lean slightly to the side and unload two into the next. Blood splatters across the nearby white walls and then the fallen bodies when two more rounds are fired, clipping the taller oncoming aggressor’s arm rather than his dropping him like the previous men. A kill shot is temporarily delayed to pump three into the leg of the male covering his six; however, the instant that man is crumpling in agony, I’m unloading one up through the chin of the first. He falls with a heavy thud, giving me a clear line of fire to the other. An execution shot is taken in passing and heading for the room they were pouring from hastily occurs afterwards. Inside, there’s only one member of security left to guard the target and eliminating him is infinitely easier than those I met in the hallway. Squeezing the trigger just once shifts him from comfortably sitting in the white corner chair to slumped over on top of the magazine he was lazily thumbing through.

The small, boy child in the middle of the bed immediately pulls his legs to his chest, curls his arms around him, and buries his face from sight.

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