MeiMei tried the door, but it was securely bolted. Locks on the outside of stateroom doors, she thought, always the mark of a true gentleman. She cased the boudoir without much hope of finding the Secret Weakness Chamber. This guy probably does this all the time. A lovely bathroom (do they call it a “head’ on this class of boat?) with bidet, no less. But a notable lack of scissors or blunt weapons. The closet had nothing but some frilly nightwear and sleek lounging robes. In what looked like child’s sizes. Yuck. As she examined the barred portholes, she checked to make sure the camera was still tucked up behind her neck, the little lanyard securely lashed into her thick black hair. The one thing she desperately wanted to have if she got out of this fix. Then she heard shouts, then shots. Followed by a splash.
She jumped to the ports and saw bodyguards moving by at a run. Oh, shit! She was practically jumping around with anxiety when she felt a tremor run through the yacht, then the almost imperceptible sensations of movement. Another glimpse out the window confirmed that she was under way. Ronchel probably figured there might be more of us. She wished. She wished, in fact, that Aphra would suddenly show up, parachuting in blasting from the hip with twin UZI’s and kicking pervo ass with Seventies go-go boots.
Instead she got Ronchel. He slammed the door open, making her jump, then back away until her butt hit the bulkhead. He came into the room in an obvious fury. Along with other emotions equally obvious by a casual glance at his bulging crotch. He stared right into MeiMei’s eyes, neither looking at or speaking to the two bodyguards who flowed into the room behind him. They immediately moved towards MeiMei, who held her hands in front of her with her fingernails coiled like talons.
Ronchel laughed and raised his right hand from beside his leg, demonstrating that it clutched a huge stainless steel revolver. Which he pointed at Mei while the two thugs moved in and patted her down (pretty diligently, she thought) for nasty surprises. One of them nodded to Ronchel, who motioned them out of the room.
Quickly, MeiMei said, “You really think a big, tough guy like you needs that much gun?”
Ronchel laughed. “Need? Not at all. But it’s much more fun.”
As the torpedoes closed the door behind them, he moved close to MeiMei, staring with obviously growing pleasure. “Not bad, not bad,” he said. “For Plan B.”
“You can also choose two dishes from column A,” MeiMei said, holding his gaze while standing tall with no attempt to cover herself.
“I can choose whatever I want, Chinita. And I’ve got all night.”
MeiMei sighed and shrugged. “So why do you still have your pants on?”
“Good point.” He pulled the string tie of his pants and let them fall. Had to help them get around his dick, but then they fell to the floor and he kicked them at her, standing there with rampant hard-on and brandished firearm.
“I can see right now it’s true about guys with big guns trying to compensate,” MeiMei sniffed.
“I think I’m big enough for chink pussy,” he said stalking towards her like some sort of matador/flasher. “Are you getting a little excited?”
MeiMei raised the back of her hand to cover a yawn.
Ronchel grinned tightly and stepped close enough to extend the pistol within inches of her chest. With excruciating slowness he put the muzzle right on her nipple, the brown flesh sliding inside the gleaming barrel. She could feel the sharp edges of the rifling. She shook her head sadly. “Pitiful.”
Without any expression he flipped the gun sideways, hurting her tender tissue as it raked away, then swung it back, towards the side of her head.
MeiMei made two moves at once, a high Bang shou block of the gun and a plain old Chin Tom Toy kick to the area she was thinking of as gao wán, rather than “nuts”, since she always switched over to Chinese when practicing the arts her father had drilled into her from the time she could walk.
He fell to his knees making retching sounds, turned away as if trying to crawl for the door. She took cold aim and kicked him as hard as she could where his left hand was cupping his outraged basket. He screeched like a woman, threw up, and lost consciousness. MeiMei grabbed the gun and pointed it at him. She even inched the trigger back a sliver. But knew she couldn’t do it.
She stepped over and stood behind his knees, knelt and positioned the big gun right on his anus. And shoved if forward with her full strength, taking savage pleasure in the feel of the front sight tearing membrane as the seven-inch barrel plunged into his rectum. Again she felt the impulse to pull the trigger, but knew she wouldn’t. She stood and dithered a moment. God knows how long he would stay unconscious: the guy was like one of the movie monsters, kept rearing back up when he was supposed to be out of the picture. Finally she grabbed the most substantial-looking of the robes from the closet and ran to the door.
She had her mental fingers crossed as she tried it and gave a deep sigh when it opened. She dared a quick peek into the hall, hoping she wouldn’t have to run back over there and draw a shit-smeared sixgun to deal with bodyguards. This whole bit was just not her style at all.
She hit the main rear deck frantic for an escape plan. The boat had to be gone. She had unfortunately omitted helicopter lessons from her undergrad curriculum. If there were lifeboats or escape pods, they weren’t in plain sight. Then she heard the snarl of two-stroke engines approaching and looked over the rail to see a half-dozen JetSkis coming into the wake and drawing up to the water level stern catwalk. She realized that there had been a radio or cell phone call to notify these little dickheads that the mothership had weighed anchor.
As she watched, Corcho jockied in close, jumped his Yamaha up onto the little bathing deck and grabbed a dangling line from a davit. The other Lords were queuing up for docking procedure. All six of them would be up on her deck in minutes, and they looked like even less congenial rapists than her host had tried to be. She stared at the scene below as the Dood they called Chango eased his Kawasaki in close enough to snatch at a float-tipped mooring line Corcho had tossed astern. And heard shouts behind her, the soft putter of running deckshoes. Without giving herself time to think better of it, she jumped up onto the teak rail, then leaped off and plunged out of view.
The Lord known as Chango was in some ways very fortunate. Other ways, less so. After his humiliation ashore on the previous day, it’s unlikely his psyche would have been able to handle awareness of what happened as he leaned over to grab a floating line. Which was an aerial bombardment by a bitch. MeiMei fell almost thirty feet, trailing her shiny white robe like a geisha butterfly. At about the point when she would have reached terminal velocity, her feet impacted the top of Chango’s spine, the right heel striking at the point known as “the atlas”. The immediate result of her landing on him, smashing his chest into the hand-rubbed finish of his garish tank and cracking his jaw against his custom “ape hanger” handlebars was that he promptly ceased to be an impediment to her desire to leave the area. Beyond that, he ceased being alive.
Her landing cushioned by the abolishment of Chango, MeiMei fell to her knees on his shoulders, then quickly slid down his back into the saddle. In the moment’s grace bought by the sheer novelty of her arrival–naked Asian poon from the heavens being rarer than meteor showers in that area–she tugged the inert Chango around, grunting dojo monosyllables at the exertion of heaving him into the drink while his buddies watched, stunned.
Fortunately (as we’ve seen) operating a JetSki doesn’t require top-drawer intelligence, so she quickly figured out where to put her hands and what to do with them. The hopped-up response of the super-souped Kawasaki JS750 literally scared the piss out of her when she racked the throttle around. But even more so “Chimi”, wastrel scion of the Ronchel lineage, whose SeaDoo RXP-Turbo was directly in front of her. The hyperactive Kwaski hunkered down and bolted almost out of the water, the hull mostly dry as it smashed into Chimi and ran right over him, converting him and his RXP into an ad hoc ramp for an awesome jump that brought cheers from nearby yachts where attention had been gathered by the gunshots. She blasted straight over Chimi , carved a turn to port that terrified her, and became the proverbial blue streak.
Stung by having frozen up, infuriated by the demolition of their two comrades by some gookporn ninja who was pretty blatantly a mere woman, the remaining Lords recovered their usual aggressive velocities and pelted behind her. She headed towards where she’d last seen Curtsy.
And caught a glimpse of her, lolling over a swell, hair a faint yellow carnation floating in her headlight, surrounded by a nimbus of blood. She saw no signs of life–quite the contrary–and quickly realized that if she stopped the only result would both of them falling back in the hands of these assholes, and if Curtsy wasn’t dead already, she would be soon enough. She blasted by her accomplice, the Kawasaki’s wake rolling her over into a face-down float that spoke of finality.
Leaning low for less resistance, MeiMei felt tears being torn from her face by the force of the wind. The California girl had just been so cool, so vital, so… alive. And now? Last seen face-down in a slick of blood. Because she got sucked into this lunatic Mission Improbable scheme. She cried silently as she shifted her weight, searched out a position of low profile that didn’t kick her butt as she skimmed the waves, a kind of jockey crouch.
There was something oddly soothing about the jounce across the open sea. After a half-hour MeiMei had regained her usual inner calm and outer watchfulness. She was realizing that she had an edge over her pursuers. Her craft was just a fast as theirs–in fact, it dawned on her that in a male motorhead ratpack like that you couldn’t have a slower vehicle or they’d sneer and drum you out–but she was substantially lighter and offered less wind resistance. There were no tricks or techniques that would help them out in open water: this race would be to the swiftest and she had an advantage. The problem was… race to where?
And while she was browsing tropical destinations, there was also one of those niggling energy questions that pester us all these days–did she have enough gas to get wherever she dreamed up to go? She guessed she’d live or die on whether the Doods had filled their tanks on their trip to shore. And that she had the same reserves that they did. There was no way to know and her weight advantage would apply to fuel consumption as well as speed.
She didn’t look back at the Doods: she instinctively saw glancing over the shoulder as bad prey behavior. Learning while fleeing. She experimented with the controls–at one point touching a button that released a blast of “La Cucaracha”–before finding the switch that cut her running lights. She understood that the Lords would have to keep theirs on so as not to lose her: another edge that wasn’t much but was among the small advantages she held and hoped to maximize. She hung back from the handgrips with a stern grimace as she fled into the night. Run dark, run deep, was her mantra, her robe billowing out behind her like a superhero’s cape. She worked the camera out of her hair and placed in securely in the receptacle where the mp3 deck had been before she popped it out and lobbed it over her shoulder, hoping it clobbered one of the JetSki jockeys. Then ran out of things to do and just hung on for the duration.