Chapter 2 - THE MIDNIGHT AUDIT"Clear," muttered the first guard, a burly man with a private military contractor tattoo fading on his forearm. His name tag read B. Miller. Behind him stepped a younger, nervous-looking kid holding a heavy-duty containment case.
Miller stepped into the cabin, his eyes scanning the unmade bed, the scattered champagne flutes, and the expensive luggage tags bearing the Valdés family crest.
"Mr. Valdés?" Miller called out, taking another step forward. "Sir?"
A groan rose from behind the partition of the entryway. Santiago lay sprawled face-down, blood pooling subtly onto the imported wool rug.
"Jesus Christ," the younger guard gasped, dropping his case. "Miller, he's bleeding out—"
Miller didn't rush to help. Instead, his right hand instantly dropped to the tactical holster on his hip, unsnapping the leather retention strap with a practiced, cynical flick. He’d done this before. Valdés heirs always got too drunk, too violent, or too careless on these inaugural cruises. Usually, the brides just cried in the corner.
"Valdés," Miller muttered, kicking Santiago’s boot. "Get up, man. The captain's second mate is asking questions about the noise level—"
Snap.
Miller never finished his sentence.
Renata dropped from the upper baggage rack directly behind him, her thighs locking around his neck in a classic inverted triangle chokehold. Her left forearm wedged sharply against his carotid artery while her right hand seized his holster, ripping the firearm free before he could even register the shift in air pressure.
The younger guard—let's call him Toby—froze, his hands hovering over his taser.
"Don't," Renata whispered from the shadows, her voice cold enough to frost the cabin windows.
Miller thrashed like a hooked marlin, his heavy boots kicking against the minibar, but combat training in a civilian security firm was no match for a former Marine drill instructor who specialized in neutralizing hostile insurgents in close quarters. Within four seconds, Miller's eyes rolled back, and his body went dead weight.
Renata caught him by the tactical vest, lowering him silently to the carpet so he wouldn't crack his head against the glass coffee table.
Toby’s hands were shaking so violently he could barely keep his fingers spread. He stared at Renata standing over two unconscious men in a shredded wedding dress, holding an aluminum bat in one hand and a Glock 19 in the other.
"You... you don't know who his father is," Toby whispered, tears of absolute terror pooling in his eyes. "Don Ernesto owns half the shipping lanes in the Gulf. They'll find you in international waters. They'll throw you off the back of the ship and tell the Coastguard you jumped."
Renata walked slowly toward him, her bare feet making zero sound on the plush carpet. She stopped two feet away, looking him dead in the eye.
"Tell me about the manifest," she said.
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"What manifest?"
"The one Don Ernesto uses to smuggle industrial parts through customs without inspection." Renata pressed the cold barrel of the Glock lightly against the hollow of Toby’s throat. "Start talking, Toby. Because right now, you're the only asset in this room I haven't decided to throw overboard."
