Chapter 4 - The Arsenal"You're out of your mind," David muttered, sinking back against the sofa cushions as he watched me systematically tear the luxury suite apart.

I wasn't panicking; I was shopping.

Years in the Corps taught you to improvise, adapt, and overcome with whatever materials were at hand. A five-star luxury cruise suite wasn't just a room—it was a goldmine of makeshift tactical gear.

First, I marched into the marbled bathroom. With a swift, practiced twist, I unscrewed the heavy, stainless-steel shower head, discarding the plastic nozzle and keeping the jagged, threaded metal pipe. It weighed about two pounds, fit perfectly in the palm of my hand, and could easily crack a skull or crush a windpipe.

Next, I raided the room's mini-bar. I grabbed two heavy glass bottles of premium imported vodka, emptied their contents down the sink—not a drop wasted on mourning, though it hurt a little—and stuffed the necks tightly with strips torn from one of David’s expensive designer dress shirts.

Molotov cocktails, maritime edition.

"Is that... is that fire?" David watched me in absolute horror, clutching his broken nose as I lined the improvised explosives up on the coffee table. "Are you trying to sink the ship with us on it?"

"Relax, genius," I said, tossing him a roll of heavy-duty duct tape from the maintenance kit I found in the suite's utility closet. "Tape your ankles together. Do it tightly, or I'll come over there and do it for you."

David hesitated, his eyes darting toward the balcony door.

"Don't even think about jumping," I warned without looking up, slicing another strip of fabric with a butter knife I'd sharpened against the porcelain sink rim. "We're doing twenty knots in the middle of the Gulf Stream. You won't survive the fall, and even if you do, the sharks are having an early dinner."

With shaking hands, David picked up the duct tape and wrapped his ankles together, securing his own captivity. He was completely broken, reduced to obeying my every command out of pure, unadulterated survival instinct.

I walked over, inspected his work, and nodded approvingly. "Good boy. See? You can learn to follow instructions."

I gagged him with a plush hand towel, securing it firmly behind his head with another loop of tape. His muffled protests were completely swallowed by the sound of the ocean wind howling against the glass.

I grabbed the aluminum baseball bat, tucked the improvised steel pipe into the waistband of my dress, and slipped a lighter into my pocket.

The digital clock on the bedside table blinked: 9:45 PM.

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His chest tightened, a sharp, cold panic piercing through the expensive...

The silence of the boutique hotel room was a heavy, suffocating blanket....

The silence stretched for three agonizing seconds before I found my voic...

Two hours and fifteen minutes until midnight. Two hours and fifteen minutes before David’s father sent a hit squad to finish what was started in this room.

It was time to hunt the hunters.