Waves rolled in clusters, the sea breeze drifting gently.
Spectators refilled their drinks, grabbed more food, joked and bantered. Some were already itching to try their luck.
Revy and Fern's 1500-meter freestyle race was still ongoing.
But anyone with eyes could see that the outcome had already been decided.
The wild-style contestant from the Lagoon Company was far ahead.
It was only to be expected. Though Rank-4 grunt infantry were hardworking and enduring—practically two-legged multi-purpose pack animals in the U.S. military—they still couldn't compare to the gentlemen under Special Operations Command. Vela never believed that "ordinary" Fern could defeat a talent monster like Revy.
Talent determines the ceiling. Effort determines the floor.
Even when it comes to technology and chemical enhancement, there are still differences in resistance and adaptability.
Sometimes, the world is just that cruel.
Out on the sea... a speedboat paced alongside. Two splashing figures, one ahead and one behind. The latter panted desperately in pursuit, yet the distance only continued to widen.
Retracting her distant gaze, Vela lowered her satellite phone. Only after flashing a faint smile at Locke—who had been secretly studying her expression—did she turn back.
"Whew. The 'goods' from Jakarta are about to arrive?" Koko sipped her vegetable soup to cleanse her palate, her voice slightly muffled. "Looks like everything went smoothly..."
"Mm. No incidents on the return trip. Just that the 'goods' were a bit too lively. Estimated arrival in Bangkok: around 18:20."
Vela sat down leisurely. "But the mafia in Roanapur." She paused, then calmly looked at Balalaika. "That's indeed a problem that needs to be resolved."
If you're going to intercept something, you might as well take the whole package.
She was already the new recipient. What was the point of leaving the original recipient—the Colombian mafia—around?
"As expected. Eat your food, drink your booze, and trouble follows." Balalaika swallowed a skewer of meat. "Let's make one thing clear. Roanapur is a small place. It can't handle you stirring up chaos. If things get too big, Zhang from the Triads might not give me face."
"How could that be? Just a small matter." Vela smiled faintly. "I'll keep the scale of the firefight under control. Afterward, your people can come out and clean up."
"Hopefully."
"Hey, Vela, I also want—"
"No, you don't. Drink your soda. Lehm, keep an eye on her when the time comes."
"Roger, Commander Vela."
"Hah?! Lehm, you old geezer, whose side are you on? Dock his pay! Definitely dock his pay! Wahh, Valmet, they're bullying me!"
...
Laughter and cheerful chatter filled the air.
While Vela idly passed her days in such relaxed leisure.
The Malay Peninsula, southernmost Thailand, offshore of Narathiwat Province.
"Mm... mm..."
Thrum, thrum.
The rotor and tail propeller roared.
A UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter, cabin doors sealed shut, cruised northward.
In stark contrast to the bright blue sea and sky outside, the fully manned cabin held nothing but the noise of engines, circuitry, and the pilots' muted conversation. The air inside felt lonely and oppressive.
Both sides of the cabin were filled with mercenaries wearing FAST tactical helmets, camouflage combat uniforms, and Level IV body armor.
Thick forearms exposed by rolled sleeves. Brand-new rifles loaded with attachments like Christmas trees. Face coverings, goggles, noise-canceling headsets with audio pickup—fully equipped and looking elite, especially for the late twentieth century in 1997.
At a glance, they were a professional team. The kind that gave people a full sense of security.
Of course, there were dissenters.
For example, one particular small passenger on this trip—
"Mmhh." The little boy, gagged and bound hand and foot to a folding seat, raised his eyes.
Blond hair, brown eyes, long bangs, delicate features not yet fully grown—he was the young master of the declining Lovelace family: Garcia Fernando Lovelace.
Red-rimmed eyes and faint tear stains silently told of his current dejection.
He felt none of that so-called security.
Kidnapped by such heavily armed and well-equipped hostile mercenaries, all he felt was unprecedented suffocation and despair.
If during the shipping stage a faint candle of hope had still flickered in his heart—believing his father and his maid Roberta would descend like the Virgin Mary to save him—then when the cargo ship reached offshore Jakarta and he was handed over to this highly professional mercenary team, transferred nonstop between plane and helicopter, that final shred of hope was extinguished.
Even someone as strong as Roberta probably couldn't win against this.
I hope Roberta and Father can forget about me...
Thus, Garcia prayed.
He had caused a scene for that reason. Refused to cooperate. Tried to struggle, to harm himself.
Until he was tied up.
And when he proved too noisy afterward, his mouth was sealed with tape.
"Mmhh..." Thinking of this, overwhelmed by depression and loneliness, Garcia lowered his head and sobbed quietly.
The mercenaries who heard him exchanged glances, some frowning, others sighing.
"Give him some food and water," the squad leader said, turning his head.
The mercenary seated beside Garcia nodded.
One pulled out a bottle of mineral water and an energy bar. Another tore the tape from Garcia's mouth.
"Tch. Taking care of a brat is such a hassle."
The mercenary on the left brought the bottle to the boy's lips and, while feeding him water, spoke in Spanish, "Hey, kid. Behave and we'll loosen the ropes."
Gulp...
Garcia only drank silently.
The mercenary shrugged, too lazy to say more.
Once he figured the boy had drunk enough, he moved to feed him the energy bar.
"Fruit flavor—"
Before he could finish.
"Ptui!"
Garcia followed with a refined yet sharp curse. "The Virgin Mary sees all of this. Your sins will not go unpunished, villains!"
"Damn it!"
The mercenary, spat on full in the face, crushed the water bottle in his hand. Furious, he swore and raised his hand to strike.
Garcia trembled. Though he instinctively shut his eyes, he still stubbornly lifted his chin.
But the slap never came.
The mercenary merely cursed under his breath, pried Garcia's mouth open, and stuffed it with a cloth.
Then he turned away to wipe the water from his face.
"The young master's got guts. Just not much brains," another mercenary watching the show sneered. "If he'd really been handed to the Colombian mafia, he'd have gotten a few beatings by now."
"Why's the Boss so focused on him anyway? The Lovelace family's fallen to this state. They've got no damn money left."
"Who knows? Even a rotten ship still has three pounds of nails. Heh, maybe the Boss likes this clean, youthful, cute type of boy?"
"Pfft! I'd believe it more if you said the Boss was a lesbian. Someone this frail? He wouldn't even survive long as a boy toy. And don't gossip about the Boss behind her back. If you want Nova or Crazy Ivan to knock you out, don't drag us into it."
"Fuck, you're the one who talks the most shit!"
"Still, Li, didn't expect you to be so gentle. Spat on like that and you held back from hitting him. The kid's from a crime family, you know. A beating wouldn't hurt. I'll even write your report."
"Get lost."
Perhaps because they'd been playing it stoic the whole way, the mercenaries were unusually talkative now that they had something entertaining.
"Ahem."
At the squad leader's cough, the chatter immediately ceased.
Soon, silence once again settled over the cabin.
Garcia, who understood English, lowered his head.
"Roberta," he murmured dejectedly.
...
Meanwhile, Roanapur, the docks.
The sun dipped westward, molten light shimmering across the water.
Wooooo—
Amid a sharp, prolonged horn blast, fishing boats returned at dusk, docking by the pier.
A strikingly beautiful maid stepped off one of the boats and set foot in this city of sin.
The streets were neither sparse nor crowded. In the distance came faint cries of shopkeepers hawking their goods and the jingling bells of carts hauling freight back to storage. The evening breeze carried the briny scent unique to seaside cities, interwoven with the decadent, restless vulgarity of the rundown streets.
She stood there for quite some time, observing.
Until a motorcycle carrying a family of four roared past.
The maid withdrew her gaze, picked up her umbrella and the conspicuously heavy suitcase, and followed the crowd boldly into the bustling district.
At a roadside stall that looked very much like a grassroots intelligence hub, the maid stepped forward like a lost lamb and asked softly, "I am a helpless maid who has come alone from South America. Please tell me where my fellow Colombians gather."
Almost at the same time, offshore Roanapur, adjacent waters.
Aboard the Eclipse yacht, cruising at constant speed.
In the main deck cabin's crowded gym.
Revy and Fern's wager had reached its final stage.
The last event: hand-to-hand combat.
On the boxing ring, drenched in sweat and panting heavily, the man and woman grappled fiercely. Around them, more than twenty drinking and dining spectators shouted in support of their chosen side, mixed with crude taunts and instigations.
"What a physical monster."
Watching Revy on stage—her aggression blazing, teeth bared, wild as a panther—Koko sighed in admiration.
Good grief. After finishing the 1500-meter freestyle, resting less than twenty minutes, they went straight into a diving event and a complex ship-terrain obstacle sprint. Fern was breathing hard, practically gasping, while Revy, after a brief rest, was instantly lively again.
That stamina and recovery speed...
Exaggerated.
"A good seedling." Valmet, unusually not clinging to Koko in lovestruck fashion during this lull, commented seriously. "Her style is wild and lacks systematic training, but street fighting is real combat. Fast, accurate, ruthless—no wasted movement. That's good. In a regulated match like this, the rules actually limit her performance."
Koko nodded repeatedly, curious. "Oho? Is Valmet feeling itchy for a fight?"
Valmet considered it and answered honestly, "If time permits." As a former major of a Finnish mechanized hunter squadron, she had her pride.
She disdained taking advantage of exhaustion or fighting from a rested position.
And if the opponent was only Revy, to put it bluntly, she would win without question.
If she were to fight, it should be with her—
Valmet tilted her head, her burning gaze landing on the voluptuous, dignified figure standing beside Vela.
Nova.
Vela's personal bodyguard and captain of her guard.
Born into a Soviet military family, once a major in the KGB's Vympel special forces unit under Directorate C. A graduate of a military academy, she had earned distinguished merits in overseas covert operations, subversion, and assassinations of hostile targets. A model officer, red to the core.
Unfortunately, the upheaval in Eastern Europe brought the red flag down, and she lost everything.
From hero to social outcast.
It was said her general father chose suicide in martyrdom during that time. Her elder brother, a hardline KGB affiliate, was purged, drank himself numb, and froze to death on the streets. Her mother's health collapsed amid the economic crisis triggered by shock therapy. Laid off and left idle at home, she survived on odd jobs, with a younger brother and little sister still minors, crying for food.
When Vela was recruiting in Moscow, she found Nova's file and sought her out.
Just as Koko had once found Valmet, who had left the military after her unit was annihilated and was drifting through life in a haze.
Perhaps it was their similar experiences that created a subtle sense of kinship. Valmet's gaze toward Nova carried a different light.
"Mm?" Keenly sensing Valmet's glance, Nova paused while pulling a checkbook from her waist pouch. She looked back and precisely locked onto the one-eyed, busty female mercenary. Recognizing Valmet, she first raised a brow, then gave a nod of acknowledgment.
Just then—
Ding!
The bell rang sharply.
Round break.
"Congratulations." Vela accepted the check Nova handed her, calmly wrote down 200,000 dollars, signed her name, and handed it to Locke, who scratched the back of his head awkwardly. "A bet's a bet. Consider it waived. This is an additional consumption rebate."
"Uh, the match isn't over yet, right?" Locke accepted the check with both hands, glancing at the boxing ring.
"Alright, stop being polite." Vela smiled faintly. "The outcome was decided long ago." She looked toward Fern, whose eyes were swollen and bleeding, hair plastered to his head with sweat as he leaned against the corner post, gulping electrolyte water.
He was so exhausted he couldn't even speak.
In contrast, Revy, while hydrating and wiping sweat, still had the energy to taunt.
Even with bruises and scrapes across her face, waist, abdomen, and arms, looking battered and messy, she showed no sign of slowing.
"Awesome! Again! Whoever chickens out has no balls!" Revy licked her cracked lips, chewing her mouthguard. Wearing fingerless gloves, she slammed her fists together, vigorous as a dragon and tiger, not a hint of fatigue visible.
The referee could only smack his lips, shooting Fern a look that clearly said, You didn't lose unjustly, kid.
Soon, the one-minute break ended. With the bell ringing again, Revy howled and lunged forward.
Amid the noise, Balalaika walked to Vela's side after finishing a call. "The Hound has reached Roanapur. An informant reports a Hispanic Caucasian woman, black hair, blue eyes, glasses, dressed as a maid, asking around about the Colombian mafia."
"It's her." Vela clapped her hands lightly and smiled. "The prey is in position."
"So the show begins?" Koko slipped beside Vela, leaning in playfully, her skirt swaying lightly.
Vela hummed in agreement. "Later, I'll need to borrow your pilot and helicopter."
"Eh? Eh? Little old me? The wealthy and generous Lady Vela still needs—hey hey, a lady uses her words, not her hands!"
Vela said nothing. She simply executed a skull-splitting grip.
"Gah, I was wrong!"
Watching Koko asking for a beating again, Balalaika tilted her head slightly, pressing a hand to her forehead in resignation.
She could see it clearly now. Koko was bad at fighting yet loved to play—perfect material for the team's comic relief.
Still.
To have someone to rely on was good.
With a complicated expression, Balalaika's gaze unconsciously settled on Vela and Koko as they bantered closely. The setting sun's afterglow slanted through the portholes, casting slender scattered streaks of light behind them.
Both had pale cool-toned skin, blue irises, one golden-haired and one silver-haired. One mature woman, one young girl. One tall, one short. Both with bodyguards. Standing side by side, they truly looked like sisters.
It was almost too beautiful.
Tsk. Irritating.
"Enough! Enough! Stop fooling around." Balalaika cut in irritably. "When do we move?"
"You see? Always in a rush."
Koko beat Vela to the line.
Vela looked at her suspiciously.
Since when did you steal my lines?
"Hehe, learned from you." Koko tilted her head and winked.
The scarred big sister, already alone except for her subordinates, grew even more displeased.
"You two really are sisters born of different parents."
Koko spread her legs, hands on hips, and declared firmly, "Of course."
Standing quietly together, Nova and Valmet exchanged a tacit glance, both smiling faintly.
Just then—
"K! O!"
Ding ding!
The bell rang again.
It was over.
On the boxing ring, Revy raised her fists high. At her feet lay Fern, completely spent and unconscious.
Clap! Clap! The VAR Company mercenaries applauded without hesitation.
It was just a wager. Though Fern losing was embarrassing, Revy's strength and refusal to give in had genuinely impressed them.
"Who else?!" she shouted loudly.
After clapping twice, Vela turned to leave. "Let's go. The 'goods' are almost here. Once the Colombian mafia moves, we move." She looked at Balalaika, who was applauding.
Then, to everyone's surprise—
"Hey, generous big boss, interested in a match?"
The applause stopped instantly.
It was Revy.
Ignoring Locke's frantic eye signals, perhaps carried away by the fight—or buoyed by the crowd's cheers—Revy, in high spirits, fixed her gaze on the departing Vela.
Nova's voice turned cold. "Insolent."
"Country tramp, you're asking for death!" Several muscular women below the stage glared furiously.
"Ah, that idiot..." Balalaika pressed a hand to her forehead. "Vela, don't bother—"
"Oho." Koko watched gleefully.
Under the mercenaries' hostile stares, the remaining three from Lagoon Company went numb.
Vela, however, seemed intrigued. She waved a hand and turned back, her tone calm as if discussing household matters.
"Sure."
As she walked, she took off her casual jacket.
After tossing it to Nova, she accepted fingerless gloves from the referee, put them on, grabbed the ropes, and vaulted into the ring in one smooth motion.
"Need a rest?"
"No... no need."
Perhaps the sudden silence and Balalaika's reproachful stare cooled Revy's head a little. Uncharacteristically polite, she said, "I've long heard about your past from Big Sis Balalaika. I'd like to learn from you. Boss, are you fighting dressed like that?" Beneath her hot-tempered exterior flickered a rare trace of shrewdness.
The subtext was obvious—some regret, but too proud to back down.
"Please." Vela simply smiled and beckoned.
Revy took a deep breath and raised her boxing guard.
Then—
Thud!
Vela stepped forward in a flash and threw a punch. A dull impact sounded. Saliva, sweat, and a mouthguard flew through the air. Revy collapsed instantly.
"Gulp." Locke swallowed hard in shock.
Over in the blink of an eye?!
Was Revy that clever—throwing the match?
Removing her gloves, Vela clapped her hands lightly. "Have the EMT take care of her." As she stepped out of the ring, she added, "Locke, when Revy wakes up, tell her I'll be waiting for her second challenge. This time I had the advantage of being well-rested. Winning like that isn't honorable."
After saying this, she took her jacket from Nova and left the gym.
Locke, Dutch, and Benny exchanged helpless looks.
Just trying to build goodwill and purchase goods—why so many twists and turns?
"Fortunately, Lady Vela is a generous and magnanimous lady." After a few silent seconds, Locke waved the check in his hand. "Two hundred thousand dollars. Redeemable at Bougainvillea Trading." Bougainvillea Trading was the white glove managing Hotel Moscow's circulating funds.
...
On the yacht's main deck.
A slightly cool sea breeze swept past. The setting sun had coated the entire yacht in a thin layer of orange-red glow.
"One-hit KO. Cool." Koko sounded envious. "Vela, why do I feel like you got stronger after retiring?"
"Who knows." Vela brushed it off.
"Has the Colombian mafia moved?" she changed the subject.
Ring, ring.
Balalaika shook the Motorola flip phone in her hand.
Click. Static.
"...Yellow Flag bar? Understood. Continue surveillance."
Beep.
"The Hound has entered the bar. That place is a mixed bag. The Colombian mafia should receive word soon," Balalaika said after hanging up.
"Then let's move." Vela gazed toward the horizon under the setting sun. A Black Hawk helicopter approached on schedule under the cover of dusk.
"Mm... mm..."
Thrum, thrum.
On the yacht, a Sikorsky S-76 all-weather transport helicopter loaded with mercenaries lifted off.
After rendezvousing with the Black Hawk, they flew toward the coast of Roanapur.
"Let's head out too." Vela looked at Balalaika.
How would they travel? Answer: Lagoon Company's torpedo boat.
There was no helping it. The Eclipse yacht had a full-load displacement approaching fifteen thousand tons. Roanapur's harbor area wasn't large—docking would be inconvenient. Moreover, the locals here were unruly, martial in spirit, and mostly poor.