Participants:
Also Featuring:
| Scene Title | Honor Amongst Thieves |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | When Logan leads a mismatched team to overtake a yacht carrying over a shipment of Refrain, it turns out there isn't a hell of a lot of the title to go around. |
| Date | September 23, 2009 |
Abandoned Staten Island Docks
The cranes resemble the skeletal remains of prehistoric, museum-recreated monsters, decorating the rundown Staten Island foreshore. Long necks of crisscrossing metal, hooks, a freight container angled precarious in its chains. There are holy places all across the world, churches and theme parks and forest reserves, made so by being untouched once put in place, and there is a certain reverence in the way Staten Island is only half destroyed. Some things torn down, ripped apart, resold and repackaged - other things stand as monuments to the Forgotten Borough that are either too much effort or too little to gain to be taken to pieces.
Such is the case of this harbor, run by no one, used by few. The motor yacht that's docked low in the unmentionable water of a Staten Island harbor is currently the nicest thing about it, all gleaming white with an interior of wooden panels and leather seats. The Dutiful's decks are prowled upon by those who hired her for her services, bored pacing. Leaning casual in the pilot house, warmed by lamplight gleaming off the glass surrounding him, the captain strikes a match to touch flame to cigarette.
He takes no notice of those currently on board, a folded newspaper in one hand and eyes down to read. Who and what he ships back and forth between the mainland doesn't matter as much as if they can afford it. That didn't always used to be the way for him, but that's how it is now. So it's no business of his, the figures of those who approach the boat - late pick ups, undoubtedly - or what goes on beneath his feet within the main deck.
"It's the early bird that catches the worm, isn't that right, ladies?"
Li Zheng lends himself some credibility in name and appearance, in the fine cut of his suit and the fashionable glasses he peers over. He lounges upon the installed seating of white leather, a lanky gentlemen in his later thirties with his focus on Wendy and Devi. An open door displays a slice of the deck just outside of the room, and beyond that, the black water of the Narrows. "Why don't you tell me how much you're interested in and I'll tell you how much we're willing to part with?" Li Zheng says, tilting his chin towards the two.
"My clients are stocked up for the next week, possibly more, but that means my own reserve is down. About sixty, possibly a bit more, enough to tide me for the month if I don't have people needing any too badly or getting their own stashes pinched. Don't want to carry any more than that since - well, we all know why it's a little harder to cart it around these days." Wendy's got her hair back, leather pants and a simple brown leather motorcycle jacket. Ling had assured her it would all be okay, she wouldn't need to worry about, oh you know, the shit that happens on movies. She'd brought Devi regardless. Better to have a bad ass biker bitch as backup. Oh the alliteration.
Wendy looked out the sliver of view offered, lounging herself on the leather seats, one hand draped across the back of it. "Such a shame your not able to try it yourself. I rather like it. Never been one for drugs you had to shoot up but.." But Refrain has it's appeals. She looked over to Devi at her last words with a smile. "Doesn't it?"
Devi stands beside Wendy, and all the makeup in the world still exposes her lack of sleep. Her disheveled hair is managed into some state of arrangement beneath laquered chopsticks, falling down over her gold-shadowed eyes. She snaps a piece of gum between her lips before Wendy's inquiry inspires a sweet smile, tilted appealingly by her devilish interests. She nods agreeably. "But, keep in mind, Angel Eyes, business is booming. The Ravens are growing."
A soft gesture of her hand, turning all attention back from biker diva to artistic user, Devi falls silent, folding her arms across her bust in the required stance of any bad ass biker and body guard.
The chalk white suit of a slender young man is contrasted by a skinny tie that slices black down his chest; dark bangs brushing his forehead, one can't cal Jin Yeoh anything other than pretty and be completely honest about it. He's sprawled artfully over one of the leather seats, idly buffing his nails with a slender metal file and watching the two young women in converse with Mister Li with a lazy sort of smile. "«I like her tattoos»," he comments, apropos of nothing and in his native tongue, before returning to the task of absently grooming himself.
Holding up his hand to consider his nails after a moment, he reaches over to pick up a radio on the table beside him, murmuring something into it. A series of responses come, one at a time, as the lookouts report in all-clear.
The glance cast towards Jin Yeoh isn't resentful. Not even a little bit. Li Zheng even awards him with a smile, before he steers his attention back towards the woman, a considering angle of his head before he casts a look towards one of the men standing unobtrusive, off to the side. He's gestured forward, a suitcase in hand, which is laid down on the round table between them. It's opened with expert fingers, and the glow of blue—
Is almost startling, even by Refrain's standards, combating the lighting of the room which is perhaps purposely dimmed to better show off the caste of its shine. "You will not find a better quality," Li Zheng says, not looking at the rows of glowing vials. "And you will not get a better price for it."
"Zheng," is a quiet report, from the door, one of the men peering inside, stance casual. A glance to the women, then towards the two Triad members. "«We have company.»"
Meanwhile~.
Logan is in high spirits, which only occasionally ends well for anyone. Silks and labels have been left at home in favour of jeans, a plain shirt beneath a leather jacket that does a reasonably alright job at concealing the shoulder holster beneath it. He takes a last glance about varying faces— a former bouncer of the Happy Dagger, who'd only gruffly introduced himself to the others as McAvoy if at all asked, was the last of what made up the a motley crew to arrive. It's about the numbers that Logan could expect.
"Well, shall we?" is what he had said, with a smile not designed to be reassuring, before leading them out from the longer shadows of this abandoned, industrial wasteland and stomping on down towards the docked yacht. There are five of them— one is missing, Flint Deckard not making up the pack that head on down. McAvoy, as mentioned, along with Toru, Kase, Teo, who all only had so much time to introduce themselves to each other before plunged into the deep end.
Logan's boots— and they are nice ones, because why not— make authoritative thuds against the dock as they approach, easily gaining the attention of those on board. "Just follow my lead," is not the best advice in the world, but it will certainly do for now.
"I've seen some other selling glowstick mixed rat poison likely, in the clubs. I know where to come for the real stuff. Ling wouldn't steer me wrong, i'm sure of it" Wendy coo's happily. No widening of eyes when the stash is revealed though there is a smile that's brought on by the wash of luminescence that overtakes the boat.
"It seems that Devi here, wants a little extra more than the usual supply, so we'll double it" She's got enough, she brought enough. The tall brunette unpeels herself from the leather so that she can lean forward and look at the syringes all laid out pretty, the sheer number overwhelming with it's brightness. It's like looking into the chest in her closet. God, she itches to touch and use one right now. But that's rude.
"How many can you take right now Devi?" She's already reaching for her bag so she can bring out the bills to pay for the new stash. She could almost taste the happy memories, just sitting around the corner. She also had a hankering for something else, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. God damn that rabbit hole.
A quick glance, and then Devi is plainly keeping her gaze on anything other than the phosphorescent, azure glow. It's not far fetched to think that addicts like her could get a high just from that recognizable luminescene, the anxiety and need were rush enough to set her shifting her wait from one shapely hip to the other, setting leather slacks to creak a soft whisper.
"A quarter of it now, I'll hit you up for more soon enough." Another of those divine, cherry-painted, tilted smiles. The subtle interruption and note of incoming company draws her attention. "Unexpected company?" she inquires with plain curiosity, looking to the others with a pencil brow lofted into a fine arch.
Broad, level shoulders skulk stark underneath the austere lines of Teo's own jacket, loose black canvas that does better than all right at hiding the firearm hung at his ribs and the one at its back, lapels zipped up to cover the most basic of body armor vest and the plain green fabric of his shirt. Not protection enough to save your life from anybody who really means it, but maybe hollow-points wouldn't disperse so far, and the regular ilk will stay in him instead of soaring straight through, caliber depending.
The weather is nice, today. He likes the smell of the seawater. It's a little difficult not to smile at the redolence of marine brine and rust-eaten fiberglass, the motley crew of friends, acquaintances, and misappropriated enemies that he's chosen to ally himself with on this fine amphibious expedition.
He's at Logan's shoulder. "A'right," is verbal acknowledgment for the orders, accompanied by the footnote, simple, corollary to anyone who might have caught a glimpse through the windows already: "Goods and clientele are in the cabin, 'bout a dozen lookouts. Armed."
Otherwise, he occupies himself blinking blue eyes under the slight toss and rumple of the wind through the ragged of his hair. It's long enough, now, that the blond's growing back in, for better or worse, but that probably can't be held entirely accountable for the easy tension and blithe quiet presiding in his head.
There's one figure who moves along quietly in a dark blue hoodie and a pair of dark khaki cargo like pants, but these obviously are a special make as the pockets are lower down on the legs and there are zippers hidden under flaps to seal off his personal effects that he might have on him, sneakers on his feet and of course a dark blue bandana wrapped around a wrist as both hands coming up to tug the dark blue knit cap back down where it is supposed to be and he flips up the hood of his dark blue almost black hoodie.
This is Kase, idly chewing on the end of a toothpick, letting the thin stick dangle between his lips as he keeps his head bowed, those husky blues flicking up from time to time to get his bearings. He doesn't know these people, his ma would kill him if she knew, and this feels vaguely like one of those 'this is bad idea' scenarios. Also…they are on a dock going next to WATER. He grinds down harder on that toothpick and still hasn't said much save for a grunt at the very maximum. But he follows.
In contrast to some beefier Italians, Toru's hooded sweatshirt is filled out by a wee lanky Azn frame, though an overly large jacket had been intentionally selected. It does little to conceal the holster around his waist, but, all things considered, he figures people carrying guns aren't really something that is going to get much notice on Staten anyway. The hoodie is dark and grey, vague designs along the torso, while the shirt beneath is green and dinosaurs. Toru is still somewhat of a child.
He is not standing terribly close to Logan, which doesn't necessarily mean he is far. Close enough to hear any orders, of course, but not so much as to suggest any sort of connection between the two that everyone already knows about anyway. The others, he mostly does not know, although Teo is — confusing. He'll work on that later.
The entire situation itself is a bit different from what he's been used to in his employ to the demonic owner of The Ha Burlesque, but at the very least it's more exciting than standard bouncing work. And a potentially terrible opportunity to find out if his ability will help at all against guns.
The final report in, however, isn't an 'all clear' and comes just about at the same moment as the man leans in the door to make that statement. A sigh whispers past Jin's lips, the file vanishing up his sleeve before he rolls himself up in a smooth movement to his feet, hands raising to adjust his lapels, his cufflinks, straightening his tie. A smile's offered to the two women, as if apologizing for his departure, "Ladies. Pardon." Then he turns to step over along towards the door, clasping the man's shoulder and leaning in to murmur rapidly back and forth in Mandarin.
Two of the lookouts are standing upon the docks, and as they see the group approaching, one hops down from the support post that he was standing on; submachine gun hefted up to his shoulder, he regards the small gathering with narrowed eyes, voice lifting in a sharp and heavily accented call, "Wrong pier! Go the other way, gwailo."
Approximately just the right mix of hard angles, empty hollows and wire and iron lengths to blend flawlessly with the rust corroded cross braces and joists near the rickety peak of an adjacent loading crane, Flint Deckard is definitely physically here. Pragmatically, he's in grey and black. Grey shirt, black slacks, collar and rolled sleeves crisp, semi-automatic butting rigid and uncomfortable against the even more rigid and uncomfortable vest. The crane itself is, of course, the most rigid and uncomfortable of all, especially given that moving around to relieve the pressure of metal digging into his side isn't a great idea, especially, what with the rifle laid out long against his shoulder and everything.
No telling how long he's been up here, but he's had plenty of time to notice that something stinks like whiskey. Probably the vest. It isn't the rest of him, for once.
It's dark this high up. Murky, at least. No stars in the sky, moon choked off dull through dreary cloud cover and oily smog. Light enough to see little people milling around on the yacht down below, though. They're bigger through the scope when he hunkers down enough to recheck overall progress from one side of the boat to the other — which is fortunate for Logan's crew, because fancy boots and directionally different, dramatically unanticipated, fashionably late entrances aside, they'd all kind of look the same otherwise.
Some uncertain dithering over the guy Logan specifically said to shoot later, he rustles into enough of a shift to brace the rifle staunch against his right shoulder. His trigger finger slips in under the guard. Breathe in, hold a beat, breaaaathe ooooout.
The captain's butt explodes at approximately the same time the terminally unmistakeable report of a rifle announces itself in a lightning crack from on high. In one cheek and out the other. Maybe this the day one of those donut shaped floaty devices actually proves itself to be a handy accessory.
Nothing to see here, just two beautiful women with some suited men and guns, on a boat. We're on a boat, a mother fuc…. no flip flops sadly, or mermaids. Just a mass amount of blue fairy as she's taken to calling it. Wendy stiffens a bit, looking out the windows to see what's going on, working hard to keep an unworried look on her face. "Devi. What we do?" Ling had promised her it'd all be fine. But this doesn't look fine.. Oh god, that wasn't.. that was a … Gunshot! PTSD for the win as Wendy suddenly slithers to the floor of the cabin and stays there, head down. "Devi!"
"Don't think so!" Logan's voice is affable, unthreatening, and his hands are empty. He even stops his stride, pale green eyes lancing on over towards the wielder of the submachine gun upon response, before that crack of rifle fire cuts like a blade through the quiet. There's a scream from up in the pilot house, cigarette and newspaper tumbling with less force than what the captain hits the ground with. That was his ass. :(
No need for Logan to sweet talk his way on board, then. The pistol of matte black is withdrawn from the shinier jacket that hid it, Logan going from standing casual to moving. He can be quick when he wants to be, and darts now for the yacht. He'd asked them to follow his lead, and though he has nothing even resembling loyalty from the rest of them—
Well, they don't get paid until it's over, so nyeh. One bullet is loosed from his gun, angled towards the one holding a much ~larger~ weapon than he has, before it's swung back around to his companion. "We're taking this," is Logan's clipped order, along with a tilt of his chin towards the yacht, while the echo is still dying off the abandoned dock's planes and edges.
Devi cringes visibly, though it is not at the bark of the fire weapon, but at the squeal of her name. "Don't do that," she mumbles, even as her hands are already at work. Fingers tipped with painted black fish a black, semi-auto handgun from a holster in the small of her back - can't have it interfering with her attire, after all.
"Grab the shit," she comments, even as she's crouching over Wendy's splayed form. Priorities.
She scans the room with a grunt. Why they agreed to meet in a room with no more than one obvious escape route was beyond her. "And stay down." One route means funneling the people in to them, at the very least.
The horrible scream from the pilot house is definately a distraction— as much, if not more, than the actual crack of the bullet breaking the sound barrier on its way through the poor man's buttocks. It's enough that the guards on the dock look up, sharply, towards the sounds. A pause that's too long for the life of at one of the two Triad soldiers on the dock.
The one that'd called the warning figures out what's going on right away, spinning back and starting to drop the submachine gun into firing position— just in time to look down the barrel of Logan's gun. A crimson blossom spirals open in his throat, and he stumbles backwards, finger reflexively closing on the trigger to fire off a burst into the sky as he topples back… and back…
…and vanishes into the dark waters of the bay, joining the other corpses of men and boats that reside there.
The other man takes the opportunity to move for cover, lunging a few steps up the gangplank and diving off onto the deck, crying out, "«We're under attack!»"
Jin swears extensively in cantonese, shoving the other man out the door and onto the main deck, where he looks around desperately for the attackers as he pulls his gun out, and then he turns to offer a tight smile to Zhang, Devi, and Wendy. "Stay within, please."
All over the ship, people are ducking down for cover, weapons coming out, although not everyone knows where the threat is just yet.
Though Teo hadn't really excited that guy's butt to suddenly chaos, or the ensuing chaos, he'd expected chaos of some way, shape and form: Logan being Logan, the assignment what it was, his duty and current profession lending itself only rarely to procedurally simple, straightforward, and peaceful tasks. The first maiming translates to a straightforward call, really. All aboard.
Well: Teo, if not all. There's a vaulting step up, onto the gangplank, after the man who's retreating up the way Logan's pointing his gun. Optimistically creative reinterpretation of the circumstances has it that Logan can cover him and the Triad man scurrying away with his back turn provides cover against his cohorts— at least until the taller, longer-limbed Sicilian can accelerate enough to grab the Asian man by the scruff of his shirt, one-handed. A straight-planed knife flashing fishbelly bright up into the back of the man's ribs, incising at lungs in the grip of Teo's other.
As they scrape up onto the deck, his boot-clad feet skid wider, slowing, cementing his base as he prepares for the guardsman's weight to slide and get sloppy on him, whether from fight, panic or disoriented loss of blood pressure, bracing to support his enemy. Y'know. For a couple seconds: as long as there are others who want a clear shot from his other side.
Okay, dat be gunshot.
Dat be people running.
Dat NOT be calm night with What's Her Name doing sinful tings! - Kase does not look very happy, but that expression looks like his normal expression, rather blank. He has no gun for starters…and he's starting to think that taking charity from the YMCA or something. There was a really hot chick from a shelter 'round the way…
He reflexively ducks though, that hood still staying up as he throws an arm over his head and hunkers down before narrowing his eyes and taking off after the group he's supposed to be with. Extra body for the numbers yo.
For his part, Toru is considerably less practiced in venues such as this. Guns. His own is removed from its holster, formalities having been quite summarily dispensed of, and while held at the ready, he does not yet fire. Best to remain cautious, though at the same time he proceeds to board the boat along with everyone else, it being the Thing To Do. He stays behind Teo's general level, crouching a bit, and sort of staring at what's just happened with Teo's newfound meatshield. That dude's dead. … He's never actually watched anyone kill a guy in front of him.
And as cool as the whole concept is, Toru is suddenly very conscious of the fact that he's the only Asian guy in a group of white guys, and things are very close to getting very confused. And this could potentially not bode very well at all. Safety is switched off, and he moves juust a smidge more into 'using Teo as a shield' position. Just.. just in case. Given that there aren't any clear shots from here anyway.
"Are you happy, are you satisfied," Deckard doesn't hum or sing, exactly (ever), flat affect droning low and quiet with maybe just an adrenaline jazzy ~hint~ of bounce through the ringing in his ears, brows screwed up into an awkward knit behind whatever muddy light the scope manages to drag in, "how long can you stand the heat — "
Cap's down, rolling around in a blurry pool of ass and blood and more ass, but with all the scrambling that's going on down there now, that's about as much as he has a chance to make out before backs are smearing across the glass like angry bees and he's forced to settle aside a few inches to blink hard and drag the bolt back. A few seconds later and many feet below, there's the tell-tale tinkle of brass on cement.
Fwip. That's the sound of the briefcase being closed by Zheng's smooth hand coming down upon it, his glasses catching glare in the light as the blue glow is cut off and he angles a sharp look towards Devi. "Thank you," he says, his voice as clipped and polite as it was before. "But I think I have this under control myself. Let us wait until everything is taken care of, shall we?"
His own hand is drifting to his hip, where typically a weapon is kept, although if it's intended for anyone in the room, that isn't exactly made clear as his eyes go towards the shut door and the man in front of it.
Following Teo up onto the boat, a second bullet clipping off a wall of the yacht, pinging violently off something metal, Logan lands feet heavy against the deck, steps aside for the rest of them to get on board as the Triads scramble. "McAvoy, Kase— get below deck, make sure they're not clearing anything out. Everyone else get everyone off this thing and secure the bridge." This sounds like a movie, doesn't it! Logan's eyes are alight not with power use, just ordinary adrenaline. "I'll see about the clientele."
Those last few words are tossed over a leather-clad shoulder as he moves across deck at a run, free hand dipping into a pocket to extract a gravity blade which clicks into place.
McAvoy sends a glance towards Kase, grunts, and starts his lumbering trek as ordered, a gun now appeared into his hand too and otherwise ignoring the younger man he's sent off on his errand with.
Wendy's sure as hell not gonna make a grab for the pretty blue drugs even though right now, she'd rather be taking two of those and shoving them in her veins and ignoring that any of this is happening around her. So while she looks over to Devi with her big eyes and a are you kidding look when Zheng closes the briefcase, she's really thankful the woman is here and the weapon is in her hand. Because frankly, Wendy wouldn't even know the business end of a gun likely.
Instructions to remain in the cabin are promptly followed with a look to Devi and a jerk of her head for the woman to join her as the leather pant clad woman is reaming seated on the floor, legs folded under her and arms on the seats. "Waiting sounds great actually. I'm a treme… holy crap. Shit. They're evolved. They're…"
Wendy pokes a head up enough to look through the glass and in the direction of the boat and it's cargo. "What the fuck that's Lo…" Gopher head syndrome. Wendy's looking back and forth between the people in the cabin and ones outside. "Fuck fuck fuck fuckity god fuck… this… shit…."
The sudden desire to dismantle briefcase-man into itty-bits like she finds her motorcycle each morning is mighty tempting. The click of the container, and the disappearance of that astral-azure glow, do not help her current mood.
"Get down!" She grumbles when she notes Wendy's peeping. She grabs the girl by the shoulders and begins to lead her behind one of the large leather chairs. Her comment, though, earns a nervous glance back towards the tiny pane of glass. "Fucking Evos." It's damned to become her catch phrase soon.
For her part in waiting, Devi hunkers down to the right side of the chair, crouched onto one knee with her weapon trained on the doorway.
"«They're on the…» glrrk— " The last words never get out, as the man scrambling on board is suddenly seized from behind by the bounding Italian and summarily finds that he does, in fact, suddenly only possess one working lung. As crimson spills down his back, coating the blade and Teodoro's hand, he slumps backward, trying to bring his gun up with numb fingers that let it tumble down onto the main deck.
The sound of pounding boots onto the deck is audible inside the room where Wendy and Devi are with Zheng and Jin - as is the sound of gunfire as the guards finally clue in to what's going on. One of the men, tattoos up his neck and emerging from his sleeves, ducks around the corner from the saloon, a handgun in each hand as he opens up in a blare of bullets meant more to try and keep Logan and the others boarding down than actually drop them. Those up on the top deck are charging towards the stairs, heading down towards the lower deck, although one enterprising - and perceptive - man catches sight of a glint of metal up on the crane. A submachine gun's swept up, a spray of bullets directed towards the grizzled man playing sniper and interrupting his singing with the sharp twang and flash of bullets cracking off bits of rusted metal and struts.
Inside the door, Jin doesn't even draw a weapon, though he does draw a breath, turning to brace himself to the side of the door — though he doesn't make his move, not yet.
Meatshield is falling apart on Teo's arm, in wet pats, chunky pieces, and flagging respiratory problems. Teo yanks him along, the herky-jerky movements of a puppet following in only the roughest, most sloppy syncopation of their hands and feet. He hears the Englishman coming up behind, the chaos and cacophony of sentinels pounding in from up ahead. Rounds singing through the windows, pinging off the railing: would've been enough to scare him down into a crouch if he didn't have the man in hand.
"Refrain's in a briefcase," he yells at Logan, over his shoulder. His fingers tighten on the hilt of the knife, and his boots pick up the pace, thud-thud-knocking reverberating thunder into the deck's parallel boards, jolting, hustling his staggering captive ahead of him, quicker and quicker, before a brusque shove of squared palms and one knee sends the man head-first through the cabin door in a sprinkling dervish of shattered glass, twisted fiberglass, and crippled hinges.
Don't worry, be happy. Or something. He always hated that fish…Kase just adjusts his knit-cap and looks between the gangplank and then the boat and then the gangplank and over yonder, a little ways down…he doesn't exactly follow the others in the most direct route. McAvoy looks like a big boy after all.
Slinking into the shadows and taking a running start and the 'mechanic' leaps from dock to the side of the boat, landing with a quiet 'thud'.
He scales up the side of the boat like a cat/monkey hybrid, pulling himself over the side and ducking down reflexively and looking around warily before heading towards the area he's supposed to be heading towards…trying to avoid the main fracas. ALSO, snatching up one of those life preserver things…the white circular ones attached to a rope and weighing it in his hands even as he's moving quickly. After McAvoy, there is a blue eyed Hawaiian with a life preserver somewhere.
It's tempting to just keep hiding behind Teo, but eventually he's going to have to do something. Toru's tense, that's for sure, concentrating both on staying calm and on not turning himself into a bone statue out of panic. Probably, he had hoped for a more obvious advantage on this side, but regardless, he creeps a few feet behind Teo as the other man hobbles to the door, and takes in a few deep breaths. Let's get this over with, shall we?
He shoves himself out from behind the Sicilian, finally, a rough and tumbling sort of motion that sends him a bit past his mark and against the interior wall of the boat. Oof. Shakes his head a moment, stands up — though still hunched over — and hastens his way towards the stairs, aiming three shots at any thugs making their way down, then scanning for immediate threats independent of those.
Everyone's still running around. Shouting, shooting. Bleeding. Deckard's narrow jaw slacks under his squint — one eye generally less adept at sorting these kinds of things out than two — and drops the Queen to hazy mutter around the same time he palms the bolt back into a lock and snugs his shoulder up against the rifle's warm butt. It's probably the only warm butt he will be touching for a little while, what with the rate things have been going for him lately.
Tattoo cowboy man with the double gun action is brought up into his sights after several seconds spent searching to pick him out again (the muzzle flashes make it easier) and just — just — as his finger is grazing careful at the trigger, pitted rust and metal older than he is lights up all around him, kind of like he's inside of a fucking firecracker. TWANG TWING TWONG TWONG and he flinches against his own shot (crack), pulling it spare inches off target about the same time he loses his balance and goes tottering backwards away from penetrating lead and into naught but open air and the night rolling vacant for miles at his back.
Unfortunately, although he has experienced possessing twice the number of abilities of the average evolved, Deckard cannot fly. There's a sickening turn of booted feet over grizzled head, then a harsh grunt and a snap of rope sizzling taut some twenty feet further and more upside down than he would have liked to have fallen. Breath shakey and hands not much better, rifle swinging subdued over (under?) his head from the sling of the strap around his shoulder, he fumbles with the rope and then — no. No, the other rope. Right? "Belay…belay…" It looked easier when Teo did it, and his brows have taken on a distressed kind of furrow accordingly.
Meanwhile, far above the dejected, disembodied swing of his inverted boot treads and much farther above cold concrete, the crane shrieks its saurian disapproval and his nervous system is getting a little persistent about the fact that he's bleeding from somewhere mmmaybe important.
Spending three bullets on one man— two miss, one slices hot through a shoulder, at least, making enemy fire go wild— Logan glances back towards where Teo's shoved the meat shield through the glass of door's window, seeing mostly spraying shards, legs haphazard, blood staining. That'll work. Ducking towards the door and mostly using willpower and good fortune that no one above tries to defend the cabin entrance from above, Logan shoulders his way inside, hand twisting handle and corpse being shoved up against the wall as the dim light of the saloon pours out onto the deck and onto the erstwhile pimp.
Without completely looking at whoever is nearby— certainly not Zheng, who is backing, backing, backing up with an arm clasping the briefcase close— Logan lashes out with the gleaming steel blade in his hand, more speed and viciousness than efficient stabbing. White suit, he realises he was aiming for, the gun in his other hand raising up to point at—
Whoever moves first, really.
McAvoy, meanwhile, raises one large boot, and kicks in a different door along the side of the yacht, which would head on down as instructed— just as Kase monkeys his way over the side and lands just beside him. The man scowls at the younger of the two, already bleeding from a clip at his shoulder.
"Cover me," is growled, before the former bouncer is stompstomping his way inside the shadowy interior, gun pointed.
Someone brushed against Jin earlier in the day, you know, the earlier in the day that didn't involve men coming through doors bodily, loosing their asses, being stabbed or otherwise being eviscerated by … People who work for Logan. Or the Linderman group. Semantics at the moment are escaping wendy as she spots Jin getting ready and not reaching for a gun. Oh, this was gonna be fun. Like a root canal.
"cover your ears!" Wendy warns Devi, crouched behind the chair where the tattoo'd bike gang leader shoved her.
"He's gonna sing Opera" And with that, Wendy's ducking her head, hands clamped over her ears with her scarlet painted nails poking up through her black hair.
Devi doesn't isn't the first to move, not since Wendy is shouting beside her. There is only a moment to look from Wendy, to the weapon brandished in her fingers. But, Wendy's word was all the biker diva needed - damn, little, evo-detector.
The tattooed femme stuffs her palms against her ears, clunking the side of her head awkwardly with her sidearm given her refusal to release it, and shuffles back in an effort to stuff herself behind the seat with Wendy. If she wasn't going to aim, she wasn't going to play sitting duck, either, afterall.
The white-hot flash of pain as a bullet cuts across tattoo-neck's shoulder sends a shot wide, the bullet cracking into the deck audibly as he pulls back out of sight with a swear so dire that if it were in English, everyone's mother would slap them for simply knowing it. There's the rattle of boots on the deck as a few more guards pile up behind him and then rush out onto the party deck, three in all turning their weapons towards the intruders just as they crash into the decadent comforts of the saloon. They catch only the tail end of Logan shouldering his way into the cabin past the shattered bits of glass, which leaves them just one target at the moment. Three gun barrels swivel towards Teodoro once they've caught sight of their target, barking out extremely impolite things mostly drowned out by the sound of gunfire spraying haphazardly across the deck.
Inside, the two women duck and cover just as the ex-pimp comes crashing into the room with blade and gun in hand, and looking, shall we say, extremely dapper while doing it. It's a way that Logan has, just as it's a way that the short, slender man in the white suit has. The door crashes open, the metal edge of a knife flashes through the air—
Jin Yeoh's mouth opens wide, and he screams.
It's audible for at least a mile, here on the water, the knife in Logan's hand trembling violently for a fraction of the second before exploding into shards from the resonant encounter, the force of the sonic blast slamming into Logan like a sledgehammer within a heartbeat of him coming through the door. It's a sound that one can feel in their bones, an ache all through their skeletal system, and the capillaries closest to the surface - such as in the nose and ears - start to burst, one by one, through the skin.
Up above, the distraction of the scream has the gunman that was hailing leaden death through the air towards Deckard's perch turning away to jog for the front end of the ship. Lucky Deckard's assumed to be dead, since he saw the fall begin. Now if only someone'd let him down.
Down further along the ship, the door to the galley is kicked open, the door's lock splintering when it breaks under McAvoy's boot. There's the stairs, in the shadowy confines of the galley, and as the ex-bouncer heads downwards, there's a faint hiss as a wire's pulled taut…
Click
Teo flinches, the skin around his eye. Gunfire is shrieking, incoming attacks and Toru's gallant return snipes, not-girls spidering along the boat's lip, girls shouting in the preternaturally perspicacity of secondhand perspective borrowed inside his head seconds before the rip-roaring audiokinetic scream picks up the littered remains his human battering ram had left and hurls them toward the cabin's walls. A small, Deckard-shaped figure dangling, bouncing, and swinging from the cranes several hundred feet further out.
Mad glory, rude delight. The Sicilian probably thinks more about each independent event than that sociopathically simplified summation of events, but there isn't time for that. Teo gets down, scrambles back, out of the way of roiling soundwaves and holes Swissing his bits, tries— haphazardly— to map the grounds and the discrete quantity of human minds swarming it. Too many sets of senses to track at once, on an unfamiliar layout. He crouches against the wall, listens and watches, eyes disfocused for an instant, before rounding the corner.
The first psychic blast drops the leading goon coming up on the walkway around the cabin's girth, leaves him staggering, slamming into the queue of the next three. It's only the most temporary of distractions, lacking the raw potency that his analogue had had, once, but it's enough to trip up, startle, and dismay, make a few easier targets for Toru and himself to pop off at their slllightly closer approximation to leisure.
Man there is quite a bit of noise up there isn't there? Kase is just staring at McAvoy's back now. Cover him?! Oh yes. Kase makes a face behind him, sticking out his tongue through the life preserver and flipping him off. Then he lowers the life preserver and goes back to looking stoic and innocent. Adjusting his grip on his 'weapon' and covering his buddy.
Then as that door is kicked in and the screaming starts. "What the-" Then he freezes up from where he was as there is a familiar hiss. "Brah…Mickey Mouse…" He starts to warn a bit as he takes a few steps back more, looks over his shoulder and then forward towards who he is supposed to cover. "Psst. Mickey Mouse!" He does not remember this guys name okay.
Dominos falling down the stairs would make for fine enough targets — were Toru not suddenly holding his hands to his ears, yes the gun still held in one, mouth open in a silent wail of agony not unlike a particular Munch work. Burst capillaries that will most likely result in some bizarrely-patterned bruises aren't as concerning as keeping himself from going deaf. It takes a moment for him to recover from that, really, and he shakes his head slowly to try and snap himself back into awareness. Jesus fucking Christ.
Once he is pretty recovered from that blast, he checks the gun, finds it still alright, and resumes shooting at thugs. Dominos, yes. There were three of them, and Toru starts shooting in their general direction with a reasonable lack of discrimination, if some surplus of exuberance. Four more shots, and he's digging in his pockets for a new clip.
Ssssszzzzzzzz. Whatever Deckard just tugged at drops him another dizzying twenty-five feet before the rope locks again and his teeth clip involuntarily with the jerky stop of his skull after everything else. The barrel of his rifle swings around; bounces the scope off the side of his head; knocks both out of alignment. Hardly has he had time to close his eye against frustration mounting opposite the black of the leather patch concealing the left socket from view when the screaming starts and he startles, grip siezing taut around something it really shouldn't.
This time he falls a lot farther.
Sixty feet (AAAAAAAAAAAAA), seventy (AAAAAAAAA), eighty (AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH.) By the time he slams to a halt he's swinging with his bristly head some twenty four inches off the ground and the fucknut screamer is humming his molars against their sockets. A spent casing gleams idly past a hustled, scuffing brush of his fingers and the heavier rake of his rifle overhead, then down/up again after the knife on his belt. Fuck it. Wherever blood started at, he's been the wrong way up long enough for it to have trickled into a line up the side of his neck and soaked elsewhere. Healing starts almost as an afterthought as he saws jaggedy at the rope at his waist, pleasantly warm against wind that was starting to get a little uncomfortably chil — snap. He can't finish the thought on account of having just dropped himself in a crumpled heap down onto his own head and shoulders.
"…Grrruhhh," is roughly the noise he makes, nearly a wheeze on his way to unfolding himself and dragging onto a position on his feet, where his head can finally regain higher standing than his ass. He loses the rifle, struggle-hop-staggers out of the climbing harness and sets to sprinting for the boat motherfuckas.
By the time Logan's feet are lifted near clear of the floor and his back connects against the wall, bouncing him off it to crumple down onto the carpeted— noise has disintegrated into a continual, high-pitched whine. His own groan is drowned out by the force of the man's scream, and it takes a false start or two before Logan's eyes flash angry, vibrant green. Jin's ability is swiftly capped, reducing the sonic blast to ragged ordinariness.
Son of a— red crimson drips from his nose, which is hastily wiped and smeared with the back of his hand, looking at, and he can sort of feel (but not really relieve) the same substance in his ears, smeary streaks down his neck. Head pounding, he reaches for where he'd dropped his gun amongst the shards of his knife. Notoriously quick on the trigger, a bullet is released before he can even aim properly, puncturing through the wall beside Jin, before quick rounds of the same are aimed at the audiokinetic. Too many of them than necessary - no one ever said Logan was a smart fighter, just ruled mostly by impulse.
The briefcase falls with a thud, and Zheng is more or less scrabbling for a way out. He ducks behind furniture, fumbling for the pistol he has holstered too, one he wasn't meant to use. Wendy is just over —> there, and going ignored completely as he clicks the safety of his gun.
Meanwhile~.
"Mickey what," is perhaps not at all what McAvoy should be focused on as he steers a glare around at Kase, having noticed— and then mostly forgotten the sound of a hiss followed by a deathly click. "If you're afraid,m why don't you take a walk— "
Which is about all the man can state before he's— pieces. Blood spatters the interior artery of the boat, both a fine mist and chunks of flesh as the claymore goes off. Kase has about as much time as he can anticipate to avoid both body parts and shrapnel, the blast only adding more noisy chaos to the mess of The Dutiful.
A few more seconds and that scream will shatter bone, will start to liquify soft, important things inside of the cage of Logan's skin and bones— a few more seconds, that fail, the sudden gleam of green eyes causing the sonic barrage of Jin Yeoh's voice to gutter and fail to a high-pitched squeal and then nothing more than a ragged shout, one that stutters and stops a moment later. There's a look of utter befuddlement on the man's face, and then a bullet slams into the wall behind him. He's snapped out of a state of shock by the natural human instinct of OHMYGODIMBEINGSHOTAT. The bullets stitch a line along the wall as he darts to one side, one skimming across his shoulder in a spray of blood before he's crashing through the window, tumbling awkwardly over the edge and landing in a tumbled heap of limbs on the deck.
In retrospect, maybe he should have brought a gun with him.
On the other side of the deck, that psychic blast slams into the lead chinese man— reeling back, he crashes into the others, tangling them up in confusion just in time for Satoru's little pop gun to fire into the cluster of confused Triad soldiers. There's a few cries of pain as at least two of them find flesh, and in stumbling back one of them goes over the edge to fall towards the water below. Splash. The tattooed man ducks back from around the corner, snapping off a shot at Toru with his good arm in retaliation.
Meanwhile, down in the hold, there's dead silence save for the echoing of the claymore's detonation in the room and the wet sound of pieces of McAvoy falling off the wall.
It's rather loud and blurry down here, even on the relative scale of things. Teo stops just short of having to count on his fingers how many mooks are left. Not many. Five? Six? As the next clip clacks home in Toru's semi-automatic, he grunts something at the younger man, the sort of imperative shared between comrades— cover me, shoving his own spent weapon under arm, swapping it out for the one at his back. He pulls himself off the railing, shoulders clamped down around a low rectangle, head squared in, the axis of his body running oblique; he practically slithers across the deck, around the cabin's corner.
The floor seems inappropriately clean, of all things, all sharded glass and broken plaster sonically shoved too far out of the range to obstruct or rough friction against his soles. He squats down on the deck, readies his weapon, listening for the hurdling pant and scuffing approach of feet, a sudden horsetail flick and swivel of shadow incoming below—
Something explodes. Downstairs, but still.
Sicilian and Chinese stiffen, eyes huge in their heads for two seconds, trying to make assess the wisdom or mathematical logistics of jumping into the sea before the vessel improbably explodes like a fucking movie set. Chinese man remembers something about the ship's defensive installations at about the same instant as the Sicilian glimpses Kase's high-definition perspective on McAvoy-in-half. Both men shock back into motion at almost the same time, give or take Teo's instant's distraction at the sudden absence of Deckard's fruitbat silhouette against the sky. Trigger-fingers go, slugs cracking into the wall, pitting into the backs of furniture, a singing ricochet off a ladder's rung that sends the whole of the metal skeleton vibrating like a soprano's voicebox.
"Brah, there's a bo-" EXPLOSION. Kase holds up the life preserver and ducks back a few steps more out of the general blast zone.
It takes a few before His shoulders raise as he takes a few steps forward, tip toeing through the mess that was McAvoy. "Minnie's gonna be pissed." Gross gross gross gross gross, tip toe. "SHIT was that your SPLEEN, dude! NOT COOL!" He hisses under his breath, kneeling down briefly for a second only to wrap his bandana around his hand and scan the area warily.
"Not cool…" He brushes a bit of guts and flesh off of the gun which he wiggles and pries out of McAvoy's hand which is attached to an arm and the-it is just too much to think about. He checks the clip and such things with a grimace. "I am so gonna kill your ass…" He straightens up now.
Clip in place, Toru nods sharply to Teo. Cover, right. Not that he wasn't going to keep shooting upwards anyway, his sarcastic impulse adds, though he doesn't voice his remarks. He does, however, shift his position a bit, moving into an angle that would make it difficult for him to be shot at from above, and in doing so, makes it rather easy for the corner-hugging Chinaman to nail him in the fucking shoulder.
His left shoulder, but still, there goes Teo's cover for a minute.
His gun-hand instinctively clamps onto his shoulder as Toru lets out an unrestrained cry of pain, biting his lip as he covers the wound. It's right where the arm meets the shoulder, too, and clearly hurts like a sonofabitch. There may be tears, but he will later say his face was wet because it was raining. Which it is not. Nonetheless, the gunshot leads him to retreat even more, hissing in pain but, when he gets far enough that he figures he isn't going to just be target practice, proceeds to give the boy scout try to continuing to fire at goons from above with.. diminishing accuracy.
For all that portions of the main deck might've been cleared of glass and brass, Deckard's abrupt arrival into the fray is made somewhat inelegant by the fact that his boots fail to find immediate purchase in the first blood slick he goes greasing through on his way to the Saloon allll the way into the short outside wall far opposite of Teo and Toru.
Guns are firing, people are exploding and all he can note as he leans to squint his good eye carefully around the corner is that there are a lot fewer ambulant people down here than there were when he was looking at it through a scope a few minutes ago. The fact that he's breathing so hard he can't hear himself think more complicated thoughts than that doesn't seem to phase him. He has a gun in his hand and there are people talking inside and one of them sounds like a faggy Brit.
Logan lets his gun drop in lax hands as the audiokinetic pitches himself bodily out the broken up door, his eyes remaining that glowing green for as long as Jin remains within thirty feet. Only then does he think that maybe that distant yowling could be a human voice, and he turns to look in time to see Wendy beat in the head of a collapsed Chinaman. Bright eyes widen in some surprise, and despite the blood smeared beneath his nose and on his mouth, unflattering and slick— he straightens his jacket.
"Wendy!" That was too loud, but certainly friendly. "We just keep running into each other, don't we?!"
Ow. Logan lifts a hand to press against one ear, feeling like a drill is still boring its way into his skull. It could be about time to check if the minibar is well stocked. "Piss it," he curses, beneath his breath, then turns a wary look towards the shattered door. That hand lowers from his head, starts to fish in his pockets for a new clip.
Zheng remains unconscious, gun and briefcase scattered away from him, smeary red at his temple. At the edges of Logan's hearing— more detectable out the right side of his skull, no idea what the left side is doing— he can hear the continual ratatatat of gunfire. Haven't they won yet? What does he pay these people for.
"Fuck this shit. It'll be okay Wendy. They'll have enough to cover you, just go to the boat wendy. Shoulda just stuck to the golden fucking dragon. Thank you Ling, thank you. Hi Logan, don't we just."
Wendy's talking to herself really as Devi joins the black haired woman and covers her back as the evo-detector reaches down to grab Logan's arm - one not fishing for a clip - and haul him up. Thank got for wearing flats tonight. "Devi! Grab the fairy. God damnit to hell. I did not need this. I just wanted some Fairy Logan. Lets get off this boat" because there's some unnatural sounds below and damned if she's going to die here. She'll have someone send the money to ling once she counts how many syringes there are.
"YOUR FRIENDS BETTER NOT KILL ME LOGAN AFTER I SAVED YOU!" Surely, yelling will manage to be heard by the former pimp as she's looking out the broken cabin door.
The gunfight's mostly over now, the occasional pot-shot taken by the surviving Triad before they withdraw out of line of sight; spurred on by the sharp, curse-laden insistance of Jin Yeoh as he hurdles the rail himself, "«Move, worms, get off the damn boat! Swim for the next dock!»"
Logan's team appears to have taken the boat, for the time being. There's always the possibility of reinforcements showing up.
Kase is left looking at the blood-stained stairwell leading down belowdecks, where presumably the rest of the shipment is. It's dark down there. Of course, there's probably a lightswitch, this isn't a horror flick.
The assailant who opened a small door in Toru's shoulder and has been doing his damnedest to give Teo some of his own hears Yeoh's command. The firing stops, after one final spate and a hollowresonating click-clack of mechanical parts ratcheting on an empty chamber overwriting the thumping backward retreat. Teo has a terrible bruise forming on his elbow, a fierce ache scrawling coalmarks up his nostrils and the temples of his skull, and — hey, Deckard made landing — his aim is completely off when he finally careens around the corner to bury a knife in the coward's back.
Honed steel sings harmlessly over the Triad man's shoulder, instead, as he flings seemingly ungainly elbows over knees over railing, dump-a-jump launches himself bodily into the sea's black water below. Other retreats make themselves known, if you listen. The ruffling splish-splash and geronimooo cry of the Chinese retreating to water. Teo scowls, vicious as a toddler. Stumbles back, wiping his nose with callused thumb and forefinger.
There's a perfunctory glance, this way and that. Checking the coast is clear, is that Toru's okay, nicked but demonstratively not in an artery or anything unnecessarily perturbing, Deckard's standing on his stalks. And streaky blood tracks.
'I'll drive.' It's only when he says this out loud, repeats Logan's order from hours earlier, that he realizes how deaf the gangster's repeat efforts to drill him in the head had made him. There's a blink. Absentmindedly, he stretches his jaw, like popping his ears inside a descending airplane's pressurized cabin, scowls further. Scrambles toward the bridge, fast as his feet can carry him. It won't be long before the engine clears its throat with patronizing delicacy, and begins to pull free of the discord's site with dainty haste, blade over rotor's blade. She's a classier boat than your average pirate grounds.
That bandana is probably going to be burnt after all this is over. Kase does however make his way down the stairs, cringing, and squinting as he lets his eyes adjust to the light. One hand groping for the light switch once down there. "You no bring flashlight? You so lolo, god…" He cringes as he's pretty sure that squelch sound was another something that should be in a body.
"I no hear as much guns you know Mickey, I be tinkin' they kill all the fortune cookies…" He mutters as he continues on his way down, gun held in one hand as his other hand has been shoved through the hole of his life preserver and is being used to find the damn light (okay really, to keep him from slipping but shh.) He sighs and goes back up a few steps to find 'Mickey's bulk. Or what he can find.
"I dare say, I be tinkin' you a rude haole just all there in pieces, how we explain this to the bossman? How bout we say you slip and fall on it…" He mutters, looking up at nothing in particular when he hears things starting to move. "We…gonna stay down here…yeah. Til they all get calm after getting turned into pasta strainer."
For certain definitions of 'okay', but once the bad guys start jumping ship, Toru drops his gun and slumps to his knees. Adrenaline helped to keep him going for a bit, but jesus christ his shoulder hurts and he is going to make sure everyone knows it. His left arm hangs slack, right hand clamped over the wound once again, blood not really pouring out though the sleeve of his hoodie is pretty well soaked in it. Similarly, blood from his ears and nose don't help in making him look very well except in the eyes of people more used to this than he is.
"Fucking shitheaded Chink asshole!" is his initial commentary and, coincidentally, the first thing he's said all night. He leans against the wall of the boat, head tilted up, trying very hard not to cry in front of the guys. It'd be embarassing, innit. "Fucking shot me, where the fuck are we going!" He's also shouting rather overly loudly to compensate for that temporary deafness, though Deckard is probably the only one who'll notice anyway.
All the live bad guys are jumping ship. Except one. One who can't jump because he doesn't have an ass. There's a groan from the upper deck — something that sounds a little like the flop of a not-quite-dead fish, and Deckard rankles his nose. Everyone is all fucked up around the face and shouting — Toru in particular gets a sideways look as he swings himself around to drag himself one-armed up the nearest ladder. Maybe once he stops his own hemorrhaging he'll have a warm butt to touch after all.
And maybe if he stays up there and is quiet for long enough, they won't realize he's still tagging along and he can get a nap under smothered stars before he has to grope everyone else.
Logan at first can only trail hopelessly in Wendy's wake as she gets him to his feet, makes motions like maybe they should be leaving, and then there's that other one picking up the briefcase— which gets Logan's squinting scrutiny, hand going tight around his gun as he wrenches his arm quite proudly out of Wendy's grip as she mutters about fairies and having them and who are you calling a— never mind. Rolling his shoulders, he moves with both women out of the ruined saloon at a wounded shuffle that may or may not be more affectation than actual injury.
Out into the cool night air, Logan surveys the deck. Bleeding Toru, a vanishing Deckard but more importantly, a vanishing Teo as he heads bridgewards. The motor starts to purr to life, which Logan more feels coming up through the deck and his fancy boots than really hear.
He's moving with both Wendy and Devi, as if perhaps he really did intend to go with them, before quite neatly, a hand goes out to grab the dangling handle of the briefcase, and—
Thwok. The butt of his pistol connects with the back of Devi's head, moving an ankle to catch her foot and encourage the tumble overboard. Splash. He steers a step back from Wendy, and tilts his head towards the gangplank. "This is where you get off," is said, again, just a little above normal conversation tone, a weary point of his gun around her knees as he backs up, briefcase and all, further inwards the dock. "And I'll see you later, right? Don't be a stranger."
"Ink!" Devi's gone overboard and Wendy looks in surprise. What the fuck Logan. She wasn't expecting that, expecting there and her jaw tightens, eye's narrowing. He's taking the refrain. This clusterfuck of a night started out nice and now…
Wendy just sighs as her hands go to her waist and… undo the button of her leather pants, starting the process of getting them off. It's for the better actually, she knows that the asians are triad and if she went off with him, it was good as dead. She may be high on the social ladder, but she's hung out down below enough.
Down to a black thong, leather pants tossed to Logan. "Keep them safe, they're my favourite bright eyes" and she turns on a heel before she leaps over the side, to try and get a hand on devi, an arm around the woman like a lifeguard and start towards the asians in the water, putting a scowl on her face.
Some distance away, though in view of the yacht…
The water sprays away from Jin's head as he bursts from the chill, dirty surface to grasp hold of the edge of the next pier over, dragging himself up on it. That white suit's stained from the brackish, rust-bloodied waters of Fresh Kills Bay, streaks of silt and worst pollutants staining the once-pristine fabrics and leaving his bangs plastered down over his face, the injury still bleeding freely down his arm and back to cover the suit jacket crimson on that side. "«I'll see you in the Hell of Being Skinned Alive for this,»" he hisses between clenched teeth, glaring angrily at the yacht from a distance. There's gasps for breath and splashes as the few surviving Triad soldiers begin to pull themselves out of the bay as well, coughing and spitting up water, checking on one another and also casting looks at could kill towards the vessel.
It seems that Logan's men have taken the boat, for as long as he can hold it.