Date: May 26, 2010
Porter makes for an adequate distraction.
Miami - Florida
Those blue eyes seem to bore right into her soul. The curly brown hair falling into a mop as he gazes through the long bangs before lifting his drink to his lips and taking a loud sip from the glass. He licks his lips, the thin mustache framing the top getting a bit of that swipe of his tongue as well. She is counting diamonds, he wants some of them. The heavy bags of diamonds on her chest make it difficult to breathe, so she takes one deep gasp before holding the aching oxygen in her lungs. Then she begins to count and separate the good from the bad.
Slowly, Vasha's eyes open to the rocking of the boat underneath her. Tilting her chin, she spies a mess of unkempt brown hair curled into her chest. The two arms around her seem to be gripping for dear life and this causes a moment of tension in her muscles. Uncertain of what to do, she lays there for a moment, staring at the ceiling of the master cabin.
The clock blinks to 06:01 and she takes another deep breath and places a hand on the shoulder of the man in her bed. It would be so easy right now, he's so vulnerable; but she is an employee now, for better or for worse.
A light touch is all it takes to wake Porter. He pulls in a quick, quiet gasp of air and tenses, instantly alert. As soon as he remembers where he is and with whom, he relaxes his grip. "Sorry," he mutters to Vasha abashedly.
Whatever dreams have found him, they've left him looking more ragged than when he laid down. There are circles under his eyes and faint lines of tension around his mouth. Still, he smiles. "Morning."
"Good morning Captain, you do not look well rested at all. Perhaps I should allow you to sleep in the same quarters as Rivero? That way you will be afforded some measure of relaxation without my distraction." Though her tone of voice is rather cold, her hand doesn't leave his shoulder which sends a rather mixed message. In fact, her fingers are tracing light patterns on his skin.
A shadow passes by one of the windows and Vasha's eyebrows draw together for a moment. She holds the expression, even going so far as to tilt her head toward the cabin windows. After a moment of silence, her lips make a minute twitch on one side and she refocuses her attention back on the man on top of her.
"I think not," Porter replies good-naturedly. "He's a scraggly little deck rat. And he smells like cheese. I much prefer your company." To drive his point home, he leans in to the crook between Vasha's neck and shoulder to whiff in a deep breath. "Mmm," he grunts. "Smells nice."
When he lifts his head, he looks into Vasha's eyes and follows her gaze, but he's too late to spot anything. "Nng," he grunts again, this time a neutral, sleepy sound. "Feels nice, too."
Lifting her other arm, Vasha touches her fingertips to Porter's eyebrows, tracing the line of dark hair until it ends. Then she pulls her hand away again, her face remaining as stony and impassive as ever. "I am pleased that your purchase is suitable, Captain…" She grows silent for a moment, her eyes once again darting toward the window before she narrows them slightly. "…Perhaps we should discuss what it is I will call you after Rivero boards the ship, as he will be the new Captain. I will not be calling you Mr. Smith."
That one sound has Vasha throwing Porter off of her and she vaults to a stand. Reaching down, she grabs his shirt and pulls it over her head. It's rather fortunate that even though he is an inch or two shorter, he has a slightly thicker build. As she passes by the chair near the door, she grabs the bikini bottoms and hops as she puts them on.
"Stay…" she commands, then winks out of sight.
As groggy as Porter is, his senses are still sharp. The thumping sets him in motion, scrambling awkwardly from the bed and rolling to his feet. Vasha is gone by the time he's located his boxer briefs and struggled into them.
Should I stay or should I go?
He only hesitates for a moment before dashing out the door and after her. Barefoot and moving at top speed, he screeches around each corner with comical, Flinstone-style heelskids. One of his skids brings him into visual contact with six men, each dressed in a mishmash of khaki and olive drab. Each is also carrying some sort of firearm, all the way from a lowly snub .38 revolver to the ubiquitous AK-47 assault rifle and everything in between.
All six of them are facing Porter, which is fortunate, because Vasha is on the other side of them. For the moment, the would-be attackers and the South African princess have yet to notice each other. It's up to Porter to seize that moment.
The CIA agent pulls down the front of his shorts and exposes himself to the half-dozen men holding guns. While they're distracted, he stomps on the toes of one, kicks another in the groin, and elbows a third in the guts. Then he flees, cutting through the door to the engine room with laughter trailing behind him.
Winded, surprised, pained, and generally insulted, it takes the mercenaries a few seconds to organize themselves. Then, as a unit, they follow Porter into the deafeningly loud engine compartment, occasionally popping off poorly aimed shots as they go.
As silently as a leopard stalks its prey, Vasha follows behind the men as they begin to shoot holes in her boat. Her boat. She recognizes all of them, Sol's men, likely tails from the supposed Sugar Daddy in order to drag her back to New York.
The noise of the engine drowns out any sound she makes as she springs onto her hands and grabs the tail of their group by the neck with her legs. With a low grunt, she hefts forward and twists her body as she feels a satisfying crack of bone between her knees.
Porter is out of sight and for Vasha, out of mind. What she is concerned about is the damage to her very expensive new toy.
Porter's voice is just loud enough to reach the ears of the mercenaries. They each turn toward the sound, brandishing their weapons. None of them notice that their numbers have diminished by one.
While they peer about like simpletons, Porter creeps around to the rear of the group. Unseen, he melts out of the shadows, picks up an enormous torque wrench that's leaning against a wall, and hefts it experimentally. Apparently satisfied, he nods, switches to a two-handed grip, and then swings for the back of a mercenary's head like a batter at the practice cages.
The man crumples to the deck and the wrench clatters down beside him. Grinning victoriously, Porter slips around a stack of crates and presses his back against them, out of view again before anyone is the wiser.
From the top of that same stack of crates, Vasha flips down to the floor right in front of Porter. As she straightens from her crouched landing, she brushes against him and looks directly into his eyes. Hurried, the brunette leans forward and brushes her lips against his while at the same time breathing one name, "Sol."
Without waiting another moment, she slips away, her feet making a little patter as she runs through the engine room, charging at one of the gunmen. After a series of handsprings, her landing consists of clipping the gentleman in the head with her foot and bringing him down to crush his skull against the concrete flooring.
Abruptly reduced to half their number, the mercenaries are definitely beginning to panic. The one holding a revolver spins in wild, frenzied circles, his weapon held in front of him like a protective talisman. When he spots Vasha, he draws a bead on her and squeezes the trigger.
Grinning, Porter pops up in front of the man and grabs onto the revolver's cylinder, preventing it from rotating and keeping the gun from firing. "Sorry," he says cheerfully, punctuating the apology with a vicious headbutt that disarms the mercenary and sends him sprawling. "That one's mine."
Where there were once six there are now two. "I would suggest that you return to your employer and inform him that his invitation to return to New York was respectfully declined." Vasha's voice booms over the noise of the boat's mechanisms as she finds one of the remaining two men and grabs his head. Staring him straight in the eye, she snarls dangerously before flicking her arms quickly, abruptly ending his time.
"Not you," she adds to the recently extinguished life at her feet. "You were never capable of delivering a message properly." Reaching down, she takes the dead man's handgun and cocks it as she calls out again, "If I find one hole in my vessel, I will take the payment out in the blood of whoever is left alive!"
"Whoa! Vasha! Vasha!" Porter hurries to catch up with his dusky-hued lover. When he does, he interposes his body in her way to force a halt. Gently, he lays a hand atop hers and pushes the tip of the revolver down toward the deck. "Calm down. It's over." His other hand comes up to touch her cheek gently, a gesture meant to comfort both of them. "It's over," he repeats. "You're not hurt, are you?"
"I am quite calm, Captain," Vasha informs him in a strong but impassive voice. "This is my property they have trespassed upon, not that of the old fool or my father." She definitely is Jan's daughter. As brutal, almost as ruthless, cold hearted and clinical when it comes to doing what is best for what she considers her own.
Turning to looks around them, she clenches her jaw and purses her lips showing a hint of the rage that is normally reserved for when she is fighting. "I am unharmed," she emits lowly before looking him over, "And you?"
"I…" For the first time, Porter checks himself for injuries. "I think I'm…"
Then the pain washes over him. Though he can't see the buckshot in the back of his shoulder, he can very suddenly feel it. One of the wild shots must have grazed him. It's a minor wound, only a few pellets lodged in the muscle, but it hurts. His heart is still pounding from the fight, causing the three small holes to bleed freely.
"I think I'm hit," he finishes lamely.
There's a twitch in her eyebrows betraying the woman's alarm at his admission. A huff of air escapes her nostrils quickly, flaring them slightly before she begins to breathe normally. "You wish to be transported to a hospital?" Though it's asked as a question the harsh tone in her voice makes it sound a little more like an accusation of weakness. "They will ask where you received such a wound. Your hospitals in America have a habit of sticking their noses where they do not belong, much like your police officers."
"Uh, yeah," Porter agrees, snorting out a laugh. Now that the post-fight adrenaline is wearing off, he's starting to stiffen up rapidly. "No, I can't go to a hospital. Covert ops aren't really police-friendly. If they were, they wouldn't be covert." Awkwardly, he twists around until he can see the wound. He purses his lips thoughtfully and continues. "It looks minor. Think you could dig out the projectiles for me?"
Moving her hand swiftly to the bolt of the gun, Vasha flips the switch to the clip, releasing it before ejecting the last round. She hands the empty weapon over to Porter before looking him in the eye and softening her gaze some. "That would all depend on how much like a little girl you sound as I take them from you," her tone is gentle, almost friendly. Not sparing him another moment, she turns and strides from the room. "Please refrain from bleeding on anything that might stain," she adds as an afterthought, "I would so hate to punish you for it."