Book 1: The Rebirth of the Aztecs

Chapter 3 Part 1: Knives and Bad History

Beatrice froze harder than a glacier going through a flash freeze. Drake also could see what she was physically hiding. Most men, even men in the pirate’s line of work, would’ve been too distracted by the assets on display to see the extra fabrike above the blossoming lingerie constricting her waist. Stoneman was more in a depressed state as the reality of his life came crashing down around him so the anomaly caught his attention instantly.

She hid the holster pretty well despite how little flesh was actually being covered. The first officer had been in this position before, and had practiced enough to be proficient. How many men had fallen victim to that hidden blade in the night? How many men had her employers blackmailed into killing?

Judging by the clientele aboard the mini cruise ship Drake doubted any of them really kept her up at night. She was the tool you used on pee pons who had outlived their usefulness. They still trusted the gifts you gave them even as the knife came sinking home. Many a Cohen type had met his end in the dark thinking they were about to have the time of their lives.

“If you knew why did you send me away when you were torturing the pedo?” Drake smirked at the question. She probably thought he’d been playing her into a trap like the late Captain fish food.

“Please, you’re an assassin not an interrogator. Did you ever stick around to study your handiwork? A knife in the dark is only messy to those who can see it,” Stoneman said while forcing himself to not be distracted by the overflowing femininity on display. He was male after all, and a man had to be significantly more depressed for a much more extended period of time to completely ignore a number fifteen dressed to kill. Literally.

“Usually I just poison them.” Beatris admitted in a small voice.

“That extra secret k bar says differently.”

“This is not a crappy knock off pressed bayonet from Kansas pirate,” the gorgeous woman whipped out the curved blade that was more tiger claw than knife,” This is a layered damascus steel karambit that is hand grounded to perfection. Do not sully fine art with a hunk of steel hammered by monkeys into something that only an ape could use.”

“And”, Beatrice dug inside her bra revealing a black and chrome switchblade with gold trim to the bug eyed surprise of the Pirate on the bed in front of her,” This is over a thousand yen worth of custom made fighter jet aluminum ready to carve you like a stuck pig if you think for a moment I don’t know the practicalities of a strait blade. These will gut you like the cad fish you are whether you’re at arms reach or on top of me.”

Drake stared at the knifes then back at the First Officer’s bosom. He had not seen that switchblade. He supposed size did matter in this case, and she had a specialized bra holster. Stoneman would’ve called the contraption a gimmick, but he’d only seen the karambit. And yes, he had assumed this pretty lady was larping a bit with the thing. The hooked blade was far harder to master than a practical straight edge. Now the pirate was thinking this lady knew exactly what she was doing. That should have made him pull his piece, or dive under the bed for spare falchion. Instead he just sat there like a lovestruck puppy over his empty dog bowl.

“Why are you looking at me with more hunger now than when I stripped?!” Shouted a very irate Beatrice who, despite waving a pair of knives around, seemed far less threatening than when she was melting down with a massive kitchen utensil in her hand. All Drake could do was shrug.

“Guess I just find a woman who knows her tactical knives so thoroughly sexy,” the Pirate said, feeling a bemused smile fill his face. His mother would not approve. Of course, she always thought he’d bring a nice girl home from the capital of Two Harbors to their ranch on Santa Rosa when his Marine days were done, and that memory threatened to ruin his mood even with the half-naked assassin chick in his cabin.

“Tell me how you know why I’d kill you if the Captain ordered it,” Beautrice said with emotion in her voice.

Drake looked at the woman, and thought most people wouldn't be too surprised if they saw her like this. Wild, disheveled, and ranting about her favorite knives you’d accidentally insulted, but she was right. It’s not like they were paying her bonus for seducing, and killing washed up assets and informants.

“Your real name is Beatrice Retief, I assume you kept your first name for sentimental reasons, you’re a South African Boer, and as best our research could nail down Captain Clint picked you up from a detention center in New Zealand. I imagine they weren’t going to deport you to New Rhodesia either.” Genocide was a nice term for what took place in the dark continent while the world was too busy blowing up what was left of the previous world order to care. Things took an unexpected turn when the white Afrikaners formed up in one last stronghold in old Rhodesia now called New Rhodesia.

They were a country under siege by the roving bands of nomadic tribes and warlords that roamed across the depopulated continent. Much like the original Rhodesia the world had turned on them or ignored them. New Zealand still had ancient old world power running the show, hence dealing with pedos on their ships, but it was better than being tortured and raped to death by a pack of savages if you could reach New Rhodesia which was understandably very leary of outsiders of all kinds.

More importantly, the shadowy government in control of much of the oceanic islands and the parts of Australia not gobbled up by China still insisted on sticking to the old political maps which meant a white Boar like Beatrice would be shipped off to the old South Africa territory where a multitude of tribes claiming to be the true descendants of the Zulus were busy rapping, and pillaging each other into dust. It was a death sentence. A gruesome death only limited by the given warlord’s imagination.

“Let me guess,” Drake continued while crossing his arms, and discreetly putting his hand on his sidearm,” Old chum face Clint would say knock this freak off, and if you don’t I’ll send you back to the killing fields?”

Beatrice answered by spitting into a nice glass flower vase on the dresser built into the cabin wall. Drake realized she didn’t want to sully the lush carpet or the solid wood floors of the cabin. He was sure the floor was made out of some fancy rainforest wood and the carpet woven by cupids on LCD to justify the outrageous price tag.

“Let’s be clear. I don’t care how many scumbags went on this boat, and became fish food. You can have your freedom. Pick a port, heck ask to go to New Rhodesia itself, and I’ll make it happen. I know people in the area that can take you inland. You’re a Boer. They’ll accept you," Drake said with his best official voice he used throughout his military service.

“No one would do that.”

“Well, I would...

The Story Will Continue Every Monday

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