As the two cartel speedboats neared Ryan's yacht—still 200 meters away—they split off, one veering left, one right.
Classic flanking maneuver.
Ryan grinned.
The massive body of the Riva85OperaSuper was a fortress in itself. Let them split. It only made things easier.
Fighting ten enemies at once? Tough.Fighting five at a time from a fortified yacht? Manageable.
He gave a mental command.
Summon: Doppelgänger.
White Wolf appeared beside him—his armed clone, ready for war.
Cartel members using black-market guns? Nothing strange.Ryan using those same black-market guns? Perfect cover story.
They both ducked into the yacht's central cabin and waited.
Let them board. If he opened fire too early, they'd pull back and rain hell on him with their SCAR rifles.
Ryan and White Wolf each took one side. Triggers ready. Breaths steady.
On the speedboats…
"Capo, looks empty," one thug reported into his radio.
"Board it," growled Qasim, the scar-faced cartel lieutenant. "Rich idiots always hide in panic rooms. Let's see if they're bulletproof."
He smirked, bloodlust in his eyes.
"Bet there's a Hollywood starlet hiding in there. Rich yacht like this? Probably more than one."
The men howled with laughter.
Qasim had no idea how right he was.
Below deck: Taylor Swift. Elizabeth Olsen. Two world-famous icons.
One team climbed aboard from the rear. The other used grappling hooks to board from the starboard side.
They split to sweep the yacht from both ends.
Back inside...
The first thug stepped into the rear cabin.
Black panther tattoo on his neck. SCAR rifle in hand.
He didn't see Ryan.
"BOOM!"
The Remington 870 roared.At this range, 12-gauge buckshot meant instant death.
The thug crumpled, SCAR flying from his grip.
The rest froze. Then—
"HE'S IN THERE!" Qasim bellowed.
Three more cartel men unloaded—TEC-9s and Scorpions vomiting lead.
The room turned into a warzone.
But Ryan was wedged between wall and ceiling. Cramped, but safe.
Up top…
Five cartel members crept onto the upper deck, saw nothing, and made for the stairs to the middle cabin.
They never looked up.
White Wolf, hanging off the rooftop, flipped down.
Glock in one hand. Beretta in the other.
"BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!"
Two men down.
"SH*T!" the others turned and sprayed wildly—but White Wolf had already vaulted back onto the roof.
Back in the middle deck…
Qasim and two others were reloading after their blind barrage.
Ryan dropped to the floor.
"BOOM! BOOM!"
Two more cartel thugs fell, blasted overboard.
Qasim and the last rear flanker raised their guns—
"POP! POP!"
From above: Two shots to the head.
White Wolf didn't miss.
Score: 10 - 7. Three remaining.
The upper team panicked.
They charged down the stairs.
"BOOM! BOOM!"
Two more fell.
One man left.
He turned and ran—right into the daylight.
Bad move.
"POP!"
The Beretta barked.
Final score: 10 - 10. All hostiles down.
White Wolf vanished into sparkles as Ryan recalled the doppelgänger.
Ryan picked up the Glock and Beretta.
He carefully wiped down the guns.
Then, using a towel, he collected sweat and fingerprints from two dead thugs.
He planted their DNA on the weapons.
Finally, he added his own prints—for credibility.
Now it looked like he'd disarmed the cartel and used their weapons in self-defense.
Smart. Clean. Untouchable.
He draped towels over each body.
Then made his way to the panic room door.
He knocked.