On the yacht Eclipse.
Right now.
Whirr... whirr...
The roar of the helicopter's main rotor and tail rotor.
Just as Vela, accompanied by Balalaika, headed for the helipad to welcome Koko Hekmatyar from HCU Company.
Below the main hull deck.
Tap, clack.
Led by a dedicated attendant, the Lagoon Company's quartet passed through access control and made their way toward a certain "business cabin."
"Why's it all so hush-hush? What a pain." Revy grumbled, but her eyes never stopped sweeping the surroundings. "Hey, rookie." She suddenly jabbed Rock in the waist with her elbow and pointed at the attendant up ahead, muttering, "Don't be worse than the ship's damn waiter. You really oughta play with guns more."
"Sorry I'm so useless," Rock said with a wry smile.
Following Revy's gesture, he looked at the attendant's hands. Rough, thick knuckles, wax-yellow calluses everywhere. Clear thick pads at the finger joints and at the tiger's mouth of the palm. The bulge at his waist and hips was obviously a tactical belt, with a pistol and spare magazines.
No doubt about it. Under that old-money waiter skin was some unknown retired killer.
Thinking of that, Rock couldn't help letting out a short sigh.
Compared to knives and guns, he really was better with a pen...
This "businessman" job at the Company wasn't quite the career path he'd imagined.
"Good that you know." Revy gave him a heavy smack on the back.
She walked with hands clasped behind her head, carefree and loud.
"Uh..." Rock had nothing to say.
"Revy's right." Dutch suddenly cut in, putting a hand on Rock's shoulder and speaking seriously. "In Roanapur, doing what we do, you can't survive on nothing but a pen and talking big. Sometimes a gun is a lot more useful than reasoning."
"See?" Revy laughed so hard she couldn't stop. "Rock, you gotta train, man. If you can't even handle a gun, how the hell are you gonna—hey! Benny, what're you laughing at? You sit in the computer room all day, calling yourself some bullshit observer, never using a weapon—"
"Oh no." Benny spread his hands. "Come on. You two can bicker all you want, just don't drag me into it."
He was the team's mechanic, computer expert, and driver. Unless it was necessary, he didn't fight.
"Okay. Stop." Dutch cut them off. "Revy, quit the drunk tantrum."
"Oh."
Not bothering with Revy's foul temper, Dutch changed the topic as they walked. "I've heard a bit about VAR Company's 'gift shop.' A private workshop focusing on high-quality, precision-crafted weapons. They provide service for clients connected to VAR."
"Your first gun in life."
"Rock-boy, you need to solve that problem. Unless you plan to learn from Benny-boy and keep yourself out of it as much as possible outside of work, never touching a weapon. Sure, in the Company, your work is closer to a white-collar job, and so far it suits you. But things always go sideways. Better to be ready, buddy."
Rock frowned, thinking for a moment, then nodded. "I understand."
They kept moving.
Not long after.
The straight corridor took a 120-degree turn.
A few steps later, Rock saw an armored sentry booth at the end of the passage. One security guard in armor and with a slung gun leaned against the wall. A PKM machine gun was mounted on the shield beside him, and behind it a gunner sat casually. On a folding table: food and drink, plus a radio, an ashtray, adult magazines, manga, everything.
What a perfect place to slack off.
Without meaning to, Rock's gaze paused on a Weekly Shonen Jump magazine.
Nostalgia...
Then.
"Hey!"
Rock flinched slightly and turned his head, only to realize there was a hidden post tucked into the blind angle of the corner.
The man there grinned at him.
"Welcome."
"Uh, hello..."
It wasn't until Revy urged him inside that he reacted. It was simple but practical geometry: using the structure and blind spots to form a two-tier system of one overt post and one covert post.
Before he could take in the suddenly widened interior.
The attendant leading them walked to the front desk and asked, "Is the 'Sommelier' inside?"
The Black woman at the desk answered in an elegant tone, "He wouldn't be away."
The attendant nodded in satisfaction, went to a solid wooden door, stepped aside, and made a welcoming gesture to the Lagoon quartet.
Click.
Impatient as ever, Revy pushed in first.
"What kinda booze—uh, fuck, holy shit, it's all good guns and good knives." She blurted it out.
Inside a room decorated like a palace-style five-star hotel, gun racks stood in rows, blades gleamed, and ammunition lined up neat.
The floor was covered in thick carpet. Your steps made a faint creak.
A White sommelier in a dark attendant suit, bow tie, and lapel chain calmly set down the item he'd been tuning—a Tsunami [Nue] pistol—then approached, hands folded over his abdomen, greeting them in a lilting cadence. "Good afternoon, madam. Good afternoon, gentlemen."
That syrupy British accent, the tasteful wall lamps, the gilded carved panels... Rock felt dazed, like he'd been teleported to the Imperial Hotel in Tokyo.
"Ms. Russell has gifts for the four of you." The sommelier glanced at their varied expressions, smiled faintly, and stepped aside. "One each. Please choose—"
Before he could finish.
"Really free?" Revy propped an elbow on the table, eyebrows raised. She didn't hold back at all, pointing at the most luxurious-looking lacquered gun cabinet. "Then I want that one!"
"Unfortunately." The sommelier only shook his head. "Your customer rank does not meet the requirement. I'm afraid it cannot be provided."
Bang!
Revy slammed the table, annoyed.
"Then why the hell'd you say it, wuh-wuh..."
Using his big Black muscle arm to cover Revy's mouth, Dutch sighed. "Rock, you go."
Pushed forward, Rock said, "Please continue."
The sommelier wasn't irritated in the slightest, still gentle and soft-spoken.
After all, he'd seen far worse manners and far hotter tempers.
Arms dealing was inevitably tangled with violent crime. Africa, the Middle East, Eastern Europe, Southeast Asia, Latin America made up the bulk. Clients with manners and restraint were rare. Rapping Black guys, zealots shouting Allahu Akbar at the drop of a hat, irritable drunks, junkies riding a high, fugitives with nerves stretched tight...
Endless.
All you could say was, money. Business. We're all brothers here. Nothing shameful about it.
"As new customers introduced by Miss Balalaika, the four of you are temporarily only one-star clients of our company. You are not qualified to receive bespoke, collection-grade weapons as gifts," the sommelier explained.
"Of course, you may also withdraw funds and purchase them."
"No... let's not." Rock glanced at the Roman-column-style display platform of the lacquered cabinet, and at the items nested among silk padding—gold-inlaid and silver-engraved, chrome and blued, carved and diamond-inlaid, masterpiece-level precision firearms and all kinds of long and short blades. He immediately killed the idea of buying.
He couldn't afford it.
The last hijacked-ship job that Rock had been dragged into, the Lagoon Company had only made twenty thousand dollars.
"These are the gifts." The sommelier pointed at the plain firearms in the rack—black, brown, silver. "Please choose. Or state your needs, and I'll recommend."
"This... that... something for beginners... uh, uh..."
Rock was still studying the items, weighing his own conditions, when Revy squeezed in from the side.
"You take your sweet time picking." She called to the sommelier, "Hey, bartender, I've got handguns already." She yanked the silver Beretta M92 from her underarm holster and slapped it on the table. "Don't recommend anything worse than this, and don't bother with common junk either. I want a long gun. Powerful and accurate. Rare stuff."
"An Italian classic." The sommelier lowered his gaze to examine it. "9×19mm. Customized body—barrel and slide grooves longer than the standard model. Chrome finish. Ivory grip. Pirate skull mark. Very nice. Miss Revy, you possess two excellent M92 pistols worth collecting."
Under Revy's look of 'at least you know what you're talking about,' the sommelier turned his eyes aside, thinking about her request.
"Powerful, accurate, rare. Certain?"
"Certain!"
"As you wish." Murmuring, he turned and walked to the racks, selecting a bullpup rifle with a massive receiver and thick barrel, the whole thing radiating brute force.
"Ash-12." The sommelier introduced it. "Soviet bloodline, manufactured by our company. Uses 12.7×55mm ammunition. Powerful and accurate. Not yet mass-released. It matches your conditions."
"A .50-cal assault rifle?!" Revy's eyes went wide.
A normal person might worry about the Ash-12's size, weight, recoil, and ergonomics.
But for someone as in love with violence and guns as Revy, she only felt one thing.
Hell yeah.
Click, click.
She couldn't wait, grabbing it and testing the feel, shouldering and sighting.
Smiling, the sommelier continued. "High-precision long barrel. Titan quick-detach suppressor. Ion-coated bolt. Non-slip engraved grip. Equipped with our company's high-speed gas system and a dedicated buffered stock. Twenty- and thirty-round magazines. Four Picatinny rails, with a vertical foregrip, tactical laser, and a red dot sight installed. Accessories can be changed per needs."
As he spoke, he laid out four kinds of ammunition.
"Aluminum-alloy high-velocity rounds, steel-core armor-piercing, subsonic, and duplex."
"Got a range?" Revy asked, practically vibrating.
"We have sea-surface floating targets. Please be patient. Allow me to serve Mr. Rock first."
"Rock! Hurry up!"
Taking everything in, Dutch and Benny exchanged a look and shook their heads.
"Don't learn from her. You're a beginner." Dutch patted Rock on the shoulder.
He was certain this Ash-12 was going home with Revy. Even if it became inconvenient later, with her pride and competitiveness, she wouldn't give it up.
When Rock returned to dealing with the sommelier, Dutch cut in. "If I don't want a gun—can I take body armor instead?"
The sommelier froze for a moment, then replied, "Yes. When you leave, ask the front desk. She'll tell you."
"Thanks." Dutch left the weapons shop with Benny.
For him, guns were just tools. Anything that could kill was enough.
Collection-grade bespoke weapons, forget it. Those mass-produced models, tweaked and refined, were still just personal firearms. Petty-bourgeois light luxury. Not sci-fi weapons. In real combat, the gap wasn't that big. AKs, M16s, M79s—he had a pile in the warehouse. Even the M4 the U.S. military only officially fielded in 1994, he'd acquired several through special channels. Enough for the Company's own use. No shortage.
As for something worth collecting, he had his own customized 11.2mm S&W M629 revolver. That was enough.
By comparison, the Lagoon Company needed body armor more.
That stuff was controlled.
Since they'd finally latched onto Vela's channels, not getting body armor would be a waste.
After hearing Dutch, the woman at the front desk said, "Second door on the left. The Tailor is inside."
The one selling weapons was called a Sommelier.
The one selling body armor was called a Tailor.
Was that just rich-people style?
With one hand in his pocket, Dutch walked to the door and pushed in.
Benny withdrew his gaze, thoughtful.
Four doors. Weapons, armor. What about the other two?
"Do you sell electronics here?" he asked.
"Second door on the right. The Mechanic is inside." The woman at the desk was sparing with words.
"No way, you really do?!" Benny jolted, then grinned, striding over.
...
At the same time.
Upper navigation deck, forward end, helipad.
As the roar of rotor and tail rotor gradually died away, the side cabin door of the landed Sikorsky S-76 all-weather transport helicopter opened. A silvery-white figure sprang out first, charging straight at Vela, who was about to step forward.
"Vela!!"
That cry was high and bright.
Under Balalaika's look of amused curiosity, Vela rubbed her forehead. Dodging wasn't right, meeting it head-on wasn't right either. She could only open her arms and, going with the flow, catch the silver-haired girl who threw herself at her, pulling her into a hug.
"Hehe. Miss me?" Hugging Vela tightly, the girl lowered her head and rubbed against her, voice muffled.
"No, thanks."
Pressing down on the girl's silver-velvet hair, Vela kept her head pinned as she peeled her off, while looking past her at the HCLI visitors climbing down, greeting them. "Yo, Lehm. Heard you divorced Sister Chiquita again?"
"Tsk. Are you two running a racket together to farm wedding gift money?"
"Good news never leaves the house, bad news travels a thousand miles." The bearded middle-aged White mercenary shrugged and grinned. "Wedding gift money—your hometown's term? Cash you give at weddings, funerals, that sort of thing?"
"Phew." Cigarette in his mouth, he took a drag and joked, "Honestly, it's a great idea. Feels like you could do it more. Not like you're short on cash now."
Vela smiled, then looked at the White woman with black hair and golden eyes, a medical eyepatch over her right eye.
"Valmet."
"Vela, long time no see... ah, Koko, that's so rude! If you need to rub, come rub on me!" Valmet looked cold and aloof, but the instant she saw Koko rubbing on Vela, she blushed and started breathing hard.
"Uh." Vela went silent.
Yuri lace...
The greetings continued.
"Wiley." A short-haired African-American man with round glasses and a sturdy build.
"Mao." A slim, average-height Chinese man with black hair and brown eyes.
"And this one?" Vela looked at the last person—also the only one she didn't recognize—a tall, broad-shouldered man with a crew cut.
"Hey, hey, hey!" Koko popped her head out, as if showing off a trophy. "His name's Ugo. Former Mafia. He's my driver and has multiple driving skills. He's the team's transport specialist. A little surprise bonus from a deal that fell apart." She put her hands on her hips, chin up, blue eyes sparkling—clearly begging for praise.
"A deal with the Mafia?" Vela frowned, asking though she already knew. "Those idiots tried to pay with drugs again?"
Snap!
"Bingo!" Koko snapped her fingers. "He was the only one there who turned his head away with a look of disgust, so I kept him and invited him in." Before the words even finished, she dropped into a horse stance, hands shaped like claws, and exploded forward like lightning, pouncing for Vela's chest.
"I see." Vela calmly reached out—one swing, one catch, locking precisely onto Koko's wrists. Then she lifted and tossed, flinging her straight into Valmet's arms. Light as raising a feather, easy as breathing.
Ignoring how Valmet's lush curves got squashed into a flat mess, Vela dusted her hands, turned, and extended one to the crew-cut man. "I'm Vela."
The powerfully built man with an honest face scratched his head, reached out too, and gave a light handshake as he introduced himself. "Hello. I'm Ugo."
"Koko, this is Balalaika." Before Koko could wriggle free of Valmet's embrace, Vela stepped aside, revealing Balalaika, who'd been watching the show the whole time.
"Hello, Miss Balalaika. I'm Koko Hekmatyar from HCU Company." The fogginess and airheadedness vanished instantly. Koko handed over her business card with crisp efficiency.
"I've heard a lot about you. I'm Balalaika of the Moscow Hotel." Cigar between her fingers, Balalaika accepted the card and offered her own.
She studied the silver-haired girl whose pale skin looked almost sickly.
Daughter of a world-famous shipping magnate, a bold and unrestrained yet prematurely mature female arms dealer.
More interesting than she'd imagined.
And.
Balalaika glanced at the unhurried Vela.
Vela knew them well.
So the rumors were probably true. That before Vela rose to power, she'd received help from Floyd Hekmatyar—Koko's father.
Just as Balalaika was sizing up Koko, Koko was sizing up Balalaika.
Wow. This 1.8-meter Russian big sister looked even scarier than Sister Chiquita's boss.
Those blatant, sprawling scars across the right side of her face, her neck, her chest, the backs of her hands—plus that unmistakable soldier's aura—made Koko basically believe her background and capability on the spot. With her connecting the dots, Koko's progress expanding into the Near East, Eastern Europe, and the Caucasus should speed up a lot.
"When does the detailed discussion start?" Koko hopped lightly to Vela's side, hands behind her back as she leaned in, asking in a bright, coquettish tone.
"Anytime." Vela waved her hand grandly and led everyone into the yacht's entertainment deck.
"Oooh~" Koko looked around, lively as ever. "A superyacht really is awesome."
"With you, you could buy one for fun too."
"No thanks. Casper would definitely mock me. And yachts really kill team edge. Vela! You're still young—don't tell me you're actually thinking about retirement?!"
"Mm-hm. I am. Once I've made enough, you think I'm going to keep going to the front line every day with my head tied to my belt?"
"So enviable... oh right, your shop-crawling guidebook—"
"Waaah! What's that, such a huge rat?!"
"That's a capybara. The yacht's mascot. Mm, it was probably woken up by the helicopter landing. As for the guidebook, fine, take it, take it. I seriously can't tell if you want the proper shops or the improper ones."