At the edge of international waters off Malibu, the night was thick with darkness.
An unflagged, medium-sized yacht lay at anchor in deep water. No lights illuminated its deck, only a few glowing cigarette tips that flickered red.
One and a half nautical miles from shore.
Yang Ming stood on a jutting black reef, the sea breeze pressing his dark gray tactical suit against his skin. On his miniature terminal, twenty-five red dots clustered inside a schematic of the yacht.
These were Obadiah's last bargaining chips.
Putting away the terminal, Yang Ming activated his optical camouflage. His figure blended completely into the surrounding darkness.
He did not look for a boat. Instead, he leaped straight into the Pacific Ocean.
Cold seawater enveloped him. The optical camouflage's special force field not only blocked light and thermal radiation, but also greatly reduced water resistance. Like a ghost fish without a physical body, Yang Ming skimmed along the seabed toward the yacht.
Ten minutes later, he climbed onto the boarding ladder at the yacht's stern.
Water slid off his tactical suit and dripped onto the teak deck without a sound.
Two fully armed mercenaries leaned against the railing, smoking. One held an HK416 assault rifle fitted with a night-vision scope, while the other looked down, fiddling with a tactical tablet.
Yang Ming walked up to them.
Both hands shot out at once, precisely gripping their thyroid cartilage. His thumbs and forefingers squeezed inward.
The faint crunch was swallowed by the waves. Their windpipes collapsed instantly, robbing them of any chance to cry for help.
Clutching their throats, eyes bulging, the two men sagged toward the deck. Yang Ming caught their backs and laid their bodies flat in the shadows.
Mechanical asphyxiation. It had taken no more than seven seconds.
Stepping over the bodies,