Three Scoundrels

The next morning, when Colin brought the three men to the dock, Jack was checking the Patrol Boat's engine.

He heard footsteps and looked up from behind the engine cover. The three men stood on the dock in a row. Calling it a "row" was generous. They were all over the place, and none of them seemed to have decided where to stand.

The burliest stood on the left. He was over six feet tall, broad through the shoulders and waist, with a neck that seemed to run straight into his shoulders. Old scars marked his fists, and his knuckles were absurdly thick. His hair was a mess, dark stubble covered his chin, and he was chewing something that made his cheeks bulge. He didn't look fierce. He had the lazy gaze of someone who had spent too long hanging around docks and no longer took anything seriously.

The skinniest stood on the right. He was under five foot seven, with narrow shoulders and a uniform that hung loose on him. He couldn't bring himself to meet anyone's eyes. His gaze darted from Jack's face to his feet, from his feet to the sea, then back to the tips of his own shoes. His name was Kafka.

The man in the middle had no distinguishing features. He was neither burly nor thin, neither tall nor short. His uniform was reasonably neat, but his eyes were blank. There was no telling what he was thinking, or whether he knew why he was there. He looked at Jack, then at the Patrol Boat, then at the distant sea, and yawned.

Colin stood at the far right, clutching his appointment papers so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His uniform was new, issued from the supply depot the night before. The collar and cuffs still bore creases from being folded. He stood straight, chin raised.

Jack rose from behind the engine cover, wrench still in hand. He walked up to the three men and stopped. His height threw their formation into even greater disarray. The burly man on the left tilted his head up to look at him. He stopped chewing for half a second, then started again. The skinny man on the right took half a step back and tucked himself behind the burly one. The man in the middle showed no reaction beyond shifting his gaze from the sea to Jack.

Jack looked at them without a word.

The silence lasted about five seconds. The sea breeze whipped the faded military flag over the dock until it snapped and fluttered.

Forget it. There's no making anything of this lot.

He unhooked the Patrol Boat's key from his belt and tossed it to Colin. The key arced through the air. Colin caught it with a sharp metallic jingle.

"You drive."

Colin froze for a moment and looked down at the key in his hand. He gripped it tight and nodded.

Jack turned to the three men and pointed at the Patrol Boat.

"You three. Throw out the trash on the boat."

The burly man's mouth twitched as he shifted whatever he was chewing from one side to the other. He muttered under his breath. His voice was low, but the dock was so quiet that everyone heard him.

"Who does this guy think he is?"

Jack's ear twitched, but he didn't turn around. A backward kick sent the man straight into the sea. Jack got a Heartsteel stack out of it, too.

He paid the man no more attention. He crouched and went back to checking the engine. His wrench creaked as he turned a screw.

Kafka was the first to move.

Head down, he hurried toward the Patrol Boat, as if one slow step might get him kicked into the sea. He jumped aboard, and the deck creaked beneath his feet. He bent to pick up an empty wine bottle, held it against his chest, then looked around, unsure where to throw it.

Doni moved too. The unremarkable man in the middle yawned and ambled aboard. He picked up a wad of rotten fishing net from the deck, looked at it, and put it back down. He didn't know where to start.

Godo climbed out of the sea and silently joined the cleanup.

Jack didn't look at him.

For the next three days, Jack was at the dock every day. His Heartsteel stacks reached 13/70.

Colin helped beside him the whole time. He knew nothing about engines, so he handed over tools. He knew nothing about welding, so he held sheets of metal in place. He knew nothing about removing rust, so he swept up iron filings. The sheet metal cut his hands three times, rivets struck his fingers twice, and diesel left his skin pale and peeling. He never complained. Whatever Jack asked him to do, he did.

Godo tightened the last screw on the engine casing. He straightened and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, then inspected what he had repaired. The engine compartment cover was in place, the lines were secured again, and fuel could flow. He had worked all day, from morning into the afternoon, stopping only to smoke three cigarettes.

At some point, Doni had risen from where he sat on the gunwale. He watched Godo work on the engine, then looked at the dents still left in the deck. He bent to pick up a rag and began wiping the gun barrel. It was covered in rust, and the rag turned orange. After two swipes, he took a clean one and kept going.

Kafka had already mopped the deck three times. After the first pass, the water was black. After the second, it was gray. After the third, it was finally clear. He rested the mop against the gunwale and crouched at the edge of the deck, looking at his reflection in the water. The man reflected there was thin as a bamboo pole, with dark circles beneath his eyes.

Colin came over and handed him a dry cloth. "Wipe your hands."

Kafka took the cloth and, head lowered, murmured his thanks. His voice was barely louder than a mosquito's buzz.

On the fourth morning, Jack took Colin out to sea.

The Patrol Boat's engine was much louder than before, but its rhythm was steady. It no longer sounded as though it might give out at any moment. The boat slipped away from the dock, its bow cutting through the sea and sending waves curling to either side. Godo stood on the dock watching it recede. The cigarette in his hand burned down to the filter without him noticing.

There were three islands in their jurisdiction: Salt Harbor, Reef Island, and Fishing Village Island. Jack's map had been copied from the Vice Warden's communications records. It marked the Mafia's bases on each island, the patrol boats' operating ranges, and several major smuggling routes. But what was drawn on paper and what happened out at sea were two different things.

Their first stop was the waters off Reef Island. The current was much stronger than the map indicated. Even three nautical miles from the island, it pushed the boat east. Jack adjusted course and made three attempts before finding the right angle of approach. He wrote in his notebook: East of Reef Island, current flows northeast at approximately three knots. Patrol boats should approach the island against the current.

Their second stop was Fishing Village Island. Its dock was too small for the Patrol Boat, so anyone going ashore would have to transfer to a skiff. Jack did not land. He had the boat circle the island and noted every shallow beach where a landing was possible. There were three: two on the east side and one on the north. The northern beach was the best hidden. Reefs blocked it from view at sea.

Their third stop was Salt Harbor.

Colin grew nervous before they even arrived. His fingers whitened around the wheel, and his eyes kept searching the silhouette of every ship on the water. Salt Harbor was Moretti Family territory. Of the twelve Mafia families in the West Blue, they were the most vicious, specializing in human trafficking. Their ships flew no flags and gave no notice to the port. They sailed in and out of Salt Harbor as if it were their own backyard.

Jack stood at the bow, looking toward Salt Harbor. He narrowed his eyes against the sunlight.

A ship appeared on the distant sea.

Its hull was dark gray, and it sat deep in the water. No cargo was stacked on its bare deck, yet it looked as though something was weighing it down. Every porthole had been sealed with an iron plate welded over it. The welds were rough, as if the work had been rushed. There was no flag at the bow or the stern. The whole ship was bare—unnaturally bare. Merchant ships usually flew flags: one for their country of registration, one for their port, one for the shipping company. This ship flew nothing. It was like a man without a face.

Colin's pupils contracted. His voice came from behind Jack, trembling. "Sir, that ship..."

Jack did not turn around. His gaze stayed fixed on the ship, sweeping from bow to stern, from waterline to smokestack. There was no number on the hull, no name, no mark that could identify it. A dark red stain marked the bow near the waterline. It was rust, not paint, but the pattern was wrong. Rather than spreading evenly, it had run down from above.

Colin's lips trembled. "That's a Moretti ship. I've seen one. When they took me last time, I was on a ship like that."

Jack's mouth twitched.

At last, he spoke. Just two words, not loud, but the sea breeze carried them to Colin.

"Follow it."

The Patrol Boat turned toward the cargo ship. Its engine noise spread across the water. In the distance, black smoke poured from the cargo ship's smokestack, and it suddenly picked up speed.

Colin gripped the wheel, clenched his teeth, and pushed the throttle all the way forward.

The Patrol Boat's bow rose.