Slave Ship

The Patrol Boat chased the freighter for twenty minutes.

The freighter was fast, but after three days of repairs by Jack, the Patrol Boat's engine had far more power than before. The gap between the two vessels shrank from a nautical mile to five hundred meters, then two hundred, then fifty.

Colin stood beside the helm, clutching a pair of binoculars so tightly his knuckles turned white. He kept his eyes pressed to the lenses, studying the freighter without moving. Every detail of its hull came into focus: the waterline, the portholes, the deck, the smokestack.

It sat too low in the water. Something seemed to be weighing down its belly, pushing it so deep that the sea nearly reached the edge of the deck. Yet the deck was bare. Not even a coil of rope lay there. No crates, no barrels, nothing that could explain how low it sat.

None of the cabin windows were open for ventilation. A row of portholes ran along the ship's side, all sealed with iron plates. The welds around their edges were rough, as though the work had been rushed. Not one window was open. No air could get inside.

Colin's nose twitched. The sea breeze blew from the freighter, carrying a smell he couldn't quite place. It wasn't seawater or engine oil. It was something stronger, like sweat, blood, and human waste mixed together and left to ferment in a sealed space. His stomach churned and his throat tightened.

He lowered the binoculars and turned to Jack. His lips moved. His voice was quiet but clear.

"Sir, something's wrong with that ship."

Jack took his eyes off the freighter and looked at Colin's face for half a second. Then he turned toward the three men behind him.

Godo leaned against the rail, unaware that the cigarette in his hand had burned down to the filter. Doni stood beside the helm, still holding the rag he'd used to wipe down the gun barrel. Kafka huddled at the stern with his arms around his knees, staring at the sea.

Jack spoke.

"Board her."

Godo's hand jerked, scattering ash across the deck. He looked at Jack, opened his mouth, then closed it again. His Adam's apple bobbed. Something flickered in his eyes. It wasn't fear, but a reflex beaten into him over a long time. He'd spent half his life around the docks, and the Mafia's fists and knives had taught him one thing: don't provoke them, don't get in their way, and don't meddle in their business. That instinct was carved into his bones. It held more sway over him than any order.

"They... they have guns." Godo's voice came out dry, as though he had to force it through his throat.

Jack looked at him.

He said nothing. He didn't repeat the order.

Godo read something in that look. If he disobeyed, he might not make it back.

Kafka moved first. He got up from the stern, his legs still weak, and made his way to the bow with one hand on the rail. He stopped behind Jack. His lips and hands were trembling, but he held his ground. Doni came next, tossing the rag onto the deck before taking his place beside Kafka. Godo was last. He flicked his cigarette into the sea, swore, and stepped to the front.

Jack turned back toward the freighter.

Less than twenty meters separated the two vessels now. The Mafia men aboard the freighter had spotted them. Some ran across the deck, others shouted, and several emerged from the cabin carrying weapons. One gun, two, three. Rifles, pistols, and a machete whose blade flashed in the sun.

Jack vaulted over the Patrol Boat's rail.

He didn't use a gangplank or wait for the vessels to draw alongside each other. He jumped straight from the Patrol Boat's rail. His weight and the force of his takeoff drove the rail down, tipping the boat so sharply that Colin nearly lost his footing. Jack arced through the air, cleared the two-meter gap of open water, and landed on the freighter's deck.

The metal plating boomed beneath his feet, shaking the entire deck. The two nearest Mafia men jumped back at the sound and nearly dropped their guns.

A third Mafia man pulled the trigger.

The shot cracked across the sea. The bullet struck Jack's left shoulder, flattened against his Hardened Skin, and ricocheted away. It bounced twice across the deck before rolling into the sea. A small white mark appeared on Jack's shoulder, with a red dot no bigger than a pinprick at its center. A bead of blood welled up and ran down his shoulder.

Jack swayed slightly. The impact of the bullet threw off his balance for a tenth of a second. He shifted his left foot half a step back and steadied himself.

The Mafia gunman froze. He looked down at his gun, then at the white mark on Jack's shoulder. His expression changed from vicious to bewildered, then from bewildered to terrified. He opened his mouth to shout something, but Jack's fist was already upon him.

The first punch smashed into the first Mafia man's chest. His ribs broke with a dull crack like dry kindling snapping underfoot. His chest caved in, and blood sprayed from his mouth in an arc. He flew four or five meters backward and struck the cabin wall hard enough to dent the metal. He slid down from the dent and lay facedown, motionless.

System: "Hardening Stack +1. Current stacks: 10/70."

The second punch smashed into the second Mafia man's face. His nose broke with a sharp crack, like a thin branch snapping. His head whipped back, his neck popped, and he went limp as though his bones had vanished. He collapsed onto the deck, the back of his skull striking the metal with a thud.

The third punch drove into the third Mafia man's stomach. He folded in half like a crushed insect, his feet leaving the deck. He flew two meters backward and struck the rail. His upper body pitched over the side, leaving him hanging there with blood spilling from his mouth.

The three remaining Mafia men didn't dare move.

They had knives and guns, and there were three of them. But they stared at Jack as though he were something that shouldn't exist. One man's fists had sent people flying several meters. He'd taken a bullet and barely bled. When he'd jumped from the Patrol Boat, the whole vessel had rocked. He wasn't human. He was a monster.

Jack walked toward them at an even pace, each step landing on the metal deck with a dull clang. He stopped before the fourth Mafia man and looked down at him. The man held a long machete, its blade coated in a dark oily sheen. His hand shook. The tip of the blade shook. His whole body shook.

Jack reached out, gripped the back of the blade, and pulled the machete from the man's hand. As the edge slid across the man's palm, it cut the web between his thumb and forefinger, dripping blood onto the deck. Jack didn't even look at the wound. He threw the machete into the sea, then punched the man in the ribs. The man curled up like a shrimp, his mouth hanging open. No sound came out. The blow had forced all the air from his lungs.

The fifth Mafia man turned to run. He had barely taken a step when Jack grabbed the back of his collar. Hardened fingers clenched the collar and the shirt beneath it, lifting him clear off the deck. His arms and legs flailed in the air, his face turning dark red. Jack hurled him into the cabin wall, where he landed on top of the first Mafia man.

The sixth Mafia man dropped his gun. He knelt on the deck with both hands raised over his head, shrieking in a high, thin voice like a pig being slaughtered. Jack walked past without looking at him. It wasn't that Jack didn't want to kill him. The man simply wasn't worth another punch.

Six men were down on the deck. Blood spread from beneath them into small red pools on the metal plating. Two were still moving, groaning and twitching. Three no longer moved at all. One hung over the rail, half his body outside the ship, swaying whenever the wind blew.

Colin stood on the Patrol Boat, binoculars still raised, though he was no longer looking through them. His mouth hung open as he stared at Jack standing alone on the freighter's deck, six men sprawled around him. Godo's cigarette had gone out long ago, its stub stuck to his lip without him noticing. Doni leaned against the helm, both arms hanging at his sides, the rag on the floor. Kafka crouched at the bow, gripping the rail so tightly his knuckles had gone white, his eyes wide.

Jack went to the cabin entrance. An iron door was wrapped three times with a chain and secured by a large padlock. He gripped the chain, wedged his hardened knuckles between the links, and yanked. The chain snapped in the middle, its links clattering onto the deck. He pulled it away and pushed open the door.

The smell poured out.

Sweat, as thick as if it had been fermenting for months. Blood, fresh and old mingled together. Human waste, sharp and sickening. And the smell of fear—not a figure of speech, but something he could truly smell. It seeped from the dark corners within, the stifling stench of despair.