Recruitment

By the time the Patrol Boat docked, dawn was just breaking.

Jack jumped ashore. The blood on his coat had dried into dark brown patches, barely visible against the black fabric.

Colin hopped down from the helm, his wings folded behind him. Night dew and sea salt clung to his feathers, which gleamed dark gold in the morning light. His wings opened slightly as he walked, as if he wore a great cloak. He stopped in front of Jack.

"Sir, what do we do next?"

Jack glanced at him without a word, then turned toward the office building.

Bastian was not in his office. The door was locked, the curtains drawn, and no light showed beneath the door. Jack paused outside, then turned away. He had come for a map, not Bastian. He couldn't get into the office, but there was a copy in the armory. He had already made one while repairing the Patrol Boat, and it lay spread across the Patrol Boat's helm. He had no need to enter the office.

For the next few days, Jack did not put to sea.

Each day, he repaired the boat at the dock, counted ammunition in the armory, and did bodyweight exercises on the training ground. His Heartsteel stacks rose by one a day, from 11 to 15. The cap remained 80. The progress bar moved slowly but steadily. His body was changing, too: his shoulders had broadened by another finger's width, his arms had thickened, and the sleeves of his uniform were growing tight.

Word spread faster than he expected.

On the third morning, a man came to the dock. He was a fisherman in his forties, his face lined by sea winds, his hands calloused, fish scales lodged beneath his nails. He wore a faded rain cape and stood barefoot on the dock, grit between his toes. He had not come begging for rescue. He had come to enlist.

This time, the old man at the guard post did not stop him. Leaning on his cane, he looked at the fisherman, then at the Patrol Boat, and stepped aside.

"I heard there's a Marine here who isn't afraid of the Mafia." The fisherman's voice was hoarse, as though he had not spoken to anyone in a long time. "My home's in Salt Harbor. Moretti's men robbed me three times. The last time, they beat my son to death. Someone said a big fellow at the 16th Branch took out Moretti's ship, killed six men, and saved eleven children. I want to enlist."

Jack stood aboard the Patrol Boat, a wrench in his hand. He glanced at Colin, who stood on the dock with his wings folded behind him, watching the fisherman.

"What can you do?" Colin spoke quietly, but every word was clear.

"I can handle a boat. I've fished all my life. The reefs and currents in these West Blue waters—I could navigate them with my eyes closed."

Colin looked back at Jack. Jack nodded.

The fisherman straightened on the dock. His rain cape was torn and he had no shoes, but he stood straighter than any Marine at the 16th Branch.

Three more arrived on the fourth day. Seven came on the fifth.

The training ground began to fill. The newcomers stood in a crooked row, like penguins herded ashore. The burliest was a broad-shouldered fisherman holding a spear with polished prongs. The oldest was in his forties, with deeper wrinkles than the man who had come to the dock. He had brought nothing but his anger.

None of them had military training. Most had suffered at the Mafia's hands, and several were children rescued from Moretti's captivity. They were young, but their eyes were not a child's. They recognized Jack and stood straighter in formation, chins raised and eyes forward. The woman from the mess hall had helped sew their uniforms. They were too large, with sleeves rolled several times and trouser legs cuffed at the ankles, but they wore them like armor.

Jack stepped off the Patrol Boat, crossed the training ground, and stood before them.

His height made the line look even more crooked. Those in front tilted their heads back to see him; those behind rose on their toes. His shadow fell across the entire row.

"There's only one rule." Jack did not raise his voice, but everyone heard him. "If you disobey an order, don't wait for disciplinary action. Get out."

No one left.

Some clenched their fists. Others straightened their backs or bit their lips. A young man gripped his rusty sword harder, his knuckles whitening. The fisherman planted his spear in the gravel, its prongs holding firm. The children rescued from Moretti's captivity stood straighter than anyone.

"Colin, train them."

Jack turned and left. He went behind the office building, entered his quarters, and shut the door. Sitting on the bed frame, he spread out a map of the district. He had blown up the arena on Banaro Island two weeks ago. Salt Harbor had been cleared, and the slave route through Salt Harbor Island had been cut off. Of Capone Bege's four sources of income in the West Blue, two were gone. The third was on Caria Island.

By now, they had probably all heard that Salt Harbor had been destroyed.

Caria Island was the West Blue Mafia Alliance's third-largest stronghold, territory shared by the Caroni and Rosario Families. Its casino was a legitimate business on the surface; underneath lay money laundering, drugs, and human trafficking. One month's takings could pay the 16th Branch for three years. A portion went into Bastian's pocket as "protection fees."

Caria Island lay to the east, near the boundary between the West Blue and the Grand Line. Its treacherous currents and plentiful reefs kept large ships out while letting small ones through, making it a natural smuggling port. The casino stood at the island's center, surrounded by warehouses, bars, inns, and a ring of heavily armed Mafia guards. The communications records listed the Caroni and Rosario Families' armed deployments, numbers of gunmen, patrol routes, and shift changes. It was all there on paper.

Footsteps sounded outside. Colin knocked softly.

"Sir, the recruits are settled. Godo's drilling them on the training ground. Kafka went to the armory for equipment, and Doni's helping in the mess hall."

Jack folded the map, slipped it into his pocket, and opened the door. Colin stood outside in a fresh uniform. His insignia had changed from Corporal to sergeant. Jack had promoted him, and Bastian had not asked about it. Bastian no longer oversaw promotions at the 16th Branch. He could not, and he did not want to.

Jack had changed his own insignia to captain's bars. When Bastian saw them in his office, his lips moved as if to speak, but he swallowed the words.

"Caria Island." Jack unfolded the map against the corridor wall. Colin leaned in. With a hawk's eyesight, he could make out every detail in the dim light. The map was crowded with markings: shipping lanes, reefs, strongholds, and patrol routes.

"The Caroni and Rosario Families run the casino together," Colin said quietly. "It's Capone Bege's biggest source of income in the West Blue. You blew up the arena on Banaro Island and shut down the trafficking on Salt Harbor Island. Now all he has left are the casino on Caria Island and his arms trade."

Jack said nothing. His finger traced a path from the docks to the casino's front entrance, from there to the rear exit, then on to the warehouse district. Three routes. Each had hidden sentries and patrols. Each was marked dangerous.

Colin watched Jack's finger move, his pupils narrowing. "You're going alone?"

Jack did not answer. He took down the map, folded it, and pressed it into Colin's hand.

"Train the recruits. In five days, I want them able to fire a gun, stand in formation, and follow orders." His voice stayed low, each word distinct. "In five days, you're coming with me to Caria Island."

Colin's fingers tightened around the map, crumpling the paper. His lips moved, but he swallowed whatever he had been about to say. Five days to turn fishermen and refugees into soldiers fit for battle. Impossible. But Jack had said five days, so five days it was.

"Yes, sir." Colin turned and left.

Jack remained in the corridor, watching Colin walk away. His gaze passed over the training ground to the recruits. Their formation was still crooked, but it was straighter than it had been that morning. Godo stood before them, an iron rod in his hand. His voice carried all the way to the corridor. "Stand straight! Heads up! Hands in position! You're not here for a free meal. You're here to kill Mafia!"

Kafka came running from the armory with an armful of guns. They were old rifles, their rifling worn smooth and their stocks cracked. He handed them out, one to each recruit, but there were not enough for the last two rows. After a moment's thought, he brought out a crate of short knives and gave them one apiece. The blades were rusty, but they could still cut. A little sharpening would do.

Jack watched from the corridor. There were more people on the training ground than when he had arrived. Three loafers playing cards had become more than a dozen recruits. Two children and a woman had joined the mess hall. The Patrol Boat was repaired, the warehouse lock fixed, and the gap in the wall patched. In the short time since he had arrived, the entire 16th Branch had gone from a Decay-ridden dump to a barely functioning military base.

But he did not want a base. He wanted an army that could fight—one capable of wiping out Capone Bege's entire operation in the West Blue. He had no time, no resources, and no support from headquarters. All he had were a dozen or so fishermen with rusty guns and short knives, a sergeant who could fly, three good soldiers, and a woman helping in the kitchen.

Enough.

Jack looked away from the training ground toward a second-floor window. The curtains in Bastian's office were drawn. He could not see inside, but he knew Bastian was there. He could hear shoes pacing across the wooden floor, hurriedly circling the room.

Bastian was afraid. Not of Jack, but of being exposed.

Jack turned back into his quarters and shut the door. He sat on the bed frame, the system panel glowing at the edge of his vision. Heartsteel stacks: 15/80. Heartsteel, Decay, Stasis, Quickstep, Mystic Shot, and Cleanse, which he had yet to use. It was enough.

In five days, Caria Island.

Behind the second-floor window, Bastian drew back his hand. The gap in the curtains closed. He took a Den Den Mushi from his drawer and began to dial.

The call connected. No one spoke on the other end. There was only breathing.

"Mr. Bege. This is Bastian of the 16th Branch." His voice shook; his throat was dry. "Jack... he destroyed Salt Harbor. Moretti's dead. He's going to Caria Island next. Caroni and Rosario can't stop him. You... you have to send someone. Otherwise he..." His voice broke like glass hitting the floor.

The other end was silent for three seconds. Then the call ended.

The Den Den Mushi in Bastian's hand returned to its usual form, eyes closed, shell shut, like an ordinary stone. He put it back in the drawer, closed it, and leaned against the back of his chair. His fingers tapped twice on the armrest, stopped, then tapped twice more.