Intercepted

While everyone else returned to base to celebrate, Colin was still patrolling the skies that night.

Colin spotted a small boat leaving the base and heading toward Banaro Island.

Colin dove from high above, snapping his wings open at the last moment. The gust exploded against the sea, forcing the boat to tilt to one side, its bow lifting and its stern sinking. The messenger lay flat inside, clutching his head with both hands, trembling all over.

Colin landed on the bow and folded his wings behind him, his talons scratching four shallow grooves into the planks. He looked down at the messenger. His wings spread again, whipping up a gust that pinned the messenger inside the boat, leaving him unable to move.

The secret letter was hidden in a compartment beneath the bottom of the boat, wrapped in oilpaper with three lengths of hemp cord wound around it. Colin sliced through the cord with his talons, gripped the package in his beak, and beat his wings, lifting off toward the 16th Branch.

Jack met Colin at the dock. The falcon descended from the sky, and Colin landed in front of Jack, set the oilpaper package on the ground, and stepped back.

Jack bent down to pick up the package, tore through the hemp cord, and unwrapped the oilpaper. Inside was a letter written on fine stationery, its edges trimmed in gold and its folds neat. He unfolded it and read every word by moonlight.

Bastian had written the letter. It began with "Mr. Bege" and was signed "Bastian, commander of the 16th Branch." It was short, but every word seemed squeezed through clenched teeth, steeped in fear and flattery.

"Mr. Bege, I have investigated the seizure of your ship at Salt Harbor. The culprit is a recruit in my branch named Jack. His background is unknown. He is violent, disobedient, and acts without authorization, severely disrupting the normal operations of the 16th Branch. He poses a grave threat to your business in the West Blue. I am willing to cooperate with your men to dispose of him. As long as he is out of my branch, as long as he stops causing trouble, I will accept any terms you offer. The doors of the 16th Branch will always be open to you."

Jack folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket.

Colin stood on the dock, watching his face. It was expressionless, just as always, betraying nothing. But Colin had followed him long enough to know that he was at his most dangerous when his face showed nothing at all.

"Boss?" Colin asked softly.

"Old Bastian must have a death wish." He turned toward the office building, his pace neither fast nor slow, just as usual. His military boots crunched over the gravel in a steady rhythm.

Godo approached from the training grounds, still carrying his iron rod. The blood on its tip had yet to dry. Seeing Jack coming from the dock with something wrong about his expression, he followed him. "Sir, what happened?"

Jack did not answer.

Godo watched Jack enter the office building. The iron door closed behind him with a dull clang.

Colin emerged from the direction of the barracks. He saw Godo standing in the middle of the training grounds, staring up at a second-floor window with a look on his face as though he had eaten shit.

"What happened?"

Godo did not answer, merely jerking his chin toward the office building. Colin followed his gaze. The second-floor window was lit, but the curtains were drawn, hiding the interior. His falcon vision, however, let him make out a shadow moving behind them, pacing rapidly back and forth as though walking in circles.

When Jack climbed the stairs, the door to Bastian's office was closed. The notice on it had been torn down and replaced with a new one that read "Branch Commander's Office" in neat handwriting.

Bastian sat behind his desk. Hearing the door, he looked up and saw Jack standing in the doorway. His expression shifted from indifference to wariness, then from wariness to fear. He leaned back, and his chair creaked.

"You... what do you want?"

Jack did not answer. He approached the desk, pulled the letter from his pocket, and slapped it down. The paper slid across the desktop, its crease falling right over Bastian's signature. The writing was clear under the light, and the words "Mr. Bege" looked as though they had been branded there with a hot iron.

Bastian's face went white, every trace of color draining away. His lips began to tremble, the corners of his mouth sagging, the lines beside his nose as deep as knife cuts.

"What is this?" Bastian's voice was dry, his throat sounding as though something had clamped around it.

Jack looked at him. "What do you think? Do you have anything left to explain?"

Bastian suddenly yanked open a drawer and fumbled out a gun—a flintlock pistol with a silver-white body and mother-of-pearl inlaid in its grip. He aimed it at Jack's chest. His hand shook, and so did the muzzle.

"You can't—this is an office! There are Military Police outside—" His voice cracked, shrill as a rat whose tail had been stepped on.

The gun fired.

The bullet shot from the barrel, spinning through the air before striking Jack's left shoulder. It flattened against his hardened skin and ricocheted away, bouncing off the ceiling before falling to the floor and rolling into a corner. A tiny white mark remained on Jack's left shoulder, with a pinprick-sized red dot at its center.

Bastian stared at the white mark on Jack's shoulder, then at his face, whose expression had not changed in the slightest. His hand shook even harder. The gun felt like a piece of scorching iron in his grip, impossible to hold, yet too frightening to release.

Jack raised his right hand, picked up the letter from the desk, and unfolded it so Bastian could see every word.

"Collusion with the enemy. Irrefutable evidence."

Jack's voice was quiet, but every word struck Bastian's eardrums like a blow. Bastian opened his mouth, trying to speak, but no sound came out. Something seemed to block his throat; he could only breathe, unable to form a syllable.

Bastian threw the gun onto the desk, braced both hands against its surface, and stood. His chair tipped backward and hit the floor with a dull thud. He leaned forward until his face almost touched Jack's chin, craning his head up, his eyes bloodshot.

"What do you know? How do you think the 16th Branch survived?" His voice was loud enough to carry into the hallway. "I compromised with the Mafia to keep this unit alive! Do you think I wanted to? Do you think I wanted to deal with that scum? I had no choice!"

Jack's face remained expressionless.

Bastian stepped back, gesturing in the air as though lecturing at an invisible blackboard. "This is how every branch in the West Blue operates! Do you think I'm the only one? Which of the other branches doesn't survive on the Mafia's handouts? Do you think Marine Headquarters doesn't know? They know, but they do nothing! Because they can't! In these waters, the Mafia calls the shots!"

His voice grew louder and shriller, as though he were trying to convince Jack—or himself. "You came here, took out Moretti's ship, burned Salt Harbor, and wrecked the casino on Caria Island. You think you're doing good? You're cutting off the 16th Branch's lifeline! You're cutting off the lifeline of every branch in the West Blue! Bege won't spare you, and he won't spare me either. I can only survive by cooperating with him. It's the only way the 16th Branch can survive!"

Jack waited for him to finish.

"Save it for Marine Headquarters."

Bastian's mouth was still open, still trying to say something. Jack raised his hand, spread his palm, and slapped him across the face. His hardened palm struck Bastian's cheek with a sharp crack. Bastian's head snapped to the right, his body spinning with it. His legs buckled, his knees struck the corner of the desk, and he collapsed onto the floor. He spat out a mouthful of blood, bloody froth and teeth scattering across the carpet and his uniform.

Jack bent down and picked up Bastian's handcuffs from the floor. Grabbing Bastian's right hand, he hauled him up and pinned him against the radiator. It was an old cast-iron model coated in dark red rustproof paint, its chipped surface exposing black iron beneath. Jack fastened one cuff around Bastian's wrist and the other around the radiator pipe, locking them tight.

Bastian's face pressed against the radiator, his eyes wide and unfocused. His lips moved, but no sound emerged. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and dripped onto the radiator with a hiss. Steam rose from the pipe, carrying the mingled smell of rust and blood.

To keep him from escaping, Jack also broke both his legs.

Jack straightened, walked behind the desk, and sat in Bastian's chair. It was still warm, its leather marked with Bastian's sweat and blood. He pushed Bastian's ledger aside, found a stack of blank telegram forms in a drawer, picked up Bastian's pen, and began to write.

"Bastian, commander of the 16th Branch, has been arrested for collusion with the enemy. Evidence is conclusive. Headquarters must send personnel to take him into custody. I will assume temporary command of the branch. Jack, lieutenant commander."

When he finished, Jack called Colin inside and told him to send it.

Jack sat in the chair and waited. The office fell quiet, leaving only Bastian's breathing and the gurgle of water inside the radiator.

The telegraph's indicator lit up again. A reply had arrived.

Jack stood, walked over to the telegraph, and tore off the reply slip. It was thermal paper, the lettering pale blue. He read it once, then handed it to Bastian.

It took Bastian's eyes a long time to focus on the words. The recipient was the 16th Branch, and the sender was the staff department at Marine Headquarters. The message read: "I will send someone. Until then, you will serve as acting commander of the 16th Branch. Tsuru."

At last, a sound escaped Bastian's lips.

"Tsuru... Vice Admiral Tsuru will send someone..."

"You're not a madman." Bastian forced the words from his throat, slurred, as though they were his last. "You're... a devil."

Jack left the office building and stepped into the moonlight. A small patch of dark red blood marked his left shoulder, stark against his white uniform. His face was expressionless, just as it had been when he went inside, betraying nothing.

Godo watched him, his lips moving as he tried to say something. Jack walked past without stopping. He reached the edge of the dock, stopped, and gazed at the sea. Moonlight spread across the water, golden flecks dancing with the waves. Farther away lay Patrol Boat No. 3, moored at the outermost end of the dock. Its hull still bore traces of the repairs made a few days earlier, the sheet-metal patches gleaming dully in the moonlight.

Colin followed and stood behind him.

"Boss, Bastian..."

"Chained to the radiator." Jack's quiet voice scattered in the sea breeze.

Colin asked no more. He stood on the dock, looking at the sea, the moonlight, and Patrol Boat No. 3 rocking gently on the water. Godo and Colin stood at the back, three men lined up behind Jack, neither speaking nor leaving.

Across the training grounds, recruits poked their heads out of the barracks to watch the four figures on the dock. Their eyes held tension, excitement, and fear, but none of them backed away. The young man holding a rusty sword stood at a window. Its blade was still chipped, but his eyes shone as brightly as the water under the moonlight.

Colin returned from the dock, walked to the middle of the training grounds, and looked at the recruits.

"Bastian was arrested for colluding with the enemy." His voice was quiet, but everyone could hear him. "Lieutenant Commander Jack is now acting commander of the 16th Branch."

No one on the training grounds dared object. They all knew how formidable Jack was.

Colin turned and walked back to the dock.

Colin spread his wings and jumped onto the deck of Patrol Boat No. 3, beating them twice in the night wind to steady himself. He took a bottle of liquor from the storage compartment beneath the helm. Jack had left it there after bringing it back from their last trip to sea, and it had remained untouched. Colin handed it to him.

Jack took the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and drank. The liquor was strong, like swallowing a mouthful of fire, but his hardened esophagus felt no burn. He handed the bottle back. Colin took it, drank a mouthful as well, then passed it to Godo.

Moonlight shone on the bottle, casting an amber glow through the liquor inside.