Cleaning Up the Mess

For the next month, the 16th Branch's patrol boats left port at sunrise and returned at sunset every day without fail.

Jack sat in his second-floor office with a chart of the West Blue spread before him. Every Mafia stronghold, every smuggling route, and every target that needed clearing out was marked on it. His finger moved across the chart, from Banaro Island to Salt Harbor, from Salt Harbor to Caria Island, then from Caria Island to Iron Fist Island. Four red crosses. Four strongholds destroyed.

He wouldn't need to handle the rest himself.

The recruits stood around the edge of the parade ground, rifles in hand, their barrels aimed toward its center. Their eyes were different from a month ago. Back then, they had been fighting slaves Jack rescued from Iron Cage City, children saved from Moretti's ship, and fishermen driven to desperation by the Mafia. Now they stood with their guns trained on the people who had once oppressed them. Their hands no longer shook. Their eyes no longer wavered.

One recruit had been a fisherman from Salt Harbor. Moretti's men had beaten his son to death. He stood on the parade ground, aiming at a Mafia member crouched in the front row—a man from the Moretti Family. His finger rested on the trigger, his knuckles white and his lips trembling, but he did not pull it.

Jack came out of the office building and stopped in front of the recruit, looking down at him.

"He killed your son," Jack said. His voice was quiet, but everyone on the parade ground heard him.

The recruit's eyes reddened. "I know."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

The recruit's lips trembled harder. His finger tightened on the trigger, loosened, tightened again, then loosened again. Tears spilled down his cheeks and dripped onto the rifle stock, leaving a small dark spot in the wood grain.

Jack reached out and gripped the barrel.

"Shoot," Jack said.

The recruit flinched. He stared at Jack, pupils wide, lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came out.

"You can't bring yourself to kill him because you're afraid." Jack's voice was steady. "You're afraid killing someone will make you just like him. It won't. You'll kill him because he deserves it. Afterward, you'll still be you."

The recruit's finger stayed on the trigger for three seconds. Then he pulled it.

A gunshot cracked across the parade ground. The bullet struck the man in the chest.

Jack took the rifle from him, turned the barrel, and pressed it back into his hands.

"Next time, don't hesitate."

The recruit gripped the stock, his knuckles white. His lips moved without a sound, but his eyes had changed. Fear had given way to resolve, hesitation to determination.

He turned his rifle toward another Mafia member crouching on the parade ground. This time, his hands did not shake.

Jack went back into the office building, entered his office, and shut the door. He took off his uniform jacket and tossed it onto a chair.

Colin flew in through the window, folding his wings against the frame. His feathers brushed the glass with a soft rustle. Sea salt and blood stained his uniform, and a knife slash had torn his left sleeve. Dried blood crusted the edges of the cut.

"Boss, today's patrol is done." Colin stood before the desk, pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, and spread it out. "Drove off twelve illegally armed ships, sank one slave ship, and arrested four wanted criminals."

The day's battle report lay on the desk, neatly written with clear figures. Jack glanced at it and pushed it aside.

Colin's wings opened slightly behind him. "Boss, are we heading out again tomorrow?"

"Yes. Until there's no Mafia left in the West Blue."

Colin nodded, walked to the window, and spread his wings. He flew out, dwindling to a black speck against the blue sky before disappearing over the horizon.

For the next month, the 16th Branch's patrol boats went to sea every day without fail.

The results mounted. Forty-seven illegally armed ships driven off, eleven slave ships sunk, twenty-three wanted criminals arrested. One by one, the West Blue's smuggling routes were cut off and its Mafia strongholds wiped out. Order began to take hold in waters that had once been lawless.

Word spread across the West Blue. The fishermen learned that the 16th Branch had a new commander: a Marine who wasn't afraid of the Mafia, one who went to sea and killed. They no longer feared going out to fish or worried about Mafia extortion. They no longer had to hand over half their hard-earned catch to thugs in suits.

The 16th Branch was changing on land, too.

The recruits trained harder. They had chosen to do it; Jack had not ordered them to. Every day they rose before dawn to run drills, then did push-ups, shooting practice, and combat training. A training score sheet hung on the mess hall wall. Those with the lowest scores stayed out until dark for extra practice—not as punishment, but because they asked to.

Colin flew through the window and landed on the office floor, his wings folded behind him. Salt crusted his feathers, gleaming white in the sunlight. He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and set it on the desk.

"Boss, today's battle report."

Jack picked it up and glanced at it. "Seven illegally armed ships driven off. Two wanted criminals arrested."

Colin stood before the desk, watching Jack's profile. "The Mafia in the West Blue are almost gone. Godo can lead a team to deal with the few strongholds left."

Jack set down the report and leaned back in his chair. He tapped the armrest twice, stopped, then tapped it twice more.

"Boss, what do we do next?" Colin asked quietly, each word clear.

Jack did not answer. He rose, went to the window, and pushed it open. The sea breeze poured in, carrying the smell of salt water and something else from the distant water that he could not place. He looked down at the parade ground.

The recruits were putting in extra training. The burliest ran laps with a log across his shoulders, sweat soaking into the wood grain. The thinnest did push-ups, his arms trembling, but he did not skip a single one. The boy rescued from Moretti's ship crouched at the edge of the parade ground with a short knife, stabbing a wooden post again and again. He moved slowly, but every thrust struck the same spot.

Their uniforms were too big. Their sleeves were rolled up several times and their trouser legs cuffed at the ankles. Yet they wore them like armor.

Jack watched them for a long time.

"The good days are almost over."

Colin stood behind him, his wings slightly open, his feathers stirring in the breeze. He looked at Jack's back, at those impossibly broad shoulders and the seams straining across his uniform.

"Boss, is an order from Headquarters coming?"

Jack showed Colin the telegram from the Marine Headquarters Staff.

"Colonel Jack, commander of the 16th Branch, is hereby transferred to Marine Headquarters with the rank of major and assigned to the Staff Headquarters for training. Report within thirty days. Tsuru."

Jack read it once, folded the telegram, and slipped it into his pocket.