Weeks had passed since Silco's high-stakes deal at sea, and just as he'd planned, Red Tide was surging through the black markets of the South Blue like a rogue wave. The name Silco Barrakuda was no longer whispered in shadowed taverns—it roared, a blazing signal fire drawing every ambitious dealer, pirate, and opportunist in the region.
His gamble with Jack had paid off handsomely. As agreed, Jack delivered weapons worth 5 million beli—Flintlocks, Mosquetes, swivel guns, incendiary bombs, blades, powder kits, and bullet molds—cementing their alliance. In return, Jack bought more Red Tide, trading arms for the drug in a cycle that fattened both their pockets.
The deal sparked a frenzy. Offers flooded Jack's table, his vast network making him the gatekeeper to Silco's product. Every crew wanting a piece of Red Tide had to go through him, though Jack didn't control the supply—Silco did. But Silco wasn't content to let Jack hog the spotlight. He knew leaning too heavily on one partner, even one with an endless arsenal, would bleed his profits dry. With workers like Olbap and Popeye pulling in record hauls of Crimson Blooms and Shadow Coral, Silco could afford to deal directly with others.
A new arrangement was struck: Jack would receive 500 bricks of Red Tide a month in exchange for weapons, keeping the alliance alive without draining Silco's reserves. Whether Jack agreed out of pragmatism or because Red Tide's demand had him cornered, Silco didn't care—his empire was growing, and he held the reins.
To shield Brackmor island , Silco played smarter. The island's location remained a closely guarded secret, known only to his inner circle. He knew discovery was inevitable—someone would sniff out the source eventually—but with Jack's weapons and a growing stockpile, he'd be ready. Deliveries and deals were conducted at sea, far from prying eyes, ensuring privacy and security. Most clients were pirate crews, their lives of plunder and violence making Red Tide's strength-enhancing kick irresistible. They paid premium beli to fuel their raids, and Silco's operation thrived.
On Brackmor, deep tangled forest, Silco convened another meeting with Jerry and Marlon. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and pine, the forest's canopy filtering sunlight into dappled patches on the ground. They sat at a rough-hewn table in a clearing, papers strewn with calculations and maps pinned down by knives.
"Boss, if we keep this pace, the island's gonna get found out," Jerry said, his voice low, eyes flicking to a sheet of numbers. "We don't have enough muscle to hold it if someone comes knocking."
Marlon nodded, his own notes clutched in a calloused hand. "He's right. We've got workers, sure, but for defense? Counting Graves, Vex, Olbap, Popeye, Mot, and Tom, we're barely 250 strong. We've stayed hidden by keeping things tight, but we need more bodies—trained ones."
Silco leaned back, lighting a cigarette, the ember glowing as he exhaled. "Fair point. How're the crews holding up? They still pulling their weight?"
Jerry flipped through a battered notebook, his finger tracing a specific page. "Boss, I might've dropped the ball on keeping you looped in. You've been neck-deep in deals, so I've been handling payouts. Graves and Vex—they've streamlined Shadow Coral collection. Death rate's steady, low even, and they're hauling 100 crates per run. That's a solid chunk of raw material for Red Tide."
He paused, flipping another page. "But the real surprise is Olbap and Popeye. They've cracked something new with the Crimson Blooms. Their losses are near zero—barely anyone dies now. They're pulling bigger hauls every run."
Silco's brow arched, his cigarette pausing halfway to his lips. "Olbap's just a kid. What's he doing to pull that off?"
Jerry grinned, warming to the topic. "Kid's a natural. Started organizing workers into five-man teams. The ones who've survived multiple runs know the swamp now—where the blooms grow, how to dodge the crocs. First run was 52 crates. Second, they jumped to 77. Last one? A hundred and twenty-five crates of Crimson Blooms. Massive. If we weren't swimming in new deals, we'd be strapped just paying the workers. Talked to Mot and Tom—they told Olbap to hold off two weeks 'cause the lab's bursting."
Silco exhaled a slow plume of smoke, his eyes narrowing with interest. "A hundred and twenty-five crates. Kid's got instincts. Thought he might be a risk when we brought him in, but you pushed for him, Jerry. Good call. Maybe we're wasting him on flowers."
Marlon leaned forward, frowning. "You thinking of pulling him up, boss? Kid's sharp, but that's a big leap."
Before Silco could reply, a voice cut in from behind, lazy but edged with intent. "You're giving a kid too much rope, Silco." Rane lounged against a tree, a glass of wine in one hand, his posture deceptively relaxed. "Why the rush?"
Silco turned, unfazed. "What's your angle, Rane?"
Rane swirled his wine, the liquid catching the dim light. "Been out in the field, keeping tabs. Kid's done more in months than most do in years. But he's still a kid. Let me shadow him for a time, size him up. See if he's got the spine for bigger things."
Jerry smirked, tossing his notebook onto the table. "Got a crush on the kid, Rane?"
"Curiosity," Rane said, his smile thin but sharp. "give me time, Silco. I'll tell you if he's worth the gamble."
Silco nodded, crushing his cigarette into the dirt. "You've got your time. Jerry, Marlon—focus on the lab. Make it bigger, stronger. Build it underground. Keeps it hidden, safer. Figure out what you need—materials, beli, anything—and get me a list."
Jerry saluted loosely. "You got it, boss. We'll scope the lab, draw up the numbers. Anything else?"
"That's it for now," Silco said, standing. "Get to it."
Time rolled on. Jerry and Marlon dove into the lab project, opting for an underground bunker deep in Brackmor's forest. It was a fortress disguised as earth, invisible to prying eyes. Chimneys were carved to vent the machines' smoke, preventing the workers from choking on fumes.
The core equipment—grinders to pulverize Shadow Coral into dust, mixers to blend it with Crimson Bloom venom—ran like clockwork. The mixture was baked under intense lamps, drying into a fine red powder that carried a scent so intoxicating it could lure even the strongest-willed to taste it. Workers wore masks to avoid accidental addiction, packing the powder into bricks with meticulous care.
The process was grueling, and most lab workers never left, sleeping in bunks beneath the earth. Silco designed it that way—loyalty through isolation, leaks prevented by necessity. Many had been with the organization for years, their lives woven into its fabric, so betrayal was rare. The new underground lab was a marvel: vast enough to store surplus, with a hidden dock for direct ship loading, concealed by the forest's dense canopy. Red Tide production ramped up, seamless and relentless.
With Jack's weapons flooding in, Silco fortified the island. Watchposts sprouted along the coast, manned by men and women trained for combat over labor, their pay modest but their presence critical. By mid-1502, Brackmor island was no longer a backwater—it was a fortress in waiting.
In the Swamp
The warehouse stood quiet, its timbers creaking under the weight of another humid day. Workers straggled in from the swamp, their suits tattered, faces etched with exhaustion but lit with the glow of survival. Three days of grueling harvest yielded heavy crates of Crimson Blooms, and Olbap, flanked by Popeye, handled payouts with practiced ease. Each worker got their beli, and the air buzzed with weary relief. Life, for the moment, was good—calmer than Olbap ever thought possible on this cursed island.
But calm bred restlessness. Olbap leaned back in his chair, the familiar creak grounding him as he counted the take: over 100 crates per run now, 100,000 beli split with Popeye. The tavern was thriving, drunks and fighters pouring beli into its pockets.
The swamp was tamed—crocodiles driven off with lures and handheld cannons, their scales too tough to kill but not to scare. Anna and Vanessa, reassigned to Shadow Coral collection, fed him intel on the other workers, and all signs pointed to smooth sailing. Even Silco's rare call had been a pat on the back—keep it up, kid. The boss was busy, which meant Olbap was free to run his corner of the empire.
Yet something gnawed at him. The swamp, the crates, the routine—it was too easy now. He'd seen Silco's moves: the weapons, the secrecy, the organization swelling like a storm cloud. Krakenport was no longer the dead-end he'd washed up on a year ago. He wanted more—needed it. The tavern was a start, but it wasn't the throne he craved.
As the last worker left, Olbap sighed, standing. "We're done here, Popeye. Let's roll."
Popeye nodded, slinging a sack of beli over his shoulder. But before they reached the door, a soft thud echoed from the upper loft. Both froze, heads snapping toward the sound.
A figure sat perched on the railing, legs dangling, watching them with the lazy confidence of a cat. The dim light caught his features—sharp, weathered. Rane. Olbap had seen him only once, a fleeting glimpse in Silco's shadow, but his presence was unmistakable.
"You're Rane, right?" Olbap asked, keeping his tone even, though his hand hovered near the Flintlock at his hip. "What do you want?"
Rane tilted his head, his smile thin but curious. "Been watching you, kid. You're interesting. Built a system to pull flowers like it's a game, bought a tavern to line your pockets. Why the hustle?"
Olbap's eyes narrowed, sensing a test. "You've been digging into me, huh? What's your point, Rane?"
"Curiosity," Rane said, sipping his wine. "Silco was ready to bump you up months ago, but I asked him to let me observe you first. See if you're worth it. And I'll be honest, kid—you've got the brains. More than most. Young, but sharp."
Olbap crossed his arms, a spark of interest flaring. "A promotion? Didn't see that coming. From the way you're talking, sounds like you're signing off on it."
Rane chuckled, low and dry. "Why not? You've done more for the organization than half the clowns out there sailing for us. Keep it up, and you'll go far."
He stood, turning toward the exit, his coat swaying. "See you soon, Olbap. Popeye. Don't slack off." With that, he vanished into the shadows, leaving only the faint clink of his glass.
Olbap and Popeye exchanged a glance, the same thought burning in their minds. Someone had been watching, and they hadn't noticed. In Olbap's old life—back in the streets of Florida, dodging cops and rivals—that kind of blindness got you killed. He'd grown soft here, lulled by the swamp's rhythm and the tavern's coin.
"Time to step up, Popeye," Olbap said, voice hard. "Keep your eyes open. We're playing a bigger game now."
Popeye nodded, his jaw tight. They stepped out into the dusk, the swamp's hum a reminder that nothing in Krakenport stayed quiet for long.
End of the chapter.