The pre-dawn air was thick with mist as Olbap and Popeye arrived at the underground lab, their boots crunching on the gravel path. Jerry was already there, leaning against a crate, a cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers. The faint hum of the lab's machines vibrated through the ground, a reminder of the relentless industry buried beneath. Jerry spotted them and flicked his cigarette into the dirt, grinding it out with his heel.
"You're on time. Good. Let's get moving before the day gets away from us," Jerry said, striding toward the lab's entrance.
Olbap and Popeye followed, the memory of Marlon's tour still fresh. The lab was a hive of activity even at this hour—workers in masks fired up grinders, the air sharp with the chemical tang of Red Tide in progress. They headed straight for the storage vault, a cavernous chamber stacked floor to ceiling with crates. Each crate was packed with bricks of Red Tide, their wrappings glinting dully in the lantern light. Olbap's eyes swept over the sheer volume, a rough count impossible in a glance. A week to tally this by hand, he thought, impressed.
"Looks like we've got enough to last years," Popeye said, his voice a low rumble as he eyed the stacks.
"If we were selling small, maybe," Jerry replied, weaving through the crates toward the back. "But we move big—hundreds of bricks per deal, sometimes more."
Olbap nodded, his mind turning. "Makes sense. Pirates don't mess around—they need bulk to keep their crews sharp. And good luck finding Red Tide anywhere else."
"Exactly," Jerry said, reaching a reinforced door at the vault's rear. "That's why Silco deals in volume. The 500 bricks for this run are already loaded on the ship. It's a two-day sail to the drop point."
They stepped through the door, emerging onto a hidden beach where palms and tangled vines cloaked a docked ship. Its hull was weathered but sturdy, designed to blend into the horizon. A dozen armed men waited on deck, their Flintlocks, mosquetes and blades catching the early light—Silco's promised escorts. Olbap felt a flicker of reassurance; trouble wouldn't catch them unprepared.
"Normally, I'd just give you the cargo details and send you off," Jerry said, climbing aboard. "But since it's your first run, I'm coming along to show you the ropes."
Olbap vaulted over the railing, landing lightly. "Fine by me, Jerry. Once you walk me through it, I'll take it from there."
Jerry laughed, clapping Olbap's shoulder. "That's the spirit, kid, but don't get too cocky. Here's the deal: we're meeting Jack's crew halfway between Golden Isle and Green Isle. There's a rock out there, dead center in the sea—easy to spot, easier to reach. When we pull up, you make sure all 500 bricks get loaded onto their ship. They'll do the same with the weapons. Here's what they owe us."
He pulled a crumpled list from his pocket, reading off the numbers with practiced ease:
500 Flintlocks × 4,000 beli = 2,000,000 beli
450 Mosquetes × 8,000 beli = 3,600,000 beli
54 Swivel Guns × 250,000 beli = 13,500,000 beli
250 Incendiary Bombs × 1,500 beli = 375,000 beli
150 Close-Combat Blades × 1,000 beli = 150,000 beli
235 Powder Kits × 20,000 beli = 4,700,000 beli
135 Bullet Molds × 5,000 beli = 675,000 beli
"Total's 24,250,000 beli in weapons," Jerry finished, tucking the list away. "Your job's to make sure it's all there. Then we sail back, but watch your tail—nobody follows us. Brackmor isle stays hidden."
Olbap nodded, committing the numbers to memory. "Got it. Check the cargo, make the swap, cover our tracks."
"Exactly," Jerry said. With a shout to the crew, the sails unfurled, snapping in the wind as the ship eased away from the shore, cutting through the waves into the open sea.
For Olbap, this was uncharted territory. His runs for Shadow Coral had been short, treacherous hauls through brutal currents that could snap a ship in half. This was different—a two-day voyage into the deep blue. He leaned against the railing, the salt air sharp in his lungs, and took a swig from his canteen. Things were falling into place. Money flowed, his group was good, and each deal pushed him closer to his goal: everything of Silco's empire.
He owed Silco for the opportunity, but his mind churned with plans—bigger labs, faster production, a secret weapon he'd keep close until the time was right. For now, he let the sea's rhythm lull him, settling into a chair and pulling his glasses down to nap. Two days was plenty of time to rest.
Three Hours Later
A bone-rattling roar tore through the ship, followed by a geyser of water erupting off the port side. Olbap jolted awake, glasses sliding off as he scrambled to his feet. The deck was chaos—crewmen grabbing Mosquetes and Flintlocks, eyes scanning the horizon. Popeye stood at the bow, arms crossed, staring dead ahead. Olbap followed his gaze, and his stomach tightened.
A ship loomed, larger than theirs, its black flag snapping in the wind. A grinning skull stared back, unmistakable. Pirates.
"Pirates," Olbap muttered, glancing at Popeye, who nodded.
"Spotted 'em a while back," Popeye said, calm as stone. "They clocked us too."
Olbap's pulse steadied as he drew his Flintlock, cursing its slowness compared to the revolvers of his old life. Jerry appeared beside him, tossing a Mosquete his way. "Lose that Flintlock, kid. You'll need this."
Olbap caught it, the weight familiar but unwieldy. Reloading was a pain—pour powder into the pan, ram more down the barrel with the bullet, pray the flint sparked true. He'd done it enough to make it second nature, but it wasn't the six-shot ease of his past. He darted to the powder kits, prepping the Mosquete with quick, precise movements: powder in the pan, close the frizzen, load the barrel, ram it home. Ready.
The pirate ship closed in, its single cannon a blunt threat. Olbap peered through his spyglass, noting the patched sails and lean crew. New blood, he thought. Probably stumbled on us by chance. Their ship lacked heavy artillery too—Silco's cannons were too pricey for every vessel, and ammo wasn't cheap. But they had swivel guns, ship-mounted shotguns perfect for close quarters. Olbap grinned. Let them get close.
As the pirate ship drew near, gunfire erupted, bullets pinging off the deck. Olbap ducked behind a flipped table, heart pounding but mind clear. He popped up, spotted a pirate aiming a Flintlock, and fired. The shot roared, and the man staggered, but Olbap didn't linger to check. He reloaded, firing again, each shot a calculated risk in the chaos.
The pirates kept coming, their volleys relentless. A bullet whizzed past Olbap's ear, splintering the wood behind him. He cursed, dropping low as another round kicked up splinters at his feet. The deck was a storm of shouts and smoke, the acrid bite of gunpowder burning his throat. He risked a glance—Jerry was barking orders, directing fire, while the crew held the line, their Mosquetes booming in response. But the pirates were boarding now, ropes swinging over the gap, cutlasses flashing.
Olbap aimed through the haze, spotting a burly pirate clambering over the rail. He squeezed the trigger—the Mosquete bucked, and the man jerked back, clutching his shoulder, blood blooming through his shirt. One down. Reloading under fire was hell—powder spilling from the fast hands, the ramrod slick with sweat. A pirate lunged at him from the side, blade raised. Olbap rolled, the sword biting into the deck where his head had been. He came up swinging, the Mosquete's butt cracking against the man's jaw with a sickening snap. The pirate crumpled, and Olbap finished him with a point-blank shot, the recoil jarring his arm.
"Keep firing!" Jerry yelled, his own blade drawn now, parrying a cutlass strike before gutting his attacker. Bullets zipped overhead, one grazing Olbap's sleeve, tearing fabric but missing flesh. He dove for cover behind a barrel, heart slamming against his ribs. Too close. Reloading again, he peeked out, picking off another pirate mid-swing. The deck was slick with blood, the air thick with screams and powder smoke. Olbap's hands ached, his ears ringing from the constant thunder that he used to hear in his past live, but he kept going—aim, fire, reload, repeat. The pirates were faltering, their numbers thinning, but they pressed on, desperate for the cargo they smelled below.
With Popeye
Popeye waited, a mountain of muscle coiled for action. As the ships grazed, he saw his moment. With a bellow that drowned the gunfire, he leaped across the gap, landing on the pirate deck with a thud that shook the planks. Two pirates spun, Flintlocks raised, and fired. The bullets grazed Popeye's skin, leaving welts but no blood—his skin was tougher than their bullets. He charged, massive hands seizing their faces, slamming them to the deck with a sickening crunch before hurling them overboard like rag dolls.
A third pirate lunged with a cutlass, his blade whistling through the air. Popeye sidestepped with surprising agility for his size, wrenching the sword free in one fluid motion. The pirate's eyes widened in terror as Popeye's fist connected with his gut, folding him in half. Another swing sent the man crashing into the mast, out cold. Pirates swarmed now, five at once, their shots peppering Popeye's chest and arms—bruises bloomed, but he didn't slow. He grabbed one by the collar, using him as a shield against a volley, the body jerking as bullets found flesh that wasn't his.
"Get 'im!" a pirate snarled, swinging an axe. Popeye caught the handle mid-swing, yanking the man close and headbutting him with a crack that split bone. The axe clattered free, and Popeye wielded it like a toy, cleaving through two more attackers in a wide arc. Blood sprayed, mixing with the sea's salt on his skin. A pirate stabbed from behind, the blade glancing off Popeye's back like it hit stone. He spun, elbow smashing the man's face, then stomped down, ending the threat.
The deck was a slaughterhouse now, pirates slipping in their comrades' blood, their confidence shattering. One fired point-blank at Popeye's face—the bullet grazed his cheek, drawing a thin line of red, but he roared and charged, tackling the shooter overboard into the churning waves. Three more closed in, blades flashing. Popeye disarmed the first with a backhand, snapped the second's arm like a twig, and lifted the third overhead, hurling him into the sails. The canvas ripped, tangling the man as he fell. Gunshots echoed from Olbap's ship, picking off the stragglers, but Popeye was the storm's eye, unrelenting until the last pirate lay broken at his feet.
Thirty minutes of blood and powder later, the fight was over. The pirate ship was a graveyard, its crew dead or dying. Olbap emerged from cover, his clothes torn and streaked with soot, the Mosquete still warm in his hands. Bodies littered the deck—mostly pirates, but too many of their own had fallen. Jerry stood nearby, his sword dripping red, his face grim under a mask of grime.
"Secure the wounded!" Jerry barked. "Any pirate still breathing goes overboard. They're no use to us."
The crew obeyed, dragging bodies to the rail. Olbap spotted Popeye crossing back, shirtless, his torso a map of bruises from deflected bullets. Olbap shook his head, a grin breaking through. "Did you have to charge in like a damn gorilla?"
Jerry laughed, sheathing his sword and offering cigarettes to Olbap and Popeye. "Kid's got fire! That was a hell of a fight, Popeye. Spar with me sometime—you've got my blood up."
Olbap took the cigarette, lighting it with a match. "I'll take you up on that, Jerry. Gonna need it." said Popeye grabbing the cigarette
They set to work, clearing corpses and looting the pirate ship. The haul was modest—gold trinkets, a few jewels, enough to split among the crew. Olbap eyed the lone cannon, its barrel scarred but functional. "Popeye, grab that thing. And the bullets too. It's ours now."
With grunts and curses, Popeye hauled the cannon and its ammo to their ship. Olbap gave the order, and a swivel gun's blast sent the pirate vessel to the bottom, its wreckage swallowed by the waves. The sea was calm again, and they sailed on toward the exchange, a bloody welcome to the open water behind them.
End of the chapter.