The sea stretched endless before the ship, its waves glinting like shattered glass under the dawn's first light. After two days of sailing, the meeting point loomed on the horizon—a jagged rock piercing the water like a broken blade, its edges worn smooth by centuries of tides.
This was the rendezvous with Jack's crew, the Harley family, as Jerry had called them. Olbap stood at the bow, spyglass pressed to his eye, watching a ship emerge from the morning haze. Its sails were taut, its hull low and sleek, marked with the sigil Jerry had described. That's them, Olbap thought.
"Alright, let's move," Jerry called, his voice cutting through the creak of rigging and the slap of waves against the hull. The crew snapped to action, hauling crates of Red Tide bricks to the deck. The soldiers, some still bandaged from the pirate skirmish two days prior, moved with grim efficiency despite their wounds—limping gaits, wrapped arms, and bloodshot eyes betraying the toll of the fight.
Olbap and Popeye joined in, stacking the 500 bricks in precise rows, their wrappings catching the sun's rays like dull rubies. The work was fast, almost rhythmic, the deck thumping under the weight of crates and boots.
As the Harley ship pulled alongside, its hull grazing the water with a low groan, Olbap got his first clear look at Jack's crew. Their deck bristled with green crates, the glint of steel and gunpowder barrels visible within. Their men outnumbered Olbap's two to one, each armed to the teeth—Flintlocks slung across chests, Mosquetes propped against shoulders, cutlasses dangling at hips. They're ready for a war we're not fighting, Olbap thought, his hand brushing the Mosquete at his side. The air was thick with tension, the kind that hung over deals where one wrong word could spark blood.
Jerry gave Olbap a nod, and they crossed a plank bridging the ships, the wood creaking under their weight. On the other side stood a man who radiated authority despite his stout build. His arms, thick as ship cables, were wrapped in a heavy iron chain, the links clinking softly, and his skin was a canvas of faded tattoos—skulls, anchors, and jagged script. A black bandana restrained a mane of slick, dark hair, and round goggles perched above a scruffy beard, giving him the look of a predator sizing up prey. His leather vest, tight black pants with buckle straps, and steel-plated boots screamed biker—a style Olbap knew well from the dive bars and back alleys of his old life in Florida. This man was trouble, polished to a dangerous sheen.
"Oh, Jerry, now you're babysitting kids?" the man said, his voice a gravelly drawl, a smirk splitting his beard as he locked eyes with Olbap.
Jerry's hand landed on Olbap's shoulder, firm and steady. "Not quite, Diesel. Meet Olbap—your new contact for these runs. Don't underestimate him."
Diesel's smirk faltered, his goggles catching the light as he leaned forward, sizing Olbap up like a wolf sniffing for weakness. "You're joking, right? This is serious business, Jerry. You think this kid can handle the weight?"
Jerry's smile held, his silence a challenge. Olbap stepped forward, meeting Diesel's gaze without flinching. "Name's Olbap. And I think we should cut the chatter and get to the transfer. We're exposed out here—any ship with a spyglass could spot us."
The words hung in the air, sharp and deliberate. Diesel's eyes narrowed, searching for a crack in Olbap's calm. Then he barked a laugh, loud enough to startle a nearby gull. "Not your average brat, huh? Alright, kid. I'm Harley Diesel, Jack's right hand. Guess you're the new blood."
"Harley?" Olbap asked, catching the name's weight.
Jerry lit a cigarette, the match's flare briefly illuminating his grin. "Didn't tell you? Jack's crew are all Harleys. Take the name, you're family—blood or not."
"Damn right," Diesel said, puffing out his chest, the chain on his arms clinking. "Harley means you're in deep, kid. Full member, no half-measures. You don't just join—you earn it."
Olbap's lips twitched, filing the detail away. A family bound by name, not blood—loyalty forged in fire. Silco could learn from that, he thought. "Interesting setup. Let's get to business."
"Couldn't agree more," Jerry and Diesel said in unison, their grins mirroring each other like old allies.
The crews sprang into motion, a well-oiled machine despite the tension. Olbap's men passed Red Tide bricks across the plank, their movements steady but cautious, eyes flicking to the Harley crew. Popeye towered among them, hauling stacks of bricks like they were kindling, his bruises from the pirate fight fading into his sun-darkened skin.
Diesel's men reciprocated, dragging green crates of weapons—Flintlocks, Mosquetes, Swivel Guns, incendiary bombs, blades, powder kits, and bullet molds. Olbap took charge of the count, his eyes sharp as he inspected the crates. He didn't tally every piece—too slow—but he sampled enough to match Jerry's list: 500 Flintlocks, 450 Mosquetes, 54 Swivel Guns, 250 bombs, 150 blades, 235 powder kits, 135 molds. The total, 24,250,000 beli, checked out. The transfer was clean, no tricks, no shortfalls. Both ships were soon ready to part, the plank pulled back with a thud.
As they sailed away, the Harley ship shrinking into the haze, Olbap leaned against the railing, the sea's salt stinging his lips. He exhaled, long and slow, the tension draining from his shoulders. The deal had been smooth—too smooth. In his old life, deals like this were powder kegs. Someone always pushed for more, turning handshakes into standoffs, words into bullets. He'd seen knives drawn over a few hundred Dollars, bodies left in alleys when patience ran dry. It wasn't until you had power—real, bone-deep fear in your name—that deals stayed clean. Silco had that now, his shadow long enough to keep men like Diesel in line.
The weapons they'd secured would arm Brackmor growing guard, the ammo enough to hold the island for months. But Olbap's mind turned to his own weaknesses. Popeye could shrug off bullets like rain, but Olbap couldn't. If a fight came and Popeye wasn't there, a Mosquete's slow reload could be his end. Hand-to-hand, he thought. I need to be a weapon, not just wield one.
A heavy hand clapped his shoulder, jarring him from his thoughts. Popeye loomed, dropping onto a crate with a groan of wood. "Lost in your head, Olbap?"
"Just planning," Olbap said, glancing at the endless blue. "What do you say we train hand-to-hand when we're back? No guns, just fists."
Popeye's grin was all teeth, a challenge sparking in his eyes. "You? Against me? Oh, this I gotta see."
Olbap's brow twitched, a vein pulsing. "Don't get cocky, big man. I'm not your size, but I'll put a cannonball through your chest and walk right through the hole."
Popeye's laugh boomed, shaking the deck. "Hah! Alright, Olbap, I'll bite. But I'm all brute strength—don't know finesse. I just plow through."
"No kidding," Olbap shot back, smirking. "Charging a pirate ship headfirst without checking if they've got something to pierce that thick skin? Use your head, not just your muscles."
Popeye shrugged, unbothered. "Muscles are ready. If I go down, you've got my back, right?"
Olbap snorted, rolling his eyes. "Isn't it supposed to be you protecting me?"
Their laughter carried over the waves, a rare break from the grind. Work was relentless—swamps, deals, blood—but these moments with Popeye, no ranks, just two friends trading barbs, were what kept Olbap human. Popeye wasn't just muscle; he was loyalty, the kind Olbap wanted at his core when he built his own empire.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Meanwhile, Near Brackmor
Kael, Toro, and Liro stood on the deck of a smaller ship, its bow slicing through waves toward the Shadow Coral reefs. The air was heavy with salt and nerves—this was their first Coral run, a step up from the Crimson Bloom harvests they'd mastered under Olbap. Kael, 28 and weathered, gripped the railing, his thoughts on his wife and son back in Krakenport. Hunger had been their shadow before Olbap's work brought steady beli, and Kael would claw through hell to keep his family fed.
Toro, younger and unattached, had no kin but a soft spot for Krakenport's strays. His shack was a haven for street kids, stocked with food and blankets thanks to Olbap's payouts. Joining Kael and Olbap had given him purpose, and he wasn't about to let it slip.
Liro, the quiet orphan, kept his distance, his cold demeanor a shield forged by years alone. He'd nearly refused Kael and Toro's offer to join, preferring the swamp's solitude. But surviving its perils together had built trust, and now he was all in. The three were a unit, bound by Olbap's orders: harvest Coral, get close to Graves and Vex, and infiltrate their circle. Olbap's plan was a mystery, but they knew to keep quiet, play the game, and stack Coral to stand out.
Their second task was trickier: find the ghost kid Anna and Vanessa had described, the one who vanished from notice like mist. Olbap saw something in him, and that was enough. They'd scoured the ship for hours, asking vague questions about new faces, claiming they were building teams. No one knew anything. The kid was a specter, slipping through cracks. Frustration gnawed until Toro, heading for the bathroom, crashed into someone, both sprawling across the deck.
"Sorry, didn't see you," Toro said, scrambling up.
"No worries. Happens a lot," came a flat, monotonous voice.
Toro turned, heart lurching. There he was—the kid. Medium height, wiry, with sun-scorched skin and a shaved head. His dark eyes were lifeless, framed by thin brows, his face a blank slate. A faded shirt hung loose, misbuttoned, over patched gray pants and worn sandals. He was forgettable, invisible—exactly as Anna and Vanessa said.
Toro opened his mouth to call Kael and Liro, but when he glanced back, the kid was gone, swallowed by the crowd. Kael and Liro arrived, catching Toro's stunned look.
"What's the yelling, Toro? Thought you were hitting the bathroom," Kael said, puzzled.
"Need a companion now?" Liro teased, smirking.
"Shut it!" Toro snapped, scanning the deck. "I found him— the kid. Bumped right into him, but he's gone."
Kael's eyes lit up. "He's on the ship? That's something. good"
Toro's forehead vein throbbed. "It ain't my fault! I turned for one second to call you idiots!"
"Sure," Liro said, stifling a laugh. "Didn't even get his name, huh?"
Toro's fist clenched, ready to swing, when the flat voice cut through again. "I've been here the whole time. Name's Odoho."
The three froze, jaws dropping as they spun to see the kid standing feet away, unchanged, unnoticed. "EHHHHHH?!" they shouted, disbelief carved into their faces.
End of the chapter.