The clock tower in Port Karabella chimed eleven times as Rima made her way through the narrow streets of the harbor district. Dressed in civilian clothes—dark trousers, a simple blouse, and a worn leather jacket that concealed her saber—she looked like any other merchant sailor enjoying shore leave. The transformation was deliberate and practiced; over the years, she'd learned that sometimes the best way to catch criminals was to walk among them undetected.
Three days had passed since the rescue at Palmetto Key. Three days of forensic analysis, witness interviews, and careful intelligence gathering. The bottle fragments from the Golden Promise had revealed traces of methanol and industrial chemicals—substances that could blind or kill anyone unfortunate enough to consume them. The survivors' testimonies had been consistent and detailed, painting a picture of a sophisticated operation with inside knowledge and military-grade coordination.
Most importantly, those three days had allowed her to plan tonight's mission.
"Commander, are you in position?" Kenji's voice crackled softly through the Den Den Mushi earpiece she wore, disguised as a simple shell earring.
"Approaching the Salty Anchor tavern now," she replied, keeping her voice low as she joined the stream of late-night revelers moving through the entertainment district. "Any sign of our target?"
"Negative. But the harbormaster's logs confirm that the Sea Breeze docked two hours ago. If our intelligence is correct, Captain Vasquez should be making contact with his local distributor tonight."
The Sea Breeze was their latest lead—another merchant vessel with suspicious cargo manifests and connections to Morrison Maritime Services. Rather than intercept the ship immediately, Rima had chosen to let it complete its run while maintaining covert surveillance. If her theory was correct, tonight she would witness the handoff between smugglers and their local distribution network.
The Salty Anchor squatted on the waterfront like a barnacle on a ship's hull—weathered, disreputable, and somehow essential to the ecosystem around it. The kind of establishment where questions weren't asked and answers weren't volunteered, where sailors with questionable cargo could find buyers with questionable ethics.
Rima pushed through the heavy wooden door into a fog of tobacco smoke and stale beer. The tavern was exactly what she'd expected—dim lighting, scarred wooden tables, and the kind of clientele that made honest merchants nervous. Perfect for conducting illegal business.
She made her way to the bar, ordered a rum, and settled onto a stool with a clear view of the room. Years of undercover work had taught her the art of invisible observation—how to watch everything while appearing to focus on nothing, how to blend into the background noise of ordinary conversation.
"You're new here."
The voice belonged to the bartender, a grizzled man with the kind of scars that suggested a violent past. His tone was neutral, but Rima could sense the suspicion beneath it.
"Merchant marine," she replied, affecting the slightly rough accent of the outer islands. "My ship's in port for repairs. Heard this was the place to find... interesting cargo opportunities."
The bartender's expression didn't change, but something in his posture suggested her words had registered. "Depends what you consider interesting. And whether you're the type to ask inconvenient questions."
"I'm the type to mind my own business, as long as the pay is good."
He studied her for a long moment, then moved away to serve other customers. Rima sipped her rum and continued her surveillance, cataloging faces and listening to conversations. Most of the talk was harmless—complaints about weather, gossip about port officials, the usual concerns of people who made their living from the sea.
But at a corner table partially concealed by shadow, she spotted her target.
Captain Vasquez was exactly as the survivors had described—a heavyset man in his fifties with prematurely gray hair and the kind of nervous energy that suggested someone carrying dangerous secrets. He sat alone, nursing a bottle of beer and checking his pocket watch every few minutes.
"He's here," Rima whispered to her earpiece. "Corner table, northwest side of the room. Appears to be waiting for someone."
"Copy that, Commander. We have the building surrounded, but we're maintaining distance as ordered."
Rima had insisted on minimal backup for this operation. Too many Marines in the area would spook their targets and potentially blow the entire investigation. Better to gather intelligence first, then make arrests once they understood the full scope of the operation.
At eleven-thirty, Vasquez's wait ended. A man in an expensive suit entered the tavern, his polished appearance incongruous among the rough clientele. He moved with the confidence of someone accustomed to being obeyed, scanning the room briefly before joining Vasquez at his table.
"That's interesting," Rima murmured. The newcomer looked less like a criminal and more like a government official—exactly the kind of person who could provide inside information about shipping manifests and cargo schedules.
She couldn't hear their conversation over the tavern's ambient noise, but their body language told a clear story. Vasquez was nervous, defensive, occasionally gesturing toward the harbor as if discussing his ship's cargo. The suited man remained calm and controlled, pulling out a leather portfolio and sliding papers across the table.
Money changed hands. Documents were exchanged. And through it all, both men maintained the careful distance of people who trusted each other only as far as mutual profit demanded.
Rima was so focused on the transaction that she almost missed the third participant entering the scene. A woman with short-cropped blonde hair and the lean build of someone accustomed to physical work approached their table with the easy confidence of a regular. Unlike the nervous captain or the bureaucratic suit, she moved like a predator—alert, dangerous, completely at home in this environment.
"Now this is getting interesting," Rima whispered.
The woman's arrival changed the entire dynamic of the meeting. Vasquez became even more nervous, while the suited man deferred to her with obvious respect. She examined the documents briefly, asked a few sharp questions, and then nodded approval.
But as she turned to leave, her gaze swept the tavern with the practiced eye of someone trained in counter-surveillance. For one heart-stopping moment, her eyes met Rima's across the crowded room.
The woman's expression didn't change, but Rima felt a chill of recognition. This wasn't some local criminal—this was someone with professional training, someone who knew how to spot threats and eliminate them.
"Kenji, we may have a problem. One of the targets appears to have made me."
"Orders, Commander?"
Before Rima could respond, the blonde woman was moving. Not toward the exit, but directly toward the bar where Rima sat. Her approach was casual, unhurried, but there was something predatory in her smile.
"Buy a girl a drink, sailor?"
The woman's voice was pleasant enough, but Rima could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her right hand rested near what was probably a concealed weapon. This was a test—maybe even a trap.
"Sure thing," Rima replied, signaling the bartender. "Rum okay with you?"
"Perfect." The woman settled onto the adjacent stool, close enough to make conversation seem natural but positioned to react quickly if needed. "I'm Sarah. Don't think I've seen you around before."
"Elena," Rima lied smoothly. "Just got into port this afternoon. Friend told me this place had the best rum in the harbor district."
"Your friend knows what they're talking about. So what brings you to Port Karabella? Business or pleasure?"
The question seemed casual, but Rima could sense the evaluation behind it. Sarah—if that was her real name—was probing for information, trying to determine whether Rima was a threat, an opportunity, or merely an innocent bystander.
"Bit of both. My ship's having engine trouble, but the repair yard says it'll take a week to get parts. Figured I'd see what kind of work was available while I waited."
"What kind of work are you looking for?"
"The kind that pays well and doesn't ask too many questions about paperwork."
Sarah's smile became more genuine, though no less dangerous. "I might know of some opportunities. Depends on your skills and your discretion."
"I can handle a ship in rough weather, I know how to keep my mouth shut, and I've never met a customs inspector I couldn't charm." Rima let a hint of her real confidence show through the assumed persona. "What kind of opportunities are we talking about?"
"The kind where merchants need special cargo transported quickly and quietly. The kind where questions about manifests and tax stamps are considered impolite." Sarah studied Rima's face carefully. "But first, I'd need to know more about your background. References, previous employers, that sort of thing."
It was a logical request from a criminal's perspective, but it created a problem for Rima's cover identity. Any serious background check would reveal her true identity within hours.
"References might be difficult," she said carefully. "My last employer had a disagreement with some port authorities. Things got complicated, and I figured it was time to find new waters."
"Ah, one of those situations." Sarah nodded knowingly. "Well, if you're serious about finding work, there might be a trial run available. Nothing too complicated—just helping with some cargo transfers tomorrow night. If you prove reliable, more lucrative opportunities might follow."
Rima felt a surge of excitement. This was exactly the breakthrough they needed—a chance to observe the smuggling operation from the inside and identify all the key players.
"Sounds promising. Where and when?"
"Pier seven, tomorrow night at midnight. Bring work clothes and don't ask questions about what you're loading or where it's going." Sarah finished her rum and stood to leave. "And Elena? If you're not what you claim to be, it would be very unhealthy for everyone involved."
The threat was delivered with a pleasant smile, but Rima had no doubt it was genuine. These people had already killed to protect their operation—they wouldn't hesitate to eliminate one more potential threat.
"Understood. I'll be there."
Sarah nodded and walked away, rejoining Vasquez and the suited man for a brief final conversation before all three left the tavern separately. Rima waited several minutes before following, taking care to appear like just another patron ending her evening.
Outside, the harbor district's late-night activity provided perfect cover for surveillance. Rima tailed Sarah at a discrete distance, watching as the woman made her way through increasingly narrow streets toward the industrial section of the port.
"Target is heading toward the warehouse district," she reported quietly. "I'm going to try to identify her base of operations."
"Commander, we should call for backup. If this goes bad—"
"It won't go bad. I'm just gathering intelligence."
But as Sarah turned into a narrow alley between two shipping warehouses, Rima realized she might have been overconfident. The alley was a perfect chokepoint—one way in, one way out, with plenty of places for ambushers to hide.
Sarah had stopped halfway down the alley and was looking directly at her.
"You know, Elena, for someone trying to be inconspicuous, you're not very good at it."
Rima's hand moved instinctively toward her concealed saber, but Sarah held up a peacekeeping gesture.
"Relax. If I wanted you dead, you'd already be bleeding in that tavern. But I am curious about who you really are and what you want."
There was no point in maintaining the deception. Sarah had clearly seen through it from the beginning, which meant either Rima's cover wasn't as good as she'd thought, or she was dealing with someone with professional counter-intelligence training.
"Lieutenant Commander Rima Yamato, Marine Branch G-82," she said, deciding that partial honesty might be more productive than continued lies. "And you are?"
"Impressed by your directness." Sarah's smile was genuinely amused now. "Most undercover Marines are terrible at this. You're only mostly terrible."
"Are you going to try to kill me, or can we have a civilized conversation?"
"That depends entirely on what you want to talk about."
Rima stepped closer, her body language shifting from covert to authoritative. If Sarah already knew she was a Marine, there was no point in pretending otherwise.
"I want to talk about ships being blown up in my jurisdiction. About poisonous liquor being distributed through legitimate shipping channels. About corrupt officials who provide intelligence to pirates and smugglers."
Sarah's expression grew serious. "You think I'm involved in those attacks?"
"Three merchant ships have been destroyed in the past week. All of them were carrying illegal cargo loaded at Torino Island. All of them were attacked by pirates who knew exactly where to find their contraband." Rima met Sarah's eyes directly. "Tonight, I watched you coordinate with a ship captain and what looked like a government official. So yes, I think you're involved."
"You're half right," Sarah said after a long pause. "I am involved. But not the way you think."
Before Rima could respond, Sarah reached into her jacket and pulled out a leather wallet. She flipped it open to reveal an official identification card that made Rima's eyes widen in surprise.
"Agent Sarah Mitchell, Marine Intelligence Division. And Lieutenant Commander, you just stumbled into the middle of a two-year undercover investigation."
The alley suddenly felt very quiet. In the distance, Rima could hear the normal sounds of port activity—ships' horns, loading equipment, the occasional shout of dock workers. But between her and Sarah, the silence stretched like a held breath.
"Marine Intelligence," Rima repeated slowly. "You're investigating the same conspiracy I am."
"The same conspiracy you're about to destroy with your well-intentioned but ham-fisted approach," Sarah replied with obvious frustration. "Do you have any idea how long it's taken me to gain their trust? How many months of careful positioning and relationship building you just threatened with one night of amateur surveillance?"
Rima felt a familiar mixture of embarrassment and indignation. "Amateur surveillance? I've been conducting investigations since before you learned to tie your shoes, Agent Mitchell."
"Local police work against small-time criminals. This is organized crime with connections to the World Government itself. The people we're dealing with have killed Marine officers before, and they'll do it again if they suspect we're onto them."
"Then maybe it's time to stop sneaking around and start making arrests."
Sarah stared at her for a long moment, then shook her head. "You really don't understand the scope of this, do you? Captain Vasquez is small fish—a courier who doesn't even know who he's really working for. That government official is mid-level bureaucrat being blackmailed into cooperation. The real masterminds are still invisible, protected by layers of corruption and misdirection."
"So what do you suggest? Let them keep killing innocent sailors while you build your case?"
"I suggest you trust someone who's been working this investigation longer than you've known it existed." Sarah's voice carried the authority of someone accustomed to command. "Meet me tomorrow night at pier seven, as planned. But this time, you'll be working for me, not conducting your own operation."
Rima bristled at the implied subordination. "I don't report to Marine Intelligence. My jurisdiction—"
"Your jurisdiction is about to become a crime scene if you keep blundering around like this." Sarah stepped closer, her expression deadly serious. "Lieutenant Commander, I respect your dedication and your abilities. But you're out of your depth here. Work with me, and we can bring down the entire network. Continue your independent investigation, and you'll get us both killed while the real criminals disappear."
The offer was reasonable, but everything in Rima's nature rebelled against stepping aside in her own waters, in her own case. She had built her reputation on solving problems that others couldn't handle, on never backing down from a challenge no matter how powerful the opposition.
But she also recognized the truth in Sarah's words. This conspiracy was bigger than anything she'd dealt with before, with tentacles reaching into the highest levels of government and criminal networks. If there was a chance to stop it completely rather than just treating the symptoms, she had to consider the greater good over her personal pride.
"One condition," she said finally. "My people—my jurisdiction, my responsibility. If this operation goes bad, I want guarantees that my crew will be protected."
"Done. And Lieutenant Commander? Tomorrow night, try to look like a sailor, not a Marine playing dress-up. These people are professionals."
As Sarah disappeared into the maze of warehouse district streets, Rima remained in the alley for several minutes, processing what had just occurred. Her investigation had taken an unexpected turn, revealing layers of complexity she hadn't anticipated.
But it had also provided her with something invaluable—an ally who understood the enemy they were facing and had already gained access to their inner circle.
Tomorrow night, she would discover just how deep the corruption ran, and whether two Marines working together could succeed where she had been struggling alone.
The moon was setting over Port Karabella as Rima made her way back to the harbor, where the Justice's Wake waited with her loyal crew. In twelve hours, she would return to pier seven and begin the most dangerous phase of her investigation.
But for the first time since this case began, she felt like she might actually be getting ahead of the criminals instead of simply reacting to their moves.
The tide was turning, and this time, she intended to ride it all the way to the truth.