"Trophy." Duckworth's voice cracked on the word. "He made them... a trophy."
Duckworth took a step toward the wall. Then another. "'Oh yes, those are Quickdraw's guns. I took them myself, you know. Captured him single-handedly. A testament to Marine justice.'"
"Probably charged people admission."
Duckworth reached the wall. His fingers touched the glass case that held his weapons. Gentle. Almost reverent.
"I made these myself," he said quietly. "Forged them from steel pulled from my home island's mines. Spent two years getting the balance right. The weight. The action. Every single piece fitted by hand."
"They're beautiful."
"They're mine."
He grabbed the case and ripped it from the wall.
Glass shattered. Wood splintered. The mounting brackets tore free with a screech of protest. Duckworth didn't seem to notice or care. His hands found the revolvers, and the moment his fingers wrapped around those familiar grips, something changed.
His spine straightened, his shoulders broadened, and the very air around him seemed to thicken. The beaten prisoner dissolved, and in his place stood the predator who had carved a bloody legend across the North Blue.
"Well, well." A new voice cut through the cabin. "The rats have finally taken the bait."
Elijah spun.
Standing in the doorway, flanked by four Marines in full combat gear, was Commodore Harold Whitmore.
He was exactly the kind of man you'd expect to command a ship called the Righteous Wrath. Middle-aged. Thick around the middle. A face like a bulldog that had eaten something sour. His Marine coat hung from his shoulders, the gold epaulettes catching the lamplight like a pair of accusatory eyes.
"Prisoner Sparrow. Prisoner Duckworth." Whitmore smiled. It was the kind of smile that made you want to punch the person wearing it. "I had a feeling you'd come for your toys. A dog will always chase its favorite stick. It's the only thing you criminals understand: base attachment."
More footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. Reinforcements arriving. The sound of alarm bells began somewhere distant, spreading through the ship like a disease.
"The whole vessel knows you're loose now." Whitmore stepped into the cabin, his guards fanning out behind him. "You might as well surrender and save us all the paperwork."
"Surrender?" Elijah's hand found his compass, slipping it into his pocket. "Fuuuuuuuuck that."
"And you." Whitmore's attention shifted to Duckworth. "Nothing to say? That's not like you. What happened to all that talk about 'collecting debts' and 'keeping your word'?"
Whitmore laughed. "You're nothing. A jumped-up thug with a pair of fancy pistols. And now those pistols are going back on my wall, right where they belong."
Silence.
The guards shifted. Their rifles were up. Trained on the two prisoners. Four barrels. Four triggers. Four bullets ready to fly.
Whitmore's smile widened. "Kill them."
The first guard squeezed his trigger.
The shot never landed.
One moment, Duckworth was a statue carved from rage; the next, reality snapped back into focus with his revolvers already level, fire blossoming from Patience's barrel.
The shot caught the guard's rifle mid-swing, striking the weapon's firing mechanism and sending it spinning from his grip. Before the first rifle hit the floor, Mercy sang, and the second guard's weapon followed its brother into oblivion.
Two shots. Two disarms. Less than a heartbeat between them.
"What the..." The third guard tried to react. His rifle came up. His finger found the trigger.
Elijah was already there.
He'd moved the instant Duckworth had, closing the distance between himself and the nearest Marine with a speed that shouldn't have been possible. The guard swung his rifle like a club, a desperate attempt to buy time.
Bad move.
Elijah caught the blow with his forearm. The impact should have shattered bone. Instead, something pulled. The kinetic energy drained from the strike like water down a funnel, flowing into Elijah's body, leaving the guard staggering from the sudden lack of resistance.
"Thanks for that." Elijah grinned. "Let me give it back."
His palm snapped forward. Hit the Marine center mass.
The stored force released in a single devastating burst. The guard flew backward like he'd been kicked by a giant, crashing into the bulkhead hard enough to crack the wood. He slumped to the floor and didn't get up.
The fourth guard made the mistake of grabbing Elijah's shoulder.
Big mistake.
Elijah's hand wrapped around the Marine's wrist. His grip tightened. And then he pulled.
The guard's eyes went wide. His face paled. His knees buckled. It was like watching someone age ten years in three seconds, all the vitality draining from his body until he collapsed in a boneless heap.
"Sweet dreams," Elijah said cheerfully. "You look like you could use some rest."
Commodore Whitmore stood alone.
His guards were down. His weapons were gone. His trophies had walked themselves right off the wall and pointed themselves at his chest.
"This..." He backed toward the door. "This is impossible. You're prisoners! You're supposed to be in chains!"
"About that." Elijah stepped over an unconscious Marine. "Your security? Pretty garbage. Might want to look into that."
"The whole ship knows! Every Marine on board is coming! You can't escape!"
"Watch us." Duckworth hadn't moved. His revolvers stayed level. His eyes stayed locked on the Commodore. "You owe me fifteen million Beri."
"I owe you nothing!"
"Wrong answer."
The hammer pulled back. The barrel didn't waver.
"Pay me what you owe, and I'll let you live. That's more mercy than you showed me. More than you deserve."
Whitmore's face twisted. Fear. Rage. Something ugly beyond both. "I am a Commodore of the Marine organization! You can't threaten me! I'll have you executed! Both of you! Hanged from the mast until the sea takes you!"
"You're not listening." Duckworth's voice dropped to a whisper. "The contract. You. Broke. It. And I always collect."
"Quickdraw." Elijah's hand found the bounty hunter's shoulder. "We need to go. Now. More Marines. Lots more Marines. Coming this way very fast."
For a long moment, Duckworth didn't respond. His finger rested on the trigger. His eyes never left Whitmore's face.
Then, slowly, he lowered his weapons.
"This isn't over." He holstered Patience and Mercy in one smooth motion. "You and I have a debt to settle. And I never forget a debt."
He turned and walked past Elijah toward the cabin door. Elijah followed, pausing just long enough to offer the trembling Commodore a cheerful wave.
"Nice meeting you! Thanks for keeping our stuff safe! We'll send a postcard!"
They hit the corridor running.
Behind them, Commodore Whitmore finally found his voice.
"ALL HANDS! PRISONERS LOOSE ON THE UPPER DECK! ALL HANDS TO BATTLE STATIONS!"