Chapter Twenty-Seven: Lurking in Wait

Gunpowder filled the air, acrid and unmistakable. Pirates in the tavern, long accustomed to the company of smoke and flashing blades, paid the spreading haze little mind.

Amid the drifting smoke, countless gazes fixed upon Mord. There were looks of astonishment, surprise, and incredulity. Moments earlier, before they'd even realized what had transpired, the two pirates—clearly here for vengeance—had already taken bullets to the brow and crumpled lifeless to the floor.

Even though those two had burst in with clear intent, raising their pistols without hesitation, the masked undertaker had been swifter still. With a gun in each hand, he had, almost simultaneously, sent two lead bullets into the center of their foreheads.

It was a display of pure speed, ruthlessness, and precision.

A few pirates sitting near the entrance couldn't help but glance at their now-dead comrades, and as the event replayed in their minds, they grasped the malice behind the attack. It was clear those two had followed Lafitte, planning to use the crowded tavern and its patrons as obstacles—or even human shields—for a quick escape.

Yet those two never expected that the very table Lafitte chose would have a deadly man lying in wait. “Just when I was getting ready to leave…” Mord sighed inwardly, bearing the scrutiny of everyone in the tavern as he discreetly slid the still-warm flintlock beneath the table.

He didn’t rush to go; instead, he immediately began reloading his pistols. Though his speed at blind reloading left much to be desired, his movements were steady and practiced.

By now, Mord had a good guess as to those pirates’ intentions. They must have come for Lafitte—otherwise, why would they follow him inside so soon after his arrival? Unfortunately, Lafitte had chosen to sit at his table, exposing Mord to their gun barrels as well.

In such a situation, even if he hadn’t sensed their murderous intent, how could he possibly sit and wait to be killed? It didn’t matter who their true target was; once they pointed their guns his way, they sealed their own fates.

So, without hesitation, Mord drew and shot them both.

In the end, Mord had eliminated two of Lafitte’s enemies for him—a man who’d likely already made plenty of his own. But in truth, Mord had acted solely to eliminate risk.

“Excellent marksmanship.” The man at the end of the bar relaxed his grip on the iron pipe, watching Mord with interest.

His real name was Sabo, a former member of the Revolutionary Army, schooled in all manner of rigorous training and gifted with a wide array of skills—including intelligence gathering. Firearms were not his specialty, but he was no stranger to them either.

Earlier, Sabo had noticed Mord collecting information and, curious about his identity, leaned toward the notion that Mord was perhaps Navy.

Now, having witnessed Mord’s gunplay at close range—obviously the product of systematic training—Sabo’s suspicions only grew stronger.

Mord ignored Sabo’s compliment, bowing his head slightly as he concentrated on reloading his pistols. Seeing Mord’s continued silence, Sabo merely smiled, unfazed. Though their allegiances might differ, Sabo never judged a person’s character by faction alone, nor did he harbor baseless dislike for those on the other side. His values were relatively free, unbound by stale and stubborn beliefs.

Lafitte, seated at the same table, cast an extra glance at Mord. He knew perfectly well those two unfortunates had come for him; the murderous intent was so palpable it might as well have been a red warning light hanging around his neck.

What surprised him was just how decisive and merciless this man beside him—who had every reason to stay uninvolved—had been. He didn’t believe for a moment Mord had acted to help him and could see that Mord’s quick action was purely self-preservation.

A wry smile curled Lafitte’s lips. That, in fact, was precisely what he appreciated.

Lafitte’s gaze swept over every detail Mord’s mask left exposed: his eyes, his lips, his ears, his neck. He memorized them all before finally looking away and waving a server over.

By this time, the tavern staff had recovered from the shock. Without delay, they hauled the bodies outside and mopped up the blood before it could spread. Short on manpower, they sent someone to fetch the undertaker for the corpses. As for the undertaker who had so decisively prevented an incident inside their tavern, only a fool would dare disturb him.

The commotion gradually died down, and the pirates returned to their own affairs, finally withdrawing their stares from Mord.

At last, Mord finished loading both flintlocks. His practical experience with reloading was lacking—blind or otherwise—so his efficiency left much to be desired. He stowed the loaded pistols, rose to his feet, and prepared to leave this place of trouble behind, intent on staking out his chosen prey somewhere outside.

“Leaving already?” Sabo, having been ignored several times, still attempted to strike up conversation with his usual easy manner.

Mord glanced at the oversized lenses of Sabo’s sunglasses, then chose to ignore him again, heading straight for the door.

Lafitte watched Mord’s departure from the corner of his eye, scanning him from head to toe as if with an instrument, committing every detail of his retreating form to memory. Other pirates, too, couldn’t help but watch as Mord left.

Once the door closed behind him, the tavern’s atmosphere quickly grew lively again.

Stepping outside, Mord surveyed the area, searching for a suitable shadow in which to conceal himself. In a place where buildings rose and fell in a dense jumble, wherever there was light, there was sure to be shadow.

It didn’t take him long to find a temporary hiding spot. He crossed the street in long strides, blending soundlessly into the shade.

From there, across the street, he fixed his silent gaze on the tavern’s door. As soon as his quarry emerged, he would tail them, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Names were unnecessary—there was no need to interrogate. Their bounties, always carried as badges of pride, would suffice.

Time crept by. Less than ten minutes remained before the auction was set to begin, but Mord had little interest in the proceedings.

Suddenly, he caught sight of two familiar figures—Kidd and Killer—heading toward the auction house. Hidden in shadow, Mord’s hand drifted to the weapon slung across his back—Usopp.

If opportunity presented itself tonight, perhaps he’d give it a try.

The glint of cold resolve flashed in his eyes as he withdrew his gaze. Whether it was worth the risk would depend on the situation. For now, he would focus on the prey at hand; if they escaped, this entire night would be wasted.

Mord kept his silent vigil on the tavern door.

Before long, the clock struck nine and the auction house began closing its doors to new arrivals. From a distance, Mord noticed a number of similarly dressed figures patrolling the perimeter like guards.

They must be the auction house’s private security, he thought, then promptly dismissed the matter from his mind.

An hour passed.

At last, the tavern door swung open and three men, arms slung around each other and smelling of drink, staggered out. After more than an hour of waiting, Mord’s eyes lit up at the sight.

“At last,” he murmured, and slipped into the night behind them.

Meanwhile, the auction inside was in full swing.