My Calculations

She leaves, her eyes never leaving mine until she's out the door. I keep my cool demeanor, but quickly walk to the office down the hall. Mercer's office.

"I want her followed."
Mercer looks up, confused.
"Elizabeth Swann. She's taken the Letters and left to find her betrothed. I presume she'll be sailing to Tortuga."

Mercer smiles, and I fight back a grimace. Eight years, and I still cannot stand the sight his scars. Normally, I try my best not to look him in the eye, but the lighting of this room and the intimacy of this meeting renders me helpless.

Mercer smiles, says "If she just left, why don't we pay her a little visit at the dock?", and pulls out his newly sharpened knife.
"Because she'll lead us to Sparrow."
My wisdom gets the better of Mercer and seeing no further argument, he puts the knife back and stands. "Assemble a crew and leave with the first tide tomorrow morning. Be discreet, but keep a close eye on her. Report immdiately back to me your findings."
"Yes, sir."

The sarcasm in his voice did not go unnoticed by me. But I let it go. I leave the office and head back to mine. My neck is starting to get sore; that woman really pressed that pistol into my jugular vein. All she had to do was pull the trigger and I'd wouldn't be here right now.

But the idea of being so close to death just minutes ago does not faze me.
God does everything for a reason. Instead of taking me, He gave me an opportunity to track down (and kill, once and for all) Jack Sparrow. Jack Sparrow, the scum of the seas--Nay, the scum of this Earth!


Jack Sparrow.
Even in my mind that name burns like acid.
I have learned to hide my outward hatred toward Jack Sparrow over the years. How could I have forgotten that night in St. Maarten? But I do not want him to know how much he has affected me. That is leavrage I will NOT let him have.