Four days later,
Beckett sat on the deck of his ship, porcelain cup balanced neatly in one hand as the sea rolled past in orderly waves. Steam curled from the tea, unhurried, precise—much like the man himself.
"Sir," Ian Mercer said carefully from behind him, "don't you think you trusted that man too quickly?"
Beckett didn't look up. He took another measured sip.
"Trusted?" he echoed softly. Then a thin smile touched his lips. "No, Mercer. I never trusted him."
Mercer frowned slightly.
"I used him," Beckett continued, setting the cup down. "People like Daniel don't move for orders or threats. They move for emotions. So I gave him one."
He clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace. "His father-in-law. Held neatly within my reach. Even if the man himself feels nothing, his wife certainly does. And a daughter worrying for her father is far more reliable than any contract."
Mercer nodded slowly. "As long as Governor Swann remains under our control…"
"…we have leverage," Beckett finished calmly. "And with leverage, we have time."
Mercer hesitated, then voiced the thought that had been troubling him.
"But there's one thing I don't understand, sir. How would he know the location of Davy Jones's heart? We've searched for months. The Company has spent fortunes chasing rumors."
Beckett stopped pacing.
"Because," he said quietly, turning back toward the sea, "some things have a habit of revealing themselves to the wrong sort of people."
Mercer considered that.
"Pirates," Beckett went on, "thieves—scum, if you like. They recognize one another. They know where secrets are buried."
A pause.
"We don't need to understand how he does it," Beckett said at last, lifting his teacup again. "We only need to be there when the prize is delivered."
His smile returned—cold, satisfied.
"Sir, the Governor's son-in-law is here to see you," one of the soldiers reported.
Beckett smiled, slow and knowing.
"Excellent," he said, folding his hands. " See why bother searching for something yourself when someone else is kind enough to bring it to you?"
He nodded toward the door.
"Send him in."
Daniel entered calmly, a small metal box held loosely in one hand.
Beckett's eyes flicked to it at once. The faint smile he'd been wearing sharpened—not joy, not relief, but anticipation. Control was close. He could almost taste it.
"I trust," Beckett said smoothly, not bothering to rise from his chair, "that this is what you promised."
He gave a slight gesture.
Ian Mercer stepped forward immediately, boots clicking against the deck, hand reaching for the box as if it might vanish if he hesitated.
Daniel didn't pull away. He simply let Mercer take it.
"For your sake," Daniel replied evenly,—a tone that made it impossible to tell whether it was a warning or a courtesy—"you should be careful with what you open."
"I don't need advice from you," Beckett said coldly.
Ian Mercer opened the box.
Beckett leaned forward—and froze.
Inside lay a human heart.
It was beating.
Slow. Deliberate. Wet sounds echoed softly inside the metal box as it pulsed, contracting and releasing, alive despite having no right to be. Each thud felt heavy, unnatural—like the sea itself was breathing through it.
Beckett felt his own heart answer the rhythm, quickening.
There was no doubt now.
This was the heart Davy Jones had carved from his own chest—the heart torn free to escape love's pain, sealed away so he would never have to feel it again. The price of Calypso. The curse made flesh.
Beckett straightened slowly, awe giving way to something far more dangerous.
Control.
A thin smile cut across his face.
"Hm," he murmured. "You've done exceedingly well."
His eyes lifted to Daniel, no longer seeing a nuisance… but an asset.
"A man who can place this in my hands," Beckett said calmly, "should not be wasted."
He gestured faintly with one hand.
"Why don't you work under me?"
"Oh," Daniel said, feigning surprise. He hadn't expected Beckett to be bold enough to try recruiting him outright.
So this man truly believed he held Davy Jones's heart—and that nothing could stop him now.
In truth, the heart in the box was already dead.
It beat only because Daniel willed it to, animated by his death energy like a convincing lie wrapped in flesh.
Still, Beckett didn't need to know that.
Daniel tilted his head slightly. "And what exactly would you offer me in return?"
That question made Beckett's confidence swell.
"Anything," Beckett replied smoothly. "Power. Money. Influence. Even a title, if you desire one."
Daniel nodded, as if considering it seriously. Then he spoke again, casually—too casually.
"In that case, I'll share something useful. Black Pearl was spotted near Tortuga. Supplies, most likely."
Beckett's eyes narrowed with interest.
"And," Daniel continued, "I may have already sent word to the Flying Dutchman that its heart has been stolen… and that it can be found near Tortuga waters."
Silence followed.
Then Beckett smiled—slow, sharp, satisfied.
"Oh," he said. "It seems you're far more useful than I anticipated."
Daniel returned the smile.
Inside, he thought calmly: Good. Take the bait.
*****
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