a/n: As always I own nothing of PotC

Chapter Thirty-Seven: "Eye for an Eye":

"You cannot beat me, Callaghan," Prescott said. "You may join me or join Davy Jones." Prescott did not add anything else. He had made his point and now it was up to the Irishman, who was caught clearly between the ever present rock and its corresponding hard place. Ana could see the struggle in his steely gray eyes. The story her brother wove was a probable one. He could very well be a privateer, going about the business of England and her King. He could very well be on a mission from Admiralty to capture or destroy one Charles Boothe. Of course, he was not. He was every bit as much of an outlaw pirate as he'd ever been. Problem was, Callaghan's men didn't know that. All they knew was a band of Navy sailors had just swallowed up that very story, hook, line and sinker. And, those same Navy men who would've fought alongside of Black Charlie Boothe out of necessity would now fight alongside of Prescott Tarret with heart and soul and zeal.

Watching her brother waiting for the Irishman's decision, Ana was surprised to find that she actually believed Prescott would just as easily kill Callaghan as not. She found herself wondering if this was his new pirate nature, or if Prescott had always seen things in such varying shades of gray as opposed to the stark black and white terms in which the Navy held the world. Less and less was she surprised by the fact that he had crossed paths with a paid killer like Callaghan and had actually seen it prudent to save such a life. She wondered if there was a whole world full of off-color people that owed Prescott favors, out there somewhere just waiting for those favors to be called in.

"You know," Callaghan began, his voice somewhat muffled by the gun barrel that Jack Sparrow held below his chin. "I'm not the only one you need t' worry about."

Prescott shifted his weight and held his arm across his chest in a gesture that would have looked less strange had he still two arms. "Certainly you don't mean Boothe?"

Anamaria could not see the Irish mercenary's face, but she was sure he was grinning. Of course, he meant Boothe, for none of them knew the villain's whereabouts. "It seems your compatriots have lost track of him," Callaghan said. Jack scowled, thrusting the pistol up higher, so that the Irishman nearly had to stand on his toes to keep the gun from breaking through the soft flesh beneath his head. Ana had no doubt that Jack would much rather the mercenary choose joining Davy Jones rather than joining he and Prescott. Jack, too, saw the world in shade of gray, but Callaghan was one certain black and white. A useless evil man who deserved to die. End of story.

"Black Charlie Boothe is currently in my quarters contemplating a very specific passage from scripture," Prescott said, his voice angrier than Anamaria could ever remember hearing. Her eyes drifted to the place where Prescott's right arm used to be, reminding her of the reason for that anger. An eye for an eye … the words from the Bible came unbidden into her mind. She closed her eyes, trying to dispel the images of blood and gore that were bombarding her brain. Her brother had most certainly done Boothe some violence, a violence that was sure to keep him confined in Prescott's cabin. Black and white and gray. Prescott went on speaking, "He is awaiting transfer to the custody of Captain's Norrington and Williams, as I have already said, and I am not in a habit of repeating myself."

"You're really going to take him to Norrington?" Callaghan was apparently too startled to censor himself.

"Not me. I'm dead," Prescott smiled. "No, Mr. Callaghan, you are going to deliver him into the hands of his enemies."

Now, it was Jack that was too startled to censor himself, for the hand holding the pistol to Callaghan's throat dropped suddenly and the pirate turned to face Prescott. "Aye?" he said, as though he were able to form no other coherent sentence. "He's what?" Jack gasped, his hands held to his hips in a posture that indicated he was impatiently awaiting Prescott's answer, and, it better be a good one.

Ana watched Callaghan, aware that he could very easily gain the upper hand since Jack had apparently lost interest in keeping the Irishman at the end of a pistol. The mercenary was covered in so many different bits of weaponry that he could kill Jack, Prescott, and her, for that matter, and seize control of the ship before their bodies hit the deck. What interested the lady was the fact that he did not.

That slow smile that Ana had grown accustomed to seeing of late, spread across her brother's face. "It's beautifully simple, Captain Sparrow," Prescott said, his voice quietly confident. "The good men at Admiralty who grant privateers' commissions do so because some problems cannot be solved within the confines of the law. Hence, it falls to privateers to do what Navy Captains cannot. Admiralty doesn't care how and, unless undue attention is brought to any specific action, they do not ask for detailed reports. It is in this capacity that many privateers and … mercenaries tend to cross paths." Prescott's icy blue eyes regarded the Irishman, waiting apparently for some understanding to dawn on his scarred face.

Jack crooked an eyebrow. "Ye just have t' say that Callaghan's working along with you and send 'im off on one of the shore boats to deliver Boothe to ol' Norrington." The pirate Captain smiled, bringing the pistol up to his own chin as if to scratch an itch. "Norrington's got 'im and Boothe, so the good Captain can go back home a hero and 'e forgets about us. Not bad, Lefty." Prescott just nodded in response, apparently not upset in the least by the new nickname Jack insisted upon using. "Not bad at all."

"When I don't return, there'll be questions," Callaghan spoke up in his own defense, but his reasons sounded hollow even to Ana's ears. He was beaten.

Prescott shrugged, wincing only slightly at the pain the motion must have caused his diminished shoulder. "Questions like that are easier to answer when we're all leagues from here dividing up the shares of Captain Morgan's ruby," he paused, lending gravity to his words. "Gold like that is hard to ignore." The Irishman remained silent. He was beaten, and he had accepted his defeat. "Captain Sparrow. Mr. Billings. Do be so good as to escort Mr. Callaghan below decks so he can prepare for his trip to Interceptor."

Left alone with her brother on the quarterdeck, Ana was suddenly aware of the first true feelings of relief since this dreadful voyage began. Prescott was leaning on the rail looking over the activity on his ship, watching all of the activity and none of it at the same time. "How far is this from the way you expected it to turn out?" she asked as she moved to stand beside him as he laughed softly in response to her question. The events of the past few days were so bizarre and terrible that she doubted any of it could have been foreseen. "What makes you so certain that Callaghan will take Boothe to Norrington?"

"I'm not," Prescott answered simply. "Doesn't really matter."

"What do you mean it doesn't matter?"

Prescott turned to face her, half sitting on the railing. "As long as Callaghan and Boothe are off of my ship, it really makes no difference what happens to either of them. It would be best if James picked them up, for then he'd hate Jack and I slightly less. But, it's more likely that Irish will kill Boothe as soon as Loyalty's out of sight and take the shore boat to the nearest piece of land he can find. It's not very likely that he'll get far enough to be picked up by someone other than James, but it's no matter to me even if he does get lucky."

"No matter?" Ana could feel her blood begin to rise. "He killed Shane."

Prescott sighed. "Annie, he's killed lots of people -"

"Shane was not lots of people, Prescott!" Ana snarled, hands on her hips. "He was the Admiral and a damned good man." Had she been left alone to lead a somewhat normal life, Shane would have continued courting her, and, although she could not honestly say that she would have welcomed his affections, nor would she have turned him away. In time she might have grown fond of the man and, if Jack and Prescott would have stayed away from Kingston, she might have become Mrs. Delaney. Life with an Admiral in His Majesty's Navy surely would have been a more stable existence than whatever she was involved in with a certain pirate Captain. "Callaghan killed him and that damnedable Irishman has to answer for his crimes."

Again, Prescott sighed, running his only remaining hand across his face. "Men like Callaghan do not answer for their crimes. Not in this world, at least. Men like Callaghan do what they do and only God can judge them." He shrugged half-heartedly. "I need Callaghan and Boothe off of this ship. That is all that concerns me."

With only those sparse words to explain his reasoning, Prescott turned away from Ana. Slowly and deliberately he descended the stairs to the maindeck before disappearing below. Ana swallowed angry tears. A good man had gone to his death during the course of his duty. Shane Delaney had not been without fault. He was proud and opportunistic. For King and Country he had gone out after Jack and Prescott and would have prosecuted them to the fullest extent of the law. But, hadn't he also gone out to save her life? Hadn't he faced danger and death for the woman he loved? Squaring her jaw, Ana was resolute. No matter how her big brother viewed this situation, she simply could not let the Irishman go unpunished.

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Wearily, Prescott Tarret once again climbed the stairs to the quarterdeck. His Navy prize crew and the Irish mercenaries had accomplished the task of once again setting Loyalty on course for Tortuga. He had hoped for a longer respite in his cabin, far away from prying eyes, but alas, that was not to be. He first had to play through the farce of sending the Irishman and his prisoner off to find Norrington. In reality, both men were prisoners to whatever fate had in store. Boothe was a dead man. That was certain. Prescott had to admit though, he had no idea what would happen to Callaghan. The mercenary had doubtless seen his share of tight spots; maybe he'd live to be paid to fight another day.

Lieutenant Billings escorted Black Charlie Boothe onto the maindeck. The villain's hands were shackled in front of him. His feet were in irons, and his head was bowed. At last he was defeated. Defeated by Prescott Tarret, hopefully once and for all. Next, Callaghan strode onto the deck. He'd been relieved of his extra weaponry, per Prescott's instructions, and left with one pistol and one shot. Whether or not he decided to use that one opportunity was none of Prescott's concern. Callaghan was playacting now, pretending to be of a like mind with the former Navy man. To all intents and purposes, he looked exactly as Prescott wanted, proud and in control. He looked nothing like a man going to his death. How he looked or what he did once he was out of sight would remain to be seen. Jack Sparrow, last above decks, arrived with his hand still clutching his pistol. They had won, but the wily pirate would leave nothing to chance. He would merrily put a bullet in Callaghan's brain should he spy the first hint of trouble.

"I must say, Lefty," Jack started as he approached the quarterdeck where Prescott stood. "I half expected to get below and find Black Charlie missin' appendages."

Prescott's brow rose. "Why is that?"

"Contemplatin' scripture ye said," Jack explained, watching as Black Charlie disappeared over the side to the jolly boat waiting below. "Eye for an eye came t' mind."

Letting his gaze fall to the sleeve of his uniform jacket that fluttered empty in the breeze, Prescott wondered at how close he'd come to repaying every cut and bruise. How he had wanted to make Charles Boothe bleed and cry out in pain and shame. He shuddered from the force of his own blind rage. "Came to my mind as well," he admitted, knowing that Jack fully understood the concept of revenge.

"But that obviously was not the scripture ye left ol' Charlie to contemplate?"

"Avenge not yourselves," Prescott quoted, meeting the pirate's black eyed stare. "Vengeance is mine to repay, says the Lord." So hard had it been to simply restrain Black Charlie Boothe without causing him undue bodily harm. Killing the dastardly villain Prescott could have allowed himself. To kill Boothe would have been justice. But, Prescott knew he would not be able to content himself to merely kill his tormentor. He would have gone too far, crossing a line he dare not cross, at least not yet. He would not allow himself to descend to the depths of hate for he did not know if he would be able to claw back to the surface of humanity again. Testing enough to live with the pain and humiliation he had faced at the hands of Charles Boothe. How could he have lived with the knowledge of doing those very same deeds?

Prescott exhaled a shaky breath, watching as Callaghan shot him a meaningful glare before joining Boothe in the jolly boat.

Jack shrugged in response to Prescott's explanation. "Think God may be second in line for vengeance," he said. "Think the Irishman'll get Boothe first."

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Standing on the deck, crowded with pirates and mercenaries, Lieutenant Billings was not exactly sure from where danger would come. Captain Sparrow had told him below to keep his eyes open. He was currently sailing with a former Admiral in His Majesty's Navy, a woman who dressed like a man, a dozen mercenaries, half a dozen members of a Navy prize crew and he was taking orders from a mad pirate. Danger was all around him and he was supposed to keep his eyes open. Good advice, considering.

"Last chance, Mr. Billings," Sir Prescott spoke up, crossing the quarterdeck with his only remaining arm held behind his back in a stance that would have looked more normal if he still had both. "You may still return to Interceptor and see this whole business finished." The Admiral turned privateer stood awaiting his answer, brow raised in a questioning gesture.

"Thank you, Sir," Billings heard his own voice reply. "But, I will stay on, if you'll have me."

"If I'll have you," Sir Prescott repeated, laughing. "I'm frighteningly short on actual loyal crew members, so I'll absolutely have you!" Prescott extended his left hand, "Come aboard, Lieutenant?"

Billings clasped the former Navy man's hand, sealing the deal and sealing his fate, as it were. "Aye. Aye, Sir," he said, Captain Sparrow's return cutting off any further comment he might have made.

The flamboyant pirate approached, head slightly lowered and he appeared to be chewing on his bottom lip. "Er, Scotty," he said, his voice quiet. "We may have a problem."

Sir Prescott blinked as he regarded Captain Sparrow. "No," he said simply, disengaging the handshake with Billings and raising it as though he could physically stop whatever Sparrow was about to say. "Oh, no. All of our problems just sailed away in my jolly boat. All of our problems are on their way to be Captain Norrington's problems or His Majesty's problems or the good Lord's problems for all I care, but they have sailed away nonetheless and they are no longer my problems." Sparrow opened his mouth as though he were thinking of speaking but Sir Prescott continued not giving him the time. "No no no," he said, "We are sailing for Tortuga, where my only problem will be a headache after too much ale! I am finished with problems." Sparrow closed his mouth, wearing an expression that seemed to ask if Sir Prescott was finished. The Admiral sighed. "What's the problem," he asked, his voice monotone and defeated.

"Your sister is gone …. again."

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This was without a doubt the worst plan she had ever devised. No. Scratch that. This could not be her worst plan, for that would imply that she actually had a plan. She did not. Anamaria had been angry at her brother, not for the first time in the last few days. She had been filled with an anger that she thought was righteous and had acted without any sort of plan whatsoever. Prescott was putting two criminals on a boat, sending them off to sea, and washing his hands of them. He did not care if justice was served or not, he was just putting his problems to sea and going on with his life as though he had no care for the outcome of this whole dreadful business. Ana had tried to reason with him, tried to tell him that Shane deserved better. Shane had deserved better, and for some inane reason Ana had decided that it was up to her to see that justice was served. She could practically see her big brother roll his eyes and shake his head at her foolishness.

Prescott hadn't cared what happened to Boothe or Callaghan, so Ana, caught up in her own wild emotions, had grabbed a pistol from his cabin and hid herself beneath a pile of extra canvas aboard the jolly boat. To do what exactly, she had no idea, but she was furious and wanted to do something. She sighed silently, trying to remain motionless, maybe shooting herself and ending this debacle would be the wisest course of action. In her head, she had envisioned leaping out from beneath the sails, brandishing a weapon and demanding that Boothe and Callaghan admit their guilt and face the hangman. Now, she realized that all that commotion would probably set the small craft to rocking and she'd most likely fall overboard and drown in shame. She had raged once when Prescott had called her a stupid, bloody woman, but now she could hear those words over and over again in her head and she found herself agreeing. What had she been thinking?

"You're not really going to sail to Interceptor and hand me over to Norrington, are you?" Ana heard the sneer in Boothe's voice as he addressed Callaghan for the first time since sailing away from her brother's ship. The Irishman did not answer. "You know Norrington will just as soon hang the both of us," Boothe went on. Ana thought his voice sounded just a mite less steady. "He won't care if you're helping privateers, or not. He saw you shoot that Admiral, and he will hang you." Ana wasn't sure who Boothe was trying to convince.

She heard the Irishman laugh softly. "You're right," was all he said, before the sharp sound of a pistol rapport rattled the small boat. Covering her mouth to keep from crying out in alarm, Ana listened to the splash as, presumably, Boothe's body hit the water. Prescott had said that Callaghan would most likely kill Boothe and take his chances on the open sea, but she was still surprised to hear it actually happen. "You can come out now."

Ana froze as the Irishman spoke … to her. Slowly, she raised the canvas that she thought had hidden her from view. Pistol gripped tightly in her hand, she stood shakily and faced the mercenary. Far off to her right, she could still see Loyalty's white sails against the horizon, sailing away. It was highly doubtful that anyone aboard had heard the shot, nor would they hear her scream for help, should she want to scream for help. She was alone, in a small boat with a paid killer who had in fact just killed someone. Raising the gun, she tried to steady her hands and her heart. The jolly boat had only one small sail and the tiller, she could manage it alone if she had to … couldn't she?

Callaghan stared levelly back. Setting his spent pistol on the deckboards between them, he held his hands up in a show of surrender. "One shot," he said, "That was it." He smiled, mildly. "You've nothing to fear from me, Miss Tarret."

Ana's stare drifted to the bloody water where Boothe's body was sinking to the depths. The red stain marring the crystal blue waters was as ugly as the pirate who'd fallen there. It was fitting that there would be no gravestone for such a beastly man, just a temporary mark that would soon disappear and take with it the memory of Black Charlie Boothe and all the pain he caused. Ana released the hammer and lowered the gun. Stepping out from the sails, she sat across from Callaghan. "Do you have a plan?" she asked.

"Did you?" he asked, lowering his hands and smiling wider.

"Of course," Ana lied. "I was planning to shoot you."

Callaghan's smile faltered. "And now?"

Ana shrugged. "Now, I just want all of this to be over."

TBC