The Path to Plunder

Jacob stood at the narrow window of his quarters, staring out at the harbor as the last threads of twilight surrendered to the night. The port flickered faintly, its feeble lanterns casting hazy pools of light that did little to fight the encroaching darkness. Below him, The Abyss lay anchored, her silhouette merging with the shadowy water. Her hull bore the scars of countless battles—some newly carved, others long since weathered. Though her timbers groaned like an old warrior's bones, she still had fight in her, enough for a swift and ruthless strike.

Behind him, Garrett spread a tattered map across the uneven surface of a table. The lines of shipping lanes were etched by hand, their precision a testament to countless hours of careful observation. Despite his somber expression, a spark of excitement danced in Garrett's eyes—a telltale sign that the promise of plunder was near.

"I've got word from the docks," Garrett said, his voice hushed as if even the walls might betray them. "A dockhand spilled it after a bit of rum loosened his tongue. There's a merchant ship nearby—not just any ship, either. This one's carrying a fortune: French silks, jewels, maybe even weapons bound for some nobleman's coffers."

Jacob turned, his brow lifting in curiosity. "And what would a ship like that be doing in a backwater port like this?"

Garrett's lips curled into a sly grin. "She's dodging the big ports, staying off the radar. Word is, she's cutting through quieter lanes to avoid both the Navy and rival pirates. She's here to offload some... let's say 'unofficial' cargo. That's why she's lurking around a place like this."

Jacob crossed the room, his boots creaking on the planks as he studied the map. "You're trusting the word of a drunken dockhand?"

Garrett leaned back, arms crossed, his confidence unshaken. "Normally, no. But this one had details—real specifics. He even knew the captain's name and that they'd been in a scrape with the British near Havana. They're playing it cautious, but not cautious enough."

Jacob's gaze fell to the map, his fingers tracing the delicate lines that wove through the sea like threads on a tapestry. "Three days, you said?"

Garrett nodded. "Aye. They leave in three days, but we can't rush. If we're spotted early, the escorts will tighten their defenses. We need to move smart, not fast."

Jacob tapped the table with a finger, his mind assembling the puzzle piece by piece. "Then we wait. Let them think we're stuck here, repairing the ship. We sail just before dusk, blend into the night, and follow them at a distance. Once they're far from any port or patrol, we strike."

A grin split Garrett's face. "Now that's a plan. Let them get comfortable, then gut them."

Jacob's eyes narrowed. "Comfort is what kills men, Garrett. We'll need more than swords and cannon fire for this. Spread the word quietly—let the crew know there's a prize coming, but it's worth the patience."

Garrett's smirk faded as he straightened his jacket. "They're eager, Captain. They need this—something big to put that mutiny behind us. A taste of plunder will remind them why they follow you."

Jacob moved back to the window, his hands clasped behind him as he gazed at the distant port. Shadows danced beneath the flickering lanterns—dockhands, sailors, and perhaps spies. "Victory is what they need. But recklessness will sink us faster than any enemy cannon. Make sure no one talks, Garrett. If word of this leaks, it'll be the last thing they ever speak of."

Garrett chuckled darkly. "Don't worry. No one's going to spill. Not unless they fancy being fish food."

Jacob allowed himself a faint smile. "Good. Let's make sure we're ready when the time comes."

As Garrett turned to leave, he paused. "The ship's called La Fortune. Big merchant vessel, French flag—three masts with a red-and-gold lion figurehead. Should be easy to spot."

Jacob raised an eyebrow. "A lion figurehead? And they're trying to avoid attention?"

Garrett shrugged. "Captain's a proud bastard, or so the dockhand said. Apparently, he flies a torn Bourbon flag as some kind of badge of honor. Makes him stand out, but that'll make our job easier."

Jacob's gaze returned to the map, his thoughts racing. "And the cargo? You're sure it's more than just silks?"

"Aye," Garrett said, his tone darkening. "Weapons, maybe gold. Enough to make it worth the risk."

Jacob's jaw tightened. A ship like La Fortune could do more than fill their coffers—it could restore faith in The Abyss. A victory against a high-value target would cement his place as a captain worth following, cursed powers or not.

"We sail in two days," Jacob said at last. "Just before dusk. We tail them at a safe distance until they're far from land. Then, we strike."

Garrett gave a sharp nod. "The crew will be ready, Captain. They'll be hungry for this one."

As Garrett began making preparations, Jacob lingered back at the window, the flickering harbor lights sparking memories of a life he'd all but left behind. A desk job in a windowless office, the hum of fluorescent lights, and the endless drudgery of spreadsheets and meetings. He had spent years there, navigating office politics with the same care he now applied to battles and raids. In a way, the transition wasn't as jarring as he'd expected. Leadership, tactics, execution—it was all the same game, just with different stakes. Back then, failure meant losing a promotion or a contract. Here, failure meant blood and fire.

Jacob smirked bitterly at the thought, shaking his head. He might have been a good leader behind a desk, but he'd been useless with anything practical. If someone had handed him a hammer back then, he'd have been lucky to hang a picture straight, let alone build something. And if he had the chance to invent something on this godforsaken ship, it sure as hell wouldn't be a weapon—it'd be an air conditioner. Even with the sea breeze, life on a pirate ship reeked of sweat and BO.

Snorting softly, Jacob pushed those thoughts aside. There was no room for nostalgia now. He wasn't that man anymore—just as his past life wouldn't have survived a single day in this one. The ship creaked under him, the faint sound grounding him in the present. Out here, there was no safety net. Just the sea, his crew, and the choices he made.

This wasn't just about silks or gold. It was about redemption. Black Jack Jacob wasn't just a captain—he had to become a legend.