Bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep.
The sound was so cruelly familiar, for a moment Jacopo thought was back in Reggio Calabaria at the tip of Italy's boot. He reached out with his eyes closed, expecting to find the pager where it always had been on the misshapen lump of wood he used to call a bedside table, but his hand met the wall instead. Bleary-eyed, he pulled the covers back, sat up and stared around him. He wasn't in Italy, his home for most of his life and place of birth; nor was he in Palestine, where he had lived while at Khasekhemwy's university for aspiring scribes; nor Egypt, the only other country on Earth where he had stayed briefly (for graduation). In fact, he wasn't on Earth at all. He was, of course, lying in bed in his poky little bedroom on Shaman. How could he have thought he was anywhere else?
Bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep.
That's how.
With a growl, Jacopo threw his bedcovers away from himself and reached blindly under the bed, where he had kicked his few personal belongings from Earth shortly after arriving. His old life seemed more distant every day.
Finally, his large hand closed over the tiny device and he pulled it up onto the bed, examining it. The words job update flashed across the screen in Italian, along with a brief instruction in code. Jacopo had been a member of the criminal world for long enough to be able to read the code easily without having to refer to a dictionary to crack it. Slowly, the hand holding the pager lowered onto his lap. There he sat for a moment in silence, too stunned even to think.
Then his brain clicked into gear, and he had to forcibly prevent himself from crushing the technology in his hand. With an almighty bellow for his familiar, Jacopo scrambled out of bed and thundered down the stairs, causing the thin cottage walls to shake ominously. Bethany was out, of course; she often chose to undertake an early morning hunt. Jacopo didn't know how long he shouted for – his throat was only relieved when he saw her sprinting up the garden path, her ears pricked forward and her silvery-green eyes on the alert.
“What...?” She started to exclaim, but fell quiet as he shoved the pager into her face. She read the message twice through before finishing her question. “... does that mean?”
His throat sore, Jacopo grabbed a mug and ran it under the faucet. He'd turned the tap so hard that the water came through in a high-pressured stream, so a good portion of it bounced off the bottom of the mug and sprayed back all over him. He barely noticed. With the mug still half empty, he turned the tap back and gulped it down.
“Information isn't enough anymore,” he gasped after a minute, setting the mug down. “They want him. They want me to get him.”
He leant back against the wall and closed his eyes, not wanting to see the expression he imagined must be on his familiar's face. He needn't have worried. When she spoke, Bethany's voice was calm and free of judgement, and he loved her for it.
“What are the options?”
Jacopo shivered. “Refuse to do it. See how they respond. We still don't know who the client is, so they may or may not be dangerous.”
“Or?”
“Or do it.” He slid down the wall until he was sat on the floor and put his head in his hands. “They said this will be the last job – if I do this I'm free. They said the boy won't be hurt.”
There was silence for a moment. Eventually, the clatter of Bethany's claws sounded sharply across the wooden floor towards him, and he felt her warm weight press against his shoulder.
“Or confess,” she said gently.
“No,” Jacopo responded immediately, vehemently. He took his head out of his hands and put his arm around her instead, reassured by her soft touch. “Birch can't know. I'd lose her.”
Bethany nodded. Her silvery-green eyes, usually dancing with amusement and sympathy, were now hard and sombre. “Shall we do it?”
He should have been disgusted, or scared, or ridden with guilt – any kind of negative emotion appropriate to the situation – but in that moment, all Jacopo could feel was love. His heart swelled. Shall we do it - not you, but we. Bethany supported him without judging, and made it plain that any action of his was hers too.
It was a new emotion for Jacopo, who had been so long without a family now that he'd forgotten what it was like to have one. Between Birch and Bethany, he had been learning how to love again. The detachment his criminal life had trained into him was slowly lifting, and he was beginning to rekindle with his ability to care, and the sense of choosing the right path rather than the easy one. He gave her a gentle squeeze.
“No,” he replied firmly. “I won't kidnap a child.”
–
Bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep.
This morning, he was ready for it. Jacopo's return message had been sent the previous morning, only minutes after his conversation with his familiar. There had been no response, and he had been on edge for the rest of the day waiting for it, eventually falling asleep in his chair only a few hours before. As soon as the pager started to bleep, he was awake and alert within seconds, despite the sleep deprivation.
The message was simple: Resignation refused. Trade.
Trade?
A feeling of unease fluttered in the Italian's stomach. What did that mean? As yesterday, he stomped to the back of the cottage, flung open the back door and called for Bethany until his throat was sore.
This time, she didn't come.
She didn't come within the hour. She didn't come when he screamed himself hoarse. She didn't come when he called for her, again and again, while he tramped through the grove looking for her. She didn't come the next day. Or the next.
On the morning of the fourth day, Jacopo sat alone on the edge of his sofa, staring down at the blinking device in his hand. Trade.
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