Amara felt the sweat cooling on her skin, a clammy sensation that made her shiver despite the humid air. She didn’t let the tremor reach her voice. If she blinked, if she showed the jagged edge of her terror, the man would see her for what she truly was: a woman with no leverage and a very short future. She had to lean into the lie, layering it with the confidence of someone who knew the river better than he did.
“Then you’re moving the wrong way,” she said, her voice gaining a hard, clinical edge. She forced herself to look past the barrel of the rifle, meeting his gaze through the blinding circle of light. “If the Navy is hitting the north bend, the tide is going to push the silted debris straight into your path within the hour. You’ll be trapped in the shallows before you even reach the open water. You’ll be sitting ducks for their sonar.”
The silence that followed was heavier than the darkness. The man didn’t move, but the intensity of his stare shifted. It was no longer the gaze of a predator looking at prey, but the calculating look of a man weighing the cost of an investment. Beside her, EBI let out a soft, strangled sob, and the pirate’s head snapped toward the sound. The rifle barrel dipped slightly, tracking the movement.
“Shut him up,” the pirate hissed, stepping closer. The mud groaned under his boots, a wet, rhythmic sound that felt like a heartbeat. He reached out with his free hand, grabbing the collar of EBI’s shirt and hauling him upward. EBI’s legs gave way, and he stumbled, his breath coming in frantic, high-pitched wheezes. “Who are you? You don’t look like a local trader. You look like someone who’s lost.”
“I’m someone who knows these channels better than any Navy patrol,” Amara shot back, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. “And I’m someone who doesn’t want to be caught in a crossfire because you’re navigating by guesswork. You want to get past the sweep? You need a pilot who knows the deep-water veins, not someone who relies on a flashlight and a prayer.”
The man’s shadow loomed over her, massive and distorted against the mangroves. He lowered the rifle, but only slightly, the muzzle still pointed toward her midsection. He seemed to be listening to something, perhaps the distant hum of the engine, or perhaps the logic of her words. The greed in his eyes was subtle, but it was there, flickering beneath the violence. In the Niger Delta, knowledge was a currency, and she had just offered him a high-value transaction.
“A pilot?” he repeated, the word tasting like a threat. “You think we need a guide? We’ve been moving through these roots for years.”
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