The beam climbed. It traveled up the mottled, gray bark of the mangrove, dancing over the protrusions of wood until it swept upward, catching Amara’s face in its unforgiving glare. Furthermore, she didn’t pull away. She didn’t scream. She forced her muscles to remain heavy, her eyes to remain open, even as the light burned against her retinas like a physical heat.
The silhouette in the boat shifted. The rhythmic chug of the idling engine felt like a countdown. A heavy splash echoed through the quiet, followed by the wet, sucking sound of boots treading through the muck. He was coming ashore. The man with the rifle moved through the shallows with the predatory grace of someone who owned the darkness, his movements certain and lethal.
“Don’t move!” a voice barked, low and jagged. It wasn’t a shout, but it carried the weight of a command that demanded immediate obedience. The flashlight beam swung wildly, then stabilized, pinning Amara against the tree. She could see the barrel of the rifle now, a dark, hollow eye staring her down from the gloom.
Amara felt EBI’s hand grip her arm, his fingernails digging into her skin. He was a dead weight of terror, his breathing a series of jagged, shallow gasps that threatened to give them away. She realized then that if they remained huddled there like cornered animals, they were nothing more than targets. They had to change the narrative. She had to transform from a fugitive into an asset.
“I’m not with the patrols!” she called out, her voice cracking slightly before she forced it into a tone of weary, sharp indignation. She raised her hands slowly, palms open, mimicking the posture of someone who was more annoyed by the interruption than terrified by the weapon. “I was just trying to find the bypass. The tide is turning, and the main channel is blocked by the debris.”
The pirate paused. The light hovered near her head, the man’s shadow stretching long and distorted across the silt. She could hear his breathing, heavy, rhythmic, and tinged with the scent of stale tobacco and sweat. He didn’t lower the weapon, but the frantic sweeping of the light ceased, settling on her with a piercing intensity.
“The bypass is closed,” the man said, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. He stepped closer, the mud squelching heavily beneath his weight. “The Navy is running sweeps two miles north. Nobody uses the bypass unless they want to die in a cell.”
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