The boat groaned as it entered the narrow channel, the engine’s roar muffled by the thick, damp walls of the mangrove forest. The water here was different, cloudy, opaque, a swirling milky expanse that seemed to swallow the light from the boat’s meager lantern. Amara watched the dark shapes of the roots pressing in from both sides, feeling the claustrophobia of the Delta closing in on them like skeletal fingers.
The driver, the wiry man with the shaved head, gripped the tiller with white-knuckled intensity. Every movement was slow, agonizingly cautious. The boat drifted through the tight space, the hull occasionally scraping against submerged wood with a sound like teeth grinding together. Amara kept her eyes fixed on the water ahead, her mind mapping the currents she had promised to lead them through, even as her skin crawled with the sensation of being watched from every shadow.
A sudden, violent jolt sent a shudder through the floorboards. The engine sputtered, a choked, dying sound that sent a wave of sharp panic through the small group. The pirate leader lunged forward, his h, and flying to the hilt of a rusted machete tucked into his waistband. “You said this was the way!” he roared, the sound echoing unnaturally in the narrow, suffocating passage.
“The silt is shifting!” Amara shouted back, her voice steady despite the hammer of her heart against her ribs. “You’re pulling too hard to the left. The current is fighting you. Ease off the throttle and let the drift take us toward the bend. If you fight the water, you’ll bottom out and we’ll be sitting ducks!”
The driver looked to the leader, his face slick with sweat in the dim light. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the dying gasp of the engine and the heavy, ragged breathing of the men. The leader glared at Amara, his eyes searching for the deceit he was certainly lived in her marrow. Then, with a grunt of frustration, he nodded to the driver.
They eased the throttle. The boat settled into the rhythm of the moving water, sliding laterally through the silt-heavy stream. Slowly, the tension in the hull eased. The engine regained its steady, low-frequency thrum. They were moving again, slipping through the belly of the marsh like a ghost passing through a graveyard.
The leader didn’t relax. He stepped closer to Amara, his presence a heavy, looming shadow that blocked out what little light remained. “You have a knack for this,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous simmer. “But even a good guide can lead a man into a trap. How do I know you aren’t just steering us toward a Navy blockade you’ve been scouting?”
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