Nyah.

She stood a few feet away, rifle raised, her eyes cold, deadly. “Drop it.”

The poacher hesitated, breath heaving, his grip still tight on the handle.

Nyah stepped closer, her boots slow, deliberate. “I won’t miss next time.”

The man’s fingers trembled. He looked at Bette, still half-crouched in the dirt. Then, at the armed rangers closing in, their weapons raised, their expressions unreadable.

Finally, the machete clattered to the ground.

Bette exhaled, hard, and pushed herself up.

All around her, the takedown was complete. The other poachers were on the ground, hands bound behind their backs, eyes darting in frantic, nervous glances. The savannah was silent again, save for the slow rustling of dry grass in the wind.

Bette met Nyah’s gaze. There was no amusement there now, no teasing glint—just something dark, something knowing.

“Close call,” Nyah murmured, lowering her rifle.

Bette wiped the sweat from her brow, glancing down at the machete at her feet. “Too close.”

Nearby however, a fourth figured remained quietly crouched low in the tall grass, heart hammering against his ribs. Sweat slicked his back, making his shirt cling to him as he fought to control his breathing. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but he knew better. Sudden movement would draw their eyes. He had to stay small, stay silent.

Through the tangle of dry stalks, he watched the scene unfold—his comrades on their knees, hands bound behind their backs, their faces sullen with defeat. The rangers moved with cold precision, collecting their confiscated rifles and knives, tossing them into the back of a truck like discarded trash.

He recognized the look on his men’s faces. Men who had always seemed untouchable, who had once laughed and cursed over campfires, their voices brash with the thrill of easy money, now cowed and quiet beneath the rangers’ boots. Fear had stripped them of their bravado.

A hard swallow stuck in his throat.

This was bad. Worse than bad.

The night’s bounty was gone. A fortune in ivory, horn, and skins that had been destined for Mr. Chang’s hands was now in the possession of these rangers.

And now he was the only one left.

He dared not move as the woman who looked in charge strode past his hiding place, her rifle slung low across her chest, her posture sharp and certain. She spoke to the other woman. He knew her. It was that woman from the elephant orphanage, the American vet, the one Joseph had nearly carved up with his machete. She was brushing dirt from her uniform, her face set in a grim scowl, a thin cut on her arm seeping red where the blade had actually managed to graze her.

His fingers curled into the dry earth.

Mr. Chang would not be pleased.

He had seen what happened to men who failed him. Men who had lost shipments, let information slip, tried to skim even a sliver of profit from his operations. He had seen one of them dragged behind a truck, screaming, until there was nothing left of his voice but gurgling, wet gasps.

And now it was his turn to deliver bad news.

A slow, careful inhale steadied his pulse. He had two choices—vanish, disappear into some distant village and pray that Chang’s reach didn’t extend to the shadows he would be forced to live in.

Or he could be useful.

Perhaps there was another way to survive this.

He forced himself lower, creeping backward, inch by inch, until the tall grass swallowed him completely.

He had to get to the meeting point.

Chang would not take this loss lightly. But if he had names—faces—perhaps he would turn his wrath elsewhere.

The women who had cost him a fortune and one in particular; the vet.

A slow smirk curled on his lips as he slithered away into the bush.

If he played his cards right, he might just live to see another sunrise.