Page 77 of Mayflower

“Turn the sound up! Can we get the audio?”

And then I hear it, the familiar raspy voice coming off the screen.

“Long time no see, Raven.”

26

RAVEN

I never thought I’d be here.

Butcher. Me. Sonny. His eyes are full of apology when he stares wide-eyed at me while Butcher’s arm is wrapped around his neck, a gun barrel pressed to his temple.

Darkness doesn’t scare me. People do.

Maddy’s words echo in my mind, to the wild pounding of my heart as I lock eyes with Butcher and see nothing but darkness in those viciously sparkling eyes.

It should be me instead of Sonny.

“Butcher, don’t be stupid. Let’s talk,” I say as I step toward them.

There are trucks with armed men behind him. There are a dozen guards behind me. Guns are drawn. At any moment, the three of us can turn into dust if even one of the men snaps and fires.

There are explosions at Ayana, the sound of them shaking the ground. The night jungle is dark, but the flares above Ayana illuminate the sky with eerie colors, casting a glow on the trees around us.

This is war.

We are being viciously attacked.

But that’s not my priority. Neither is Ayana. Not anymore.

Sonny is. He is in Butcher’s arms. And I can’t take my eyes away from the little body being strangled by the thick arm of the man who scowls at me, triumphing at having a child as a human shield.

Scum.

“Butcher, let’s talk,” I shout, carefully stepping toward him and assessing what’s happening.

There are five men some distance behind him, their guns on me. Another dozen of them are on the trucks deeper in the jungle.

I have a bulletproof vest. I can handle bullets. Unless they hit my head.

But Sonny can’t. He’s their hostage.

My kid is a fucking hostage.

I see red. My blood boils. It pounds between my ears. But I have to be smart.

Think, I tell myself.

“Rave!” I hear behind me.

I snap my head back and see Maddy standing among the guards.

Fucking hell!

“Stay back!” I yell and push my arm back, my palm facing her, then I turn to Butcher. “What do you want?” I ask.

Glass crunches under my feet. The Molotov cocktails the kids threw—they scattered glass everywhere. The jungle is covered with it.

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