Page 12 of Mayflower

“Fuck,” I hiss, gripping the back of my neck with locked hands. I feel like doing something reckless. I want to send all the guards to Port Mrei and shoot the fucking Butcher gang mercilessly, in their faces, execution-style, like they did with Raven.

I want to see Raven’s body, if that’s what it came down to, and apologize and apologize and say I’m fucking sorry for failing him. As Raven’s friend, I fucked up. I did. I like Maddy a lot, but if it were up to me, I’d sacrifice my men and her and myself for a chance to rescue Raven.

A knock at the door, and Margot walks in.

Kat doesn’t react, deep in her thoughts. It’s peculiar that these two somehow get along. No, that’s not the right word. They tolerate each other, and even talk calmly when it comes to Ayana’s business. Margot doesn’t mention that Kat cut off her hair. To be honest, Margot looks fantastic with her pink bob haircut. Or maybe it is because she is not bitter or spiteful lately. Surprising really.

Raven was right—when Margot got stuck in the jungle during the storm and ended up at Bishop’s cabin, something went down. I didn’t even know about it until Raven brought it up. When I confronted Bishop, he only smiled confidently. “I’m working on it.”

“Working on what?”

He grinned. “Those long legs and pretty mouth.”

I laughed. “Good for you, man. Who would’ve thought?”

“Did you know that she is fucking brilliant, too? Not just in bed.”

I laughed again. “She is.”

Margot is smart. However, she was trained by her parents to prioritize looks over intelligence. And she learned how to be a cunt to people. That’s her weapon.

Bishop didn’t elaborate on the story. I didn’t ask. But I always knew that skillfully used hands and cock can cure any bad attitude. My girlfriend is a prime example.

This time, Margot comes with unsettling news. “You don’t answer your phone, Archer. There is a situation at the port.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

It’s another attack. Somehow, since Raven’s disappearance, everything is going fucking berserk. Two days after he went missing, there was a major attack on the port. Several of our guards were killed. A number of Butcher’s men, too. I made an executive decision to shut the port down.

So, yes, that’s the reason people are leaving Ayana. Port Mrei is completely cut off from any shipments. It will only be a few months before the town starts falling apart and reaches a humanitarian crisis. But we have no other option until Butcher backs away and we strike a new deal. Until then, we are in lockdown.

What does that mean for us?

Number one, supply boats now come to Ayana directly.

Two, the port is only patrolled by a few of our guards to prevent illegal shipments from coming to Port Mrei.

Three, a new surveillance perimeter is shrinking toward Ayana. A guard tower at the Divide was attacked the other day. Then a block post on the way to town. Both remained in place, but one guard was severely injured.

Fucking hell.

I can’t ask for help either. The arms deals Raven transferred to Tsariuk came with the wrath of South Africa and the US. We lost more funds. Tsariuk said we would discuss it when he gets here. It doesn’t sound very promising. And if he takes Maddy from Zion—he could, because if Raven is dead, she has nothing of interest here—he would leave Zion to its own devices. And then the rest of us would have to leave.

I deal with the attack on the port for an hour. The Center is grim lately. The IT guys work overtime. So do the security guards. The Lab is on pause, dozens of scientists on temporary leave.

And Ayana is turning into a ghost town. Hundreds of staff who used to service this luxury resort, mostly from Port Mrei, are blocked from entering it. No one is coming from Port Mrei.

This is worse than we’ve ever expected.

The sun is setting when I finally get to my villa. Kat left the Center earlier to make dinner. That’s our new reality. Restaurants are closed. Staff is non-existent, except for the ones who reside at Ayana.

I pour myself cognac, walk out onto the deck, and study the aerial view of the peaceful slopes of bungalows and villas, surrounded by beautiful gardens and pools, all the way down to the beach. There is no music booming from any of the villas, and the boats and yachts in the ocean are quiet. It’s beautiful but eerie.

My phone rings. It’s the airfield asking for the clearance for the helicopter leaving—Dean Doukas and his father’s pilot.

I say, “They are good.”

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