Page 17 of Green Ravens

“Do you see that colorful snake wrapped around that branch?”

Sawyer jerked backward before he hissed, “No. Where?”

Oakley rolled his eyes.

“Look farther out, ’bout a couple of yards.”

Sawyer’s eyes widened. “Man, that looks cool, but I’m glad it’s over there.”

“What it looks like is chow.”

“Oh. Uh.” Sawyer cringed. “Um.”

“You said you’re not picky. And believe me, it’ll taste better than that monkey you suggested earlier.”

“I’m sure,” he muttered, still appearing mortified.

“Don’t worry…it’ll taste like under-seasoned chicken. Maybe a bit gamey, but not a lot since it’s a young one.”

Oakley began to walk that way until Sawyer grabbed his forearm.

“I know boas aren’t poisonous, but they do bite, right?”

“They’ve got tiny teeth, not fangs. I do have to grab it by the head.” He shrugged. “But if I get bit, I won’t die or lose a digit.”

“Shit. Fuck that.”

“You wanna eat or not?”

Sawyer produced his own knife and snapped the switchblade around his wrist a couple of times until the six-inch blade was out.

“And what do you plan on doing with that thin-ass blade, huh? At least mine will—”

Sawyer narrowed his gaze at the serpent. And in a fluid motion, he raised his hand and threw the knife.

Oakley watched it slice through the air like a silver comet, spinning with purpose and precision. The blade struck and embedded itself with a faint thud into the snake. Not in its body or tail but in the dead center of its head.

For a heartbeat, everything stopped before the snake’s body went limp, slowly uncoiling before it succumbed to gravity, fell, and dangled from the branch like an odd decoration.

“Holy-fucking-shit.”

Sawyer gave him a nonchalant look as if what’d he’d done was as simple as beginners’ target practice.

“Don’t sound so shocked, Chief. We play a lot of darts, that’s all. Sometimes, we’ll see how far back we can go and still make a twenty-five-pointer. I won a thousand-dollar bet a couple of years ago, hitting a bullseye nineteen feet away. None of them thought…”

Oakley realized he was speaking in the present tense.

They didn’t say anything else as they walked toward their first meal in the jungle.

But not the last.

Chief Styles Sawyer

Sawyer was glad he wasn’t totally useless. At least he’d been able to catch their chow without Oakley having to risk a bite from a snake.

He sat on a bulging root and started a fire while he watched in fascination as Oakley skinned and prepped the snake, then skewered it on a thin stick he said was a bamboo stalk.

Every few minutes, he thanked the hell out of Oakley’s father—wherever the Army Ranger was—for instilling these life-saving skills into his son.

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