Nick looked at him. “We are talking about organized criminals who know the land, know what they’re after, and do not like being interrupted.”
The lobby went very still.
“They are not here for guests,” Nick continued. “Guests bring attention. Rangers are the people they confront when they’re cornered. That does not make guests irrelevant. It makes them collateral if they leave the controlled areas. That is why you are staying inside cleared lodge areas, and that is why no vehicle moves until my team says the route is safe.”
No one argued.
Not even Graham.
“You are not being held here for convenience,” Nick said. “You are here because this is the safest place on the property right now. Sarah’s team will help with flights and onward travel. My team will clear the road and airstrip. Until then, you stay where staff tells you to stay.”
His gaze moved across the room once, calm and absolute.
“Follow instructions, and this stays contained.”
For one beat, no one spoke.
Then the room moved again. A cup set down. A chair shifted. Someone near the windows let out the breath they’d been holding.
Sarah moved first, directing the front desk team toward the transfer board. Owen lowered his voice near the coffee service. Naomi stopped looking at her phone. Even Graham, miracle of miracles, stayed quiet.
Nick walked back to the desk as if he had not just made a room full of furious rich people obey him.
I hated how much that worked for me.
He pulled a folded map from his pocket and spread it over the end of the desk, effectively claiming the space next to me. He didn't ask if I minded. He just started marking the salt lick with a red pen.
We moved around one another with unsettling ease.
Sarah handled the phones. Nick handled the ground. I handled the guests. Somehow, no one had to ask twice.
Nick brought me a coffee without asking, setting it down near my elbow. I slid him the one I knew he actually drank—black, no sugar. He corrected a map note and I handed him the red marker before he even reached for it.
When Graham approached with a demand for a private charter, Nick said, “No.”
One word. No decoration.
Graham turned to me, clearly hoping for a more expensive answer.
“What Mr. Mercer means,” I said, “is that a private aircraft still requires safe access to the airstrip, and right now, that access has not been cleared.”
Nick’s mouth twitched without permission.
Graham hated both of us.Excellent. Common ground.
I felt the corner of my own mouth threaten to follow suit. Then we went back to work.
Wanting him was inconvenient.
Trusting him was much worse.
I stepped into the library, the quiet room smelling of polished wood, beeswax, and the faint citrus oil someone had used on the shelves. I pulled my phone out.
Three missed calls from Summer.
I hit the contact. She picked up on the second ring.
“Juliette? Why are you still at Mara Khaya? The satellite tracker says you haven’t moved in twenty hours.”
