The bamboo fans overhead turned in slow, rhythmic sweeps, pushing warm air downward in drafts that lifted the edges of linen and cooled the back of my neck.
A rustle moved through the brush to our right—long and continuous. Graham’s shoulders lifted a fraction. Naomi’s gaze shifted toward the ranger, not the sound.
The server returned to clear plates, porcelain touching porcelain without a clink. Her hands didn't shake. The muscle beneath her ear pulsed once before settling.
“We chose Africa,” Graham said. “Not Aspen. There’s a difference. We wanted proximity to the edge—a brush with danger that doesn’t answer to us.”
Alina tilted her head. “You monetize paranoia for a living.”
“I protect infrastructure,” Graham said evenly. “Which requires control.”
Owen folded his hands as if beginning a panel discussion. “Perhaps the point is to release the need for it. To experience something that refuses optimization.”
Oh, for fuck's sake. He had absolutely practiced that line.
I set my glass down, the base meeting linen without a sound. “No one actually gives up control,” I said. “They just change who’s holding it.”
Five pairs of eyes snapped to mine, the table’s collective focus shifting.
“I prefer to keep mine.”
Victor studied me as though recalculating an acquisition. Naomi’s attention sharpened.
The fans faltered for a fraction of a turn before finding their rhythm again. Lantern flames wavered once. Five pairs of hands stilled.
Graham glanced at his smartwatch, rotating his wrist as if that might restore signal. Nothing.
From beyond the clearing, a faint engine note rose and cut abruptly. Not the cruiser that had taken Nick. A higher pitch. Naomi turned toward the ridge. Victor’s fingers stilled. Owen reached for his water instead of his wine.
The ranger near the lodge lifted his radio. Static answered, then silence.
“They would tell us if something were wrong,” Graham said.
Naomi looked at him directly. “If something were wrong, we would not still be seated.”
The lodge entrance sat forty yards out, uphill. The terrain sloped toward the dark, leaving us exposed on the ridge. The air had cooled; silk thinned against my shoulders.
The brush shifted.
A hyena stepped into the glow at the edge of the clearing. Silver fur shifted over heavy shoulders. Amber flashes caught the lantern light as its head turned.
Graham inhaled sharply. Owen’s hands tightened around his water glass.
The ranger adjusted his stance by inches, placing his body between the table and the animal without lifting his weapon. His posture was a firewall.
The hyena paused, head angled, nostrils flaring as it assessed the scent of roasted meat and expensive cologne. A predator that doesn't need a pitch deck.
Confidence looks different at tooth level.
Victor shifted. Seats creaked.
The hyena emitted a low, conversational chuff and melted back into the brush. A ragged, collective exhale moved through the table.
“Well,” Alina said softly, smoothing her napkin. “That puts things in perspective.”
“In what sense?” Graham asked, a beat too quickly.
“In the sense that we are not at the top of the list.”
