I drove over to the main lodge as the first light hit the veranda. The air smelled of damp earth and expensive panic.
The guest services manager, Sarah, was pale, one hand locked around her tablet while the guests closed in. The executive group had cornered her near the doors. The idiot Victor was mid-sentence, his face flushed with the kind of indignation only a man with a private jet can manage.
"It is a security protocol, Mr. Miles," Sarah was saying, her voice thin. "We simply need to ensure the roads are clear before—"
"I have a board meeting in London at noon tomorrow," Victor snapped. "My transport was scheduled for seven. It is now seven-fifteen."
"The airstrip road is temporarily closed," I said, stepping into the light.
The group turned. Victor looked at my dust-streaked uniform and the dirt under my fingernails and seemed to find a new gear of frustration. "Mercer. Explain this. Is there a lion on the road? If so, fucking drive around it."
"It’s not a lion," I said. "And the road stays closed until I say otherwise."
"This is unacceptable," Graham added, his voice lacking its usual podcast-ready charm. "We have schedules. We have lives."
“We have a perimeter breach,” I said, my voice flat. “There are potentially dangerous men inside the reserve. Until I know where they are and what they’re carrying, your itinerary is not part of my protocol.”
I turned to Sarah to give her the briefing notes, but the crowd was already closing in on her. Victor was waving his watch nearher tablet while Graham droned on about "brand reputation" and "unnecessary drama." Sarah stood near the veranda doors with her tablet clutched against her ribs. Her smile hadn’t moved in thirty seconds.
“Sarah, get them into the lounge. Keep the coffee coming. No one steps outside.”
She nodded, her face pale, and started herding the grumbling group away.
I stepped back onto the veranda. Behind me, Victor was still talking. Ahead, the bush gave me nothing. Sarah was finally leading the rest of the group toward the lounge, but my focus was three miles out, where the rise met the sky.
Elias’s voice crackled over the radio, low and urgent. "Nick, we’ve tracked the tread marks past the wash. They aren't heading back to the perimeter road. They’re cutting across the high ground, moving directly toward the ridge suites."
Everything nonessential dropped out. The western suites sat three miles out, tucked beyond a narrow track and too much cover.
“Daniel,” I barked into the radio, cutting over Elias. “Western tents. Now. Collect the guests and get Juliette Wilder. No packing. No delays. Bring them to the main lodge. I’ll have Sarah call ahead.”
"On my way," Daniel’s voice came back, clipped and professional.
I pulled my personal phone from my pocket and dialed the extension for Juliette’s suite. She picked up on the first ring.
"Nick?"
"You're okay?"
"I'm exactly where you left me," she said. Her voice was steady, clipped at the edges. "I heard the jeep leave. I assumed the road was a no-go."
"It’s a no-go. But the high ground isn't safe. The tracks were moving in your direction." I stood motionless, my hand locked hard around the railing. "Daniel is three minutes out in the cruiser. When he pulls up, I need you to grab your shoes and get in. Nothing else. Do you understand?"
There was a beat of silence on the line. “How long do I have?”
“Three minutes.”
"I understand," she said. "The flight was supposed to be thirty minutes ago. You checked the transfer time three times yesterday—you know the schedule better than I do."
The ridge sat in sharp relief now, the rising sun turning the scrub visible inch by inch.
"Road’s closed, Juliette. And you’re moving."
"That is the operational answer."
The wood of the post felt cool against my forehead. "It’s the only one I’ve got right now."
The silence on the line stretched between us, three miles of scrub and thorn wire keeping us apart. Daniel’s cruiser appeared as a dust plume below the upper road, too far away and moving too slowly.
