The campfire cast elongated shadows across the mangroves, while the murmur of the camp had been replaced by an expectant silence.

  Kwame Baptiste remained seated on the sand, his hands bound behind his back. Two armed men stood guard over him, while the rest of the crew kept their distance, forming a semicircle.

  Skippy stepped forward until he stood directly in front of him.

  “Mr. Baptiste, it is quite a surprise to find you here, considering your base of operations has been seized by the Spaniards. How did you manage to escape?”

  Kwame lifted his chin slightly, never losing his smile.

  “Long story short: the San Jorge redoubt was taken by force by the Spaniards while Toby and I were delivering a shipment… and the profits. I managed to get away.”

  “Did the Spaniards arrive by surprise?”

  “No, Captain. The story is more pathetic than that. As you may have heard, Rafael had the indigenous population under his control through religious coercion, passing himself off as a messiah.”

  A murmur rippled through the crew.

  “That would have delighted Smith,” one of the pirates remarked.

  “Well then…” Kwame continued. “Things spiraled out of control. The people rebelled, and within Rafael’s group everything fractured. The external conflict turned inward at the same time… and that’s when the Spaniards arrived and finished the job. Now, following the scent of money, they’ve made their way to Xul-Kan.”

  A bitter laugh rose among some of the sailors, immediately silenced by the captain’s severe stare.

  “A touching story,” Skippy said. “But you still haven’t answered my question. How is it that you weren’t captured?”

  “Because I fled San Jorge, Captain… and by the time I reached Xul-Kan, the Spaniards were already there.”

  The murmuring grew louder. Sammy’s ears burned with the urge to speak.

  “How did you get here?” she finally asked. “How did you know we were here?”

  Kwame shifted his weight on the sand.

  “Because I followed you.”

  Everyone began murmuring at once.

  Trumper stepped forward.

  “Silence! One more word and I’ll have you all holding up the ship’s hull!”

  The uproar died down.

  “Mr. Baptiste,” Trumper continued, “nothing you’re saying makes sense. You flee the San Jorge redoubt, arrive in Xul-Kan after the Spaniards, then somehow locate us and follow us all the way to this cove… does that sound coherent to you, Captain?”

  “No, sir,” Skippy replied.

  “Then there’s only one explanation,” Trumper said. “He’s an infiltrator. A Spanish agent who has already alerted them to our position. They’ll be here any moment, and we are completely exposed.”

  A cry of rage erupted among the pirates, and the murmur turned into a torrent of threats.

  “Kill him!”

  “We’re doomed!”

  “Cursed be the day I boarded the Garnor!”

  The men shouted, some stepping forward. The stench of mutiny began to thicken in the air. Trumper looked tense and irritated; Skippy, by contrast, remained motionless, arms crossed.

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  “Captain, we must set sail immediately,” Trumper insisted. “We’re in a trap.”

  “With a hole in the hull, we wouldn’t make it five miles before sinking,” Skippy replied.

  “But we’re in danger here!”

  Silence fell.

  The secretary was visibly trembling under the strain.

  “Mr. Baptiste… state your position clearly,” Skippy ordered.

  “No one here is in danger,” Kwame replied, “because the Spaniards don’t know you’re here. From the very beginning, I tried to contact you.”

  “Explain yourself.”

  “I sent light signals from the base of the cliff to warn you of the danger,” he said. “But you ignored them.”

  Skippy scanned the crew, searched for the lookout, then turned to Trumper.

  “No signals were reported, Captain. Perhaps Mr. Kwame is fabricating this story to save his neck.”

  “I saw them,” Sammy said, stepping forward.

  A murmur swept through the men.

  Skippy fixed her with a hard stare.

  “You saw the signals… and said nothing?”

  “I saw them, sir,” Sammy replied, swallowing as she avoided Trumper’s gaze. “I reported them to the boatswain. It was just as you passed along the deck and asked what was going on.”

  Skippy recalled the moment and slowly turned toward Trumper. The boatswain lowered his head ever so slightly—a gesture everyone noticed.

  “Mr. Trumper,” the captain said, “under the oath that binds us and in accordance with the code of honor… confirm this: is what Mr. Worthy says true?”

  All eyes locked onto him.

  “I cannot say it was exactly as described,” Trumper replied. “Mr. Worthy mentioned something, but I don’t recall him referring to signals on the cliff.”

  Skippy turned back to Sammy.

  “Captain, I told you plainly,” she insisted. “And you dismissed me, ignoring my warning. I swear that’s how it happened.”

  “In fact…” Kayin interjected, “Mr. Worthy mentioned it to me as well, while we were in the rigging.”

  Another murmur erupted. Trumper swallowed, holding several defiant stares.

  Skippy remained composed.

  “Very well,” he said. “If your story is true, Mr. Baptiste… what do you want from us?”

  “I wish to negotiate.”

  The response detonated a chorus of voices.

  “Negotiate?” someone spat. “We should hang him right now!”

  “He’s not Spanish!” another shouted. “He warned us of the danger!”

  Kwame bowed his head slightly.

  “I’ve already made it clear that I do not work for the Crown.”

  “Then who do you work for?” Skippy asked.

  “For my people. I want to free them, and in exchange you’ll be able to free yours, who are currently prisoners.”

  Absolute silence fell.

  Only Trumper let out a dry laugh.

  “Always with the stories,” he said. “Captain, we saw those men dead.”

  “Trumper,” Skippy warned.

  The boatswain closed his mouth, though his posture remained rigid.

  “Can you confirm that my men are alive, Baptiste?” the captain asked.

  The prisoner’s smile faded.

  “Alive.”

  The murmuring returned. Sammy’s legs nearly gave way, and an urgent fire burned in her chest.

  “Lies!” Trumper insisted. “He’s only buying time.”

  “I gain nothing by lying to you,” Kwame replied. “They’re being held in the citadel. I can help you rescue them.”

  Skippy remained silent.

  “It’s a trap!” Trumper insisted. “They’re waiting for us!”

  The captain turned slowly.

  “Mr. Trumper… allow me to decide.”

  No one spoke.

  “For now,” Skippy continued, “if Mr. Baptiste did indeed send the signals, he deserves at least a measure of trust.”

  “Thank you for that trust, Captain,” Kwame said.

  “Keep him under close watch,” Skippy ordered. “Reinforce guards and defensive positions. Trumper, I trust my orders are clear.”

  Silence prevailed. The boatswain nodded, and the captain returned toward the ship.

  Trumper turned to the crew.

  “Mr. Nightingale, keep our guest covered at musket point. The rest of you, to your stations.”

  The men dispersed in murmurs as they escorted Kwame toward an area guarded by Pete and Kayin.

  The captain was heading toward the boat when Sammy followed him.

  “Captain, excuse me… a question.”

  Skippy stopped.

  “What is your question, Mr. Worthy? You have five seconds. I’d like to try to sleep at least fifteen minutes.”

  “I wish to know if… you intend to carry out the rescue Kwame proposed.”

  “At this hour, it’s premature to decide on an operation,” he replied. “Is that all?”

  He began climbing into the boat.

  “Captain… forgive me,” Sammy insisted. “If it happens… I want to volunteer to help rescue our men.”

  Skippy sighed, irritated, as the sailors pushed the boat into the water.

  “When that time comes,” he said, “I will decide whom to send. This is not a garden party. Good night, Mr. Worthy.”

  The boat pulled away toward the Garnor.

  Sammy returned to the camp with an unexpected spark of hope. She was heading toward the canopy where the pilot slept when suddenly a hand seized her arm. Another covered her mouth. She was dragged into the trees and thrown to the ground.

  Trumper stood there, accompanied by several men.

  “Mr. Trumper…” Sammy stammered.

  “I’ll be clear,” he said. “No one exposes me before a superior without consequences. You crossed the line… and there’s no turning back.”

  “That wasn’t my intention. I only told the truth.”

  “Think before you act, boy… gentlemen.”

  Trumper turned and walked back toward the camp.

  Then the men descended on Sammy, striking her with calculated precision to avoid leaving visible marks, carefully avoiding her face. When they were done, they left her on the ground, gasping for breath.

  One of them leaned down and whispered in her ear:

  “One word about this… and you’re a dead man.”