“You’re taking me to the grove, or she dies.”

“The grove is days away,” Omar said. “Two upriver, two on foot.”

Out of the corner of my eye I watched Dutchie’s face screw up; maybe he hadn’t counted on this. Maybe he’d realized his miscalculation and would let us go. His stinking breath filled my nose as he ground the O of metal harder into my flesh; I heard the subtle flicking of his finger against the trigger, an unscratchable itch. He gripped me tighter, I could barely get enough air, the tang of his sweat searing my lungs.

“Fine,” he said. “Get in the boat, both of you.”

Omar shifted his weight to his other foot. I prayed he wasn’t planning on rushing him. “I have to bring those bags of leaves with us. Otherwise she’ll die.”

“Get the fuck in the boat.” The muzzle drilled deeper into my forehead.

“Not without the bags.”

“Get the fuck in the boat.”

“I’ll—” I sputtered.

“Stay where you are, Lily,” Omar said with unimaginable calm.

A troop of spider monkeys rattled the branches above us; nuts and small branches rained down. Dutchie jerked me harder to him; my collarbone bending under his vise grip. “You think I’m kidding?” he growled. “I don’t need her, understand?”

“This ends here without those bags.”

“Oh yeah? Oh yeah?” Dutchie shifted his weight, and I helplessly shifted with him. “Who’s the boss here? You forgettin’ already? Old Dutchie. At the reins. And I will kill her.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He sputtered out a laugh, releasing me, before he wound up and clocked me over the head with the butt of the gun. I fell forward onto the sand, blood dripping from a gash on my forehead. Dazed, I looked up at Omar. His eyes pleaded with me to stay where I was.

“We need the bags. Then we’ll go.”

“You son of a bitch.” Dutchie head-gestured toward our boat. “Wasting my fucking time. Put the shit in the canoe. Make it fast.”

Dutchie followed Omar to our canoe, shadowing him closely. I stayed crouched on the sand, watching, head throbbing from my wound. Omar slipped me the subtlest glance before bending over and rummaging among the bags.

“Quit screwing around or your bald green bitch is history.”

“Two seconds, man.”

Sweat dripped into my eyes. What in hell was he doing?

“Come on, come on—” Dutchie whined.

In one shockingly swift movement, Omar pivoted, torquing the biggest, heaviest bag in a low arc, slamming it into Dutchie’s gut and sending him sprawling toward the river. Firing willy-nilly, Dutchie landed on his back in the water, where he flailed, momentarily stunned.

Omar had been blown back, a hole in his stomach and shoulder. Roaring to his feet, he leapt at Dutchie, landing on top of him in the river. He held the man’s head and chest underwater, the poacher’s skinny legs in decayed rubber boots kicking up on either side of him. I splashed into the river. Grimacing, Omar strained to keep his grip on Dutchie’s shoulders as the poacher tried to wrestle him down. His bandana floated away, the lobe—what was left of his injured ear—bobbling against his head in the current, the unfairness of his whole life legible in his face full of rage and surprise. Dutchie’s mouth opened and closed as if pleading for his life, his ice-blue eyes still lasering up through the murk. Blood poured from Omar’s wounds. Crying, I gripped his shoulders, which felt like rocks until, slowly, they softened, muscles slackening, his grip weakening on Dutchie until he collapsed on top of him. The current lifted him, rolling him away toward the bank.