Chapter Nine
The sound of the boat’s motor echoed from the mangrove limbs plunging into the black salt water. Even though the sound was minimal, Victoria wished there were a way she could cut it out altogether. Any sound gave too much away and on a still night like this it seemed to blast out.
The bank was a vague collection of indistinguishable shapes. The moon was hidden beneath a thick blanket of clouds, and for that she was thankful. Even if they were heard, they would be hard to see. Poachers relied on darkness. As did she.
There had been a report from an old local fisherman friend, Old Pete, of unusual activity along this stretch. He hated poachers as much as she did. Although his first love was fishing, he always kept an eye out for wildlife poachers and Victoria trusted him impl
