The Pilot's Christmas Obsession

Chapter 1: The Grinch of Georgetown

Ten Days Before Christmas

The air conditioner in the corner office on the tenth floor of the Pegasus Corporate Suites hummed a low, artificial note, battling the oppressive December humidity that pressed against the glass. Outside, Georgetown was steaming. It was a peculiar kind of heat: thick, wet, and smelling faintly of the Demerara River and exhaust fumes.

Amara Walters pressed her forehead against the cool pane, looking down at the chaos of Main Street. Even from this height, she couldn't escape it. The city was vibrating. It was ten days before Christmas, and the Guyanese capital had lost its collective mind.

Down below, a masquerade band was holding up traffic. She could see the colorful strips of cloth whipping around the dancers, the 'Mother Sally' figure towering on stilts, and the frantic, rhythmic pounding of the drums drifting up to her window. Cars were honking; not in anger, but in that specific, rhythmic toot-toot that signaled holiday cheer.

Amara hated it.

She hated the noise. She hated the gridlock near Stabroek Market. She hated the way the humidity frizzed her hair the second she stepped out of her climate-controlled sanctuary. But mostly, she hated the smiles. The relentless, aggressive happiness that seemed to infect everyone in this country from mid-November until January.

"Knock, knock!"

Amara stiffened, pulling away from the window. She smoothed the front of her charcoal pencil skirt and turned to face the door. "Come in, Jessica."

Her assistant bustled in, a vision of seasonal assault. Jessica was wearing a headband with reindeer antlers, and her blouse was a shocking shade of red. In her hands, she balanced a stack of legal briefs and a small paper plate covered in foil.

"Mr. Braithwaite is ready for you, Ms. Walters," Jessica chirped, placing the files on Amara’s pristine mahogany desk. She held out the plate. "And... I brought you a piece of black cake. My grandmother made it. She soaks the fruits in rum for a whole year, so be careful, it’s potent."

Amara looked at the dark, dense square of cake. It smelled rich and heady, the scent of burnt sugar and alcohol wafting through the sterile office air. It smelled like Christmas. It smelled like the day her father had packed his bags and walked out the door twenty years ago, leaving her mother crying over a similar cake.

"Thank you, Jessica," Amara said, her voice cool and practiced. "Leave it on the desk. I'll get to it later."

Jessica’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but she recovered quickly. "Oh. Okay. Well, don’t wait too long. It dries out." She hesitated at the door. "Are you... are you coming to the firm's Old Year’s Night party this time? Everyone is going to the Marriott. It’s going to be huge."

"I have work," Amara lied effortlessly. She picked up her tablet, signaling the end of the conversation. "I'll see Mr. Braithwaite now."

As the door clicked shut, Amara didn't touch the cake. She picked up the foil-wrapped package and dropped it into the wastebasket beneath her desk with a dull thud.

She didn't do Christmas. She didn't do parties. She did billable hours, hostile takeovers, and contract law. She was twenty-eight years old, the youngest Junior Partner in the history of Braithwaite & Sons, and she intended to keep climbing until she was so high up that nothing, not memories, not men, and certainly not holiday cheer, could touch her.

She grabbed her notepad and marched out of her office, her heels clicking a sharp staccato on the marble floor of the hallway.

The Senior Partner’s office was a shrine to colonial nostalgia. Ceiling fans spun lazily overhead, and the walls were lined with old maps of British Guiana. Reginald Braithwaite sat behind a desk that looked like it had been carved from a single Mora tree. He was a large man with a flushed face and a smile that never quite reached his eyes.

"Amara! My star," Braithwaite boomed, gesturing to the leather chair opposite him. "Sit, sit. How is the acquisition going with the bauxite firm?"

"Signed and filed as of this morning," Amara said, sitting with her back straight, ankles crossed. "The merger will be public on January second."

"Excellent," Braithwaite said, steepling his fingers. "Ruthless efficiency. That’s what I like about you, Walters. No sentimentality. You cut right to the bone."

"Sentimentality is expensive, sir."

"Indeed it is." Braithwaite’s expression shifted. The jovial uncle act dropped, replaced by the shark-like gaze that had made him the most feared litigator in the Caribbean. He slid a thin manila folder across the desk. "Which is why I have a... special assignment for you. A test, if you will."

Amara looked at the folder. It was surprisingly thin. No digital tablet, just paper. "A test?"

"Full partnership is opening up next year, Amara. You know I’m considering you. But the board worries you’re too... urban. Too comfortable in the AC." He chuckled dryly. "They want to know if you have the grit to handle our more difficult assets."

Amara reached for the file. "I’ve handled bankruptcy cases involving warlords, sir. I think I have grit."

"This is different. This is a family business. Or rather, the cleaning up of it." Braithwaite leaned back. "There is a plot of land in the Rupununi. Prime real estate. Virgin rainforest, river access, near the Kanuku mountains. A mining consortium, very wealthy clients of ours, wants to buy it for a specialized, eco-friendly extraction project. Billions in gold are sitting under those trees."

"Okay," Amara said, opening the file. "So draft the sale agreement."

"We can’t. There’s a squatter."

Amara frowned. "A squatter? Evict them. That’s a paralegal’s job, Reginald. Why are you giving this to me?"

"Because this particular squatter is stubborn. And he has a... claim. A lease that dates back fifty years, passed down through a defunct company. We’ve managed to find a loophole to void it, but he refuses to acknowledge digital correspondence. He runs some sort of jagged little eco-lodge out there. Calls it a sanctuary. He’s chasing away the surveyors with a shotgun."

Amara looked down at the paper in the file. A name was printed at the top in bold letters.

Julian Da Silva.

"Da Silva," Amara mused. "Like the gold family?"

"Distantly related, perhaps. Black sheep, most likely. It doesn't matter," Braithwaite waved a hand dismissively. "The point is, the mining consortium needs that land cleared by January first to start their fiscal year. I need someone to go down there, serve him the eviction notice in person, make him sign the settlement agreement, and get him off the property."

Amara felt a cold prickle of dread. "Go down there? You mean... to the Interior?"

"Lethem. Then a charter flight to the bush," Braithwaite confirmed. "You leave tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow?" Amara’s voice rose an octave. "Reginald, it’s the Christmas season. The flights will be booked solid. The interior is unpredictable this time of year—"

"I’ve already arranged a private charter from Ogle Airport," Braithwaite cut in. "You fly in, serve the papers, he signs, you fly back. You’ll be back in Georgetown before Christmas Eve dinner."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping. "If you pull this off, Amara... if you secure this land for the consortium... the Senior Partnership is yours. Guaranteed."

The carrot dangled in front of her. Senior Partner before thirty. It was everything she had worked for. The money, the status, the security. The ability to never depend on anyone ever again.

But the Rupununi? The "Bush"?

Amara looked at the file again. It was thin. Legal descriptions, GPS coordinates of the land boundaries, and a blurry satellite image of a lodge roof hidden in the trees. "No photograph of the squatter?" Amara asked. "The man is a ghost," Braithwaite replied. "Off-grid. We have a name—Julian Da Silva—and a location. That's all."

"What if he doesn't sign?" Amara asked.

"You’re a shark, Amara," Braithwaite smiled, showing too many teeth. "Make him bleed until he does."

Walking out of the building an hour later felt like walking into a sauna. The heat slapped Amara in the face, instantly making her silk blouse cling to her back.

Camp Street was a riot of color and sound. Vendors were shouting over each other, selling grapes and apples, the traditional Christmas fruits imported at exorbitant prices. A man with a cart was selling icy-cold cane juice, the sweet, grassy smell mingling with the exhaust of the minibuses darting through traffic like suicidal beetles.

“A very merry Guyanese Christmas to you!” a radio blared from a passing taxi, playing a Calypso remix of Jingle Bells.

Amara put on her oversized sunglasses, shielding her eyes not just from the glare, but from the joy. She navigated the crowd like a soldier in enemy territory, dodging children with sticky hands and shoppers laden with bags.

She unlocked her pristine white Audi, sliding into the leather seat and cranking the AC to the max. As the cool air blasted her face, she looked at the manila folder sitting on the passenger seat.

Julian Da Silva.

She hated him already. Because of this man, this stubborn bush-man playing Tarzan in the jungle, she had to leave her safe, controlled life and fly into the middle of nowhere.

She pulled out her phone and dialed the number Braithwaite had given her for the charter pilot.

"This is Amara Walters," she said when a gruff voice answered. "I’m the legal representative for the consortium. I’m told you’re flying me to the Da Silva lodge tomorrow."

"That I am, darling," the voice on the other end crackled. It wasn't the charter pilot Braithwaite had described. This voice was deep, smooth, and laced with a lazy, irritating confidence. "Better pack light. It’s small plane. And bring boots. It’s the rainy season."

"I am aware of the season," Amara snapped. "Just be ready at Ogle at 6:00 AM sharp. I don't do 'island time'. I want to be there and back before the day is over."

There was a pause on the other end, and she could almost hear the man smirking.

"We'll see what the weather says about that, Ms. Walters. The savannah is a wild place. Things don't always go according to plan."

"My plans always work," Amara said, and ended the call.

She threw the phone into her bag and gripped the steering wheel. She was going to go to this jungle, she was going to crush this Julian Da Silva, and she was going to be back in her high-rise apartment drinking expensive wine alone by Christmas Eve.