The Niger Delta was a shifting, liquid labyrinth where the land didn't so much end as it dissolved into the water. As the boat pushed deeper into the mangrove forests, the noise of the Awka extraction—the gunfire, the screaming drones, the metallic ring of boots on concrete—was swallowed by the oppressive, rhythmic thrum of the swamp. Here, the air was a thick, stagnant soup of salt spray and rotting vegetation, holding steady at a humid 32°C that made the tactical gear feel like a leaden second skin.
Sloane sat at the stern, her eyes fixed on the wake they left behind. The motor was muffled with a heavy rubber shroud, reducing the engine’s growl to a low-frequency vibration that rattled Seraphina’s teeth. They were moving through "The Veil," a network of narrow channels known only to loc
