Page 69 of Deacon

Without warning, a chaotic roar erupted, the sound of shouting voices filling the air.

Deacon stood, eyes on the approaching horde, or so it sounded, body bracing, his hand going to the butt of his Glock, as did the other IR soldiers.

‘D?’ I whispered.

‘I’ve got you, beautiful,’ Deacon murmured, his massive frame blocking me from any harm.

‘Everyone, stay calm,’ Luka warned. ‘Don’t draw unless I give the word. One twitch from anyone and this clearing becomes a graveyard.’

Salim raised a hand. ‘Calm, please. I’ll deal with this.’

A dozen Surma warriors marched into the camp perimeter, brandishing rusted AK-47 assault rifles and shouting out loud.

Worry arced through me as Salim translated their rapid, harsh dialect, his voice tight.

‘They’re demanding a steep tax for the aircraft landing on their ancestral pastures. They say the noise scared their cattle.’

‘Only fair,’ Deacon agreed.

‘How much do they want, Salim?’ Luka asked, keeping his hands visible but close to his holster. ‘We’ve got local currency.’

My heart rate kicked up a notch, but panic didn’t take over.

I’d documented territorial tribes before; the locals weren’t mere opportunists or profiteers, but guardians of sacred territory, annoyed by the intrusion into their sanctuary.

They had the right to demand a tax for the privilege of letting the IR crew land the bird that whisked me to safety on their grazing grounds.

Deacon stayed by my cot, allowing Salim and Luka to handle the rapid-fire discussions.

Salim kept talking to the warriors, but he must have been moving too slowly in the negotiations, because they began to stir and mutter in impatience.

The tension spiked when one young swashbuckler pointed his firearm barrel upward and fired a shot into the sky, with everyone ducking on instinct.

‘Bloody hell!’ Baz muttered, his hand going to the weapon in his holster.

‘Keep it calm, man,’ Deacon hissed.

Salim scrambled forward, raising his open palms to interject before our security team drew iron.

‘Wait! No weapons! Please!’

The tribe members voiced their displeasure in their local dialect.

Salim turned back to Luka. ‘They don’t want paper money! They want supplies.’

Luke huffed. ‘Commodities, huh? Not a fuckin’ problem; we’ve a few crates of food and provisions on the helo; we take them whenever we go bush in case of flare-ups like these.’

Meanwhile, I kept my eyes pinned on the youth with the rifle, reading the tight tension in his shoulders.

I realized he was terrified too, as sweat beaded on the boy’s brow while Salim negotiated.

Moments later, Luka and his guards strode into the haze and soon reappeared with a pile of supply crates from the helo.

He set three cases of drinks, a massive stack of tinned rations, and medical supplies on the ground.

‘Take it all,’ Luka called out. ‘They’re yours.’

The lead Surma warrior’s eyes gleamed at the offering.