Her ears rang from the sudden concussive blasts. The greenhouse, a haven moments ago, now offered little more than a flimsy mesh of broken panes and splintered wood. Beyond the remnants of the glass walls, dark shapes moved in the driving rain, illuminated by intermittent sweeps of a glare lantern crossing the rows. Maartin’s hand, calloused and firm, pressed against the back of her head, forcing her down against the crushed belladonna. He scanned the chaos, his jaw tight, eyes narrowed. “They’re not using suppressors,” he murmured, the rumble of his voice barely audible over the din. “Means they want everyone to know.” “Know what?” Beatrys whispered back, the foliage pricking her cheek. The air grew colder, the wind whipping through the newly formed gaps in the structure. She could feel Maartin’s breath on her hair, warm despite the chill. “That Rustenveld isn’t safe anymore,” he replied. “That Ouma’s protection is a myth.” Another volley of shots tore through the remaining glass, splintering a clay pot inches from Beatrys’s head. Earth flew, stinging her eyes. She blinked rapidly, her mind racing. This wasn't a warning. This was an assault, precise and brutal. “We need to move,” she stated, not asking. “They’ll flush us out with sheer volume.” Maartin nodded, his gaze fixed on the broken doorway, where a large figure in tactical gear now stood, a rifle raised. “Stick close. No heroics, Beatrys. They’re here for *us*.” He sprang up first, a shadow melting into the deeper gloom between the rows of fruit trees that lined the path out of the greenhouse. Beatrys followed, her movements surprisingly fluid despite the clumsy farm boots and the adrenaline coursing through her. The nightshade's bitterness clung to her, a strange, almost invigorating aroma. The orchard was a labyrinth of twisted branches and rain-slicked earth. The glare lantern, now outside, danced erratically, its beam cutting through the mist, transforming the fruit trees into monstrous, fleeting silhouettes. The *thump-thump-thump* of the weapon grew closer, accompanied by the squelch of heavy boots on mud. Beatrys remembered Ouma's words about the farm's ancient laws: *no lethal force*. It felt impossible. These men were armed to the teeth, ready to kill. But Ouma had also shown them her surveillance. She must have known this was coming. There had to be a plan, a way. “The traps,” Beatrys breathed, a sudden thought sparking. “Ouma’s garden traps.” Maartin glanced back, his gaze catching hers in a momentary lull of the white beam. “What traps?” “The ones for the boar,” she explained, remembering the heavy, rusted metal contraptions Ouma had shown her, disguised under leaf litter. “She mentioned them yesterday. Said they were ‘for pests’.” He understood instantly. “Where?” “Near the old well, by the gnarled pear tree. She said the boar liked to root around there.” They moved with renewed purpose, dodging between apple trees, their branches heavy with rain. The shouts of the attackers echoed, distorted by the mist. One voice, coarse and amplified, cut through the night: “Kest! Vossen! Come out and play!” Beatrys felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach. Reinier Cloete. He was back, and he hadn't come alone. They reached the old well, a stone circle half-hidden by overgrown ferns. The gnarled pear tree stood sentinel nearby, its ancient bark scarred by lightning. “Give me a minute,” Beatrys instructed. She frantically searched the ground beneath the pear tree, feeling for the tell-tale humps of concealed metal. Her palms brushed against cold, damp iron. A bear trap. Heavy, spring-loaded, and utterly unforgiving. “Cloete!” she suddenly shrieked, her voice pitched high, shrill, and entirely too cheerful for the situation. It was her tourist persona, dialed up to eleven. “Over here, you big meanie! Come and get me, if you’re not scared of a little ol’ farm girl!” Maartin looked at her, stunned, as she deliberately stepped into a patch of moonlight, waving her arms in a caricature of flight. The lantern beam swiveled, blinding her. A chorus of shouts erupted from the trees. “There! Target acquired!” “Beatrys, what in the blazes are you doing?” Maartin hissed, pulling her back into the shadows the moment the beam passed. A wicked thrill coursed through her ribs. “Distraction,” she whispered, tugging at the trap’s rusted chain, trying to secure it more firmly. “They expect a fight, not a fluttery mess.” The heavy boots pounded closer. Beatrys heard Cloete’s laugh, a cruel, satisfied sound. “She thinks this is a game, boys! Let’s show her a *real* game.” She finished setting the trap, camouflaging it hastily with a scattering of twigs and loose soil. “Ready,” she mouthed to Maartin. He nodded, his face grim. Beatrys burst from cover again, giggling. “Oh dear, you almost got me!” she cried, dancing around the pear tree, making sure to lead the approaching gunman directly towards the concealed trap. The man, large and heavily armed, charged, his rifle held ready. He was focused solely on her, on her bright, deliberately foolish movements. Just as he stepped onto the camouflaged spot, a sickening *CRUNCH* echoed through the orchard. A strangled yell followed, cut short as the man crumpled, his rifle clattering uselessly to the muddy ground. Beatrys didn’t look back, trusting the trap had done its work without killing. She just kept running, Maartin a silent, protective shadow at her side. They wove through the rows of trees, the sounds of the other shooters now confused, less coordinated. “What was that noise?” someone shouted. “Check it!” They were close to the edge of the orchard, nearing a dense patch of ancient oak trees. Suddenly, Maartin shoved her hard. “Down!” The air was ripped apart by the *crack-crack-crack* of rapid fire. Beatrys stumbled, falling forward, her hands bracing against the rough bark of an oak. A searing pain flared along her ribs, but it was only bruised bone. Maartin had pushed her, and then crumpled behind her. She heard a choked gasp, a sound of profound impact. She scrambled to her knees, turning. Maartin lay half-propped against the tree, his hand pressed to his shoulder. A dark stain spread across the chest of his faded work shirt. His face was pale, drawn, a grimace of pain twisting his features. He’d taken the bullet for her. For Beatrys, it was as if a dam had burst. The icy, calculated control she’d maintained for years fractured. The cheerful mask shattered, revealing raw, visceral fear. Her revenge, her family, her future—it all paled before the sight of him bleeding, wounded because of her. She reached for him, her hands trembling uncontrollably. “Maartin,” she choked out, her voice alien even to her own ears, stripped of its forced lightness. “No. No, no, no.” He gripped her arm with surprising strength. “Go,” he rasped, his breath shallow. “Go, Beatrys. They’re still coming.” “Not without you,” she declared, her resolve suddenly absolute. She ripped a strip of fabric from the hem of her mud-soaked trousers, pressing it against his collarbone wound. It was clumsy, inefficient. She needed proper supplies, a safe place. “The stone vault,” he murmured, his eyes half-closed. “Under the old barn. Ouma keeps a first-aid kit.” With a strength she didn’t know she possessed, Beatrys hauled Maartin’s arm over her shoulder, supporting his weight. He was heavy, his steps faltering, but he pushed through the pain. They stumbled through the last stretch of trees, the barn a dark silhouette against the stormy sky. Another volley of shots rang out, closer this time, tearing through the leaves above them. They reached the weathered planks of the barn, finding the hidden hatch Maartin had described. It was a sturdy wooden hatch, almost invisible against the barn’s foundation. Beatrys wrestled it open, descending into the cool, damp earth with him leaning heavily against her. The vault was a small, circular space, smelling of potatoes and dry soil. A single, dim lantern hung from a hook, casting long, dancing shadows. Beatrys gently lowered Maartin onto a pile of burlap sacks, his breath ragged. His face was slick with sweat, his lips tinged blue. She worked quickly, tearing open his shirt, her grip surprisingly steady now. The slug had torn into his left clavicle, low enough to miss the major arteries, but deep. It would need more than a bandage. She found Ouma’s first-aid kit, a surprisingly well-stocked metal box, and began to clean the wound, her mind focusing purely on the task. “Hold still,” she whispered, her voice still rough, devoid of any pretense. “You’ll be alright. You have to be.” As she worked, she remembered the unconscious assassin from the pear tree. A risk, but a necessary one. “I’ll be right back,” she told Maartin, pulling herself back through the hatch. She moved with purpose, back through the rain and mud, guided by the memory of the struggle. The mercenary was still there, groaning softly, the bear trap biting deep into his shin. Beatrys quickly searched his pockets, ignoring his pain-filled whimpers. Her hand closed around a folded piece of paper. She pulled it free, shielding it from the rain with her body, and unfolded it in the dim light filtering from the barn. It was a hit order. A meticulously detailed file, not just on Beatrys and Maartin, but on Ouma Hessel herself. And at the bottom, scrawled in an elegant, spidery hand, was a signature that chilled Beatrys to the bone, leaving a quiet dread far worse than fear of incoming rounds. It was Ouma’s signature. The wise, benevolent farm owner, signing her own death warrant, and theirs.

The Nightshade Protocol