Page 141 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 4

Two crewmen, I noted. Maybe three.

They weren’t Landry soldiers. They didn’t carry the swagger or the sharp suits of street enforcers. They were hired marine mercenaries—quiet, pragmatic men who operated on commercial cash wages and kept their mouths shut. And they weren’t on here all the time. Kaisen only had them here like every other week, and they never stayed longer than two days. Their shift changes happened like clockwork: 0600 in the morning, and 1800 at dusk.

At 10:30 AM, Kaisen escorted me out onto the observation deck.

The humid Gulf air hit my face like a wet towel, thick with the smell of diesel exhaust, salt grass, and decaying marsh mud. The sky was an endless expanse of pale gray overcast. To our left and right, dense walls of cypress trees draped in Spanish moss and endless stretches of sawgrass blurred past. We were completely isolated—tucked into a secluded commercial cut miles away from civilian highways.

A fourteen-foot welded aluminum jon boat was secured by two manual rope halyards. No electronic codes. No key ignition on the outboard—just a pull-cord and a fuel line toggle.

A single person could lower that boat in ninety seconds if the water was calm.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Kaisen murmured, stepping up beside me at the stern railing, resting his forearms against the varnished teak. “No police sirens. No rival crews shooting up the block. No Winston demanding blood for the family ledger. Just peace.”

I leaned against the railing, keeping my body angled toward him, letting the wind whip loose strands of hair across my forehead.

“It’s quiet,” I admitted.

“That’s because out here, nobody has power over us,” he said, turning his head to look at me, his eyes full of that terrifying, serene conviction. “Amai can run the streets of Orleans Parish all he wants. The concrete ends at the water. He doesn’t have the imagination to look past the pavement.”

I looked down at the churning white wake behind the riverboat.

You don’t know Amai, I thought, the cold memory of his dark, predatory eyes flashing through my chest. Amai doesn’t need imagination. He only needs a scent.

I shifted Trumai slightly in her wrap, tapping her back while subtly glancing at the console housing near the deck salon entrance. On the wall, a VHF radio hung from a coiled black cord. Above it was a small digital battery monitor.

No cell towers in direct sight. But as we crossed a wider expanse of open water where the bayou intersected a coastal shipping channel, the small digital display on the console’s signal booster flickered—one bar of LTE, holding for three miles before dropping back into the static void.

Signal existed. It was weak, intermittent, and tied to the open navigation channels.

If I could get access to a phone or a radio when we crossed those channel mouths, a signal could push through.

“Come on,” Kaisen said gently, touching my shoulder. “The wind is picking up. Let’s get the baby inside before she catches a draft.”

“Okay,” I said, offering him another small, obedient nod.

I turned and walked back inside the warm, luxurious cage, cataloging every hatch, every camera angle, every shift change, and every foot of rope behind me.

By nightfall, the riverboat had pulled into a sheltered bayou bend, dropping anchor in the deep mud beneath a canopy of towering cypress trees. The twin main diesels were cut, replaced by the muffled, rhythmic hum of the auxiliary night generator.

In the stateroom, I bathed Trumai in the porcelain basin, dressed her in a fresh cotton sleeper, and rocked her until her heavy eyelids fluttered shut. I laid her in the white wooden crib Kaisen had bolted to the stateroom floor, tucking the pink blanket securely around her chest.

Then, I turned toward the doorway.

Kaisen was standing in the corridor outside, holding a leather-bound notebook and a tablet. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a dark long-sleeved tee, preparing to retreat to his private quarters across the hall as he had done every night since Hector escaped.

“She down?” he asked in a low whisper.

“Fast asleep,” I replied.

He smiled, reaching to pull the stateroom door closed to give me privacy. “Get some rest, Truth. Tomorrow, we’ll be crossing into Sabine Lake.”

I stepped forward, catching the edge of the heavy mahogany door with my palm.

“Kaisen.”

He paused, looking at me with mild curiosity. “Yes?”

I lowered my eyes, wrapping my arms around my waist, letting my posture project the exact kind of fragile, hesitating vulnerability that disarmed his defenses.