Chapter 17: Rising Stakes
Cap-Haïtien's early morning heat settled over the city like a warning. Clouds drifted lazily over the rooftops, and the scent of smoked fish and warm bread drifted through the narrow alleyways. But for Peterson, the day didn't begin with breakfast. It began with tension.
Amanda and Miranda had been watching him closely ever since the night they saw Jean-Daniel sneaking in through the window. He hadn't mentioned anything to them, and they hadn't brought it up. But he could feel it. The quiet glances. The way Amanda's jokes stopped when he walked in. The way Miranda's eyes narrowed slightly every time he came home late.
He moved cautiously around them, like a suspect under silent investigation.
"Where are you going?" Amanda asked that morning, arms crossed as Peterson pulled on his shoes.
"School," he answered flatly.
"Mmhm," she murmured. Miranda said nothing, but the look she gave him said everything.
He met Jean-Daniel and Wilkens two streets over, out of earshot.
"Your sisters are onto you?" Jean-Daniel asked, chewing on a piece of sugarcane.
"They're bloodhounds," Peterson muttered. "I don't think they know what I'm doing. But they know I'm doing something."
"Then we need to move faster."
Wilkens adjusted the notebook in his backpack. "I've updated the crafting list. Also, I found something weird last night."
They walked together, keeping their voices low.
Wilkens continued, "I mapped the symbol on your chest. The snakes and the skulls—it's older than Baron Cimetière. It's a variation that's tied to what they call the 'Veve Gate.'"
Jean-Daniel raised an eyebrow. "Sounds dramatic."
"It is," Wilkens said. "There's this old belief that certain Loa can create pathways between worlds. Not just spirits visiting the living—but actual gates. Hidden. Temporary. Dangerous."
Peterson stopped in his tracks.
"The medallion," he said. "That night I passed out… I saw something. Felt something."
"A gate," Wilkens confirmed.
At school, the halls buzzed with a kind of energy Peterson hadn't felt in weeks. Students swapped gossip. Teachers barked orders. But his mind drifted.
During lunch, as they sat on the far end of the schoolyard under the shade of a breadfruit tree, Jean-Daniel tapped him.
"Tonight," he said, "we meet with Isso."
Peterson's stomach clenched.
"Why?"
"He wants to test you," Jean-Daniel said. "Says he's got a job. High-value. Quick turnover. No screw-ups."
Peterson exhaled sharply. "And if we fail?"
"We don't fail."
Wilkens paled. "Is this even legal?"
Jean-Daniel gave him a look.
"Right. Dumb question," Wilkens said.
That night, under the cover of dusk, they arrived at the shipping yard near the coast. It was quiet—too quiet. Large containers stacked like tombs. Rats scurried beneath the metal shadows.
Isso stood in front of a container, flanked by his second-in-command, Bega—the mountain of a man with a face like chewed leather and arms thick enough to snap a pipe.
Jean-Daniel nudged Peterson. "Play it cool."
Isso's eyes locked on Peterson. Cold. Calculating.
"So, you're the new blood," he said.
Peterson nodded.
"Jean-Daniel vouches for you. That means you get one chance. Don't mess it up."
He handed Peterson a small black bag. "Inside is the package. You're delivering it to Rue Martineau. Apartment 4B. No stops. No questions."
"What's in it?" Peterson asked.
Bega took a step forward.
Jean-Daniel quickly intervened. "He didn't mean disrespect. He'll deliver it."
Isso smirked. "Good. Because questions get people hurt."
Peterson swallowed his nerves. He took the bag.
The mission was on.
The city felt different at night. Like something under the surface had awoken.
They moved quickly, cutting through alleyways and narrow streets. Wilkens kept lookout from rooftops, using a pair of scratched binoculars he insisted were 'tactically optimized.'
Halfway through their route, they spotted patrol lights.
"Police," Jean-Daniel hissed. "Backtrack. Now."
They ducked into a closed mechanic shop, slipping behind rusted cars. For ten minutes, they held their breath as two officers passed.
"We good?" Peterson asked.
Wilkens whispered into the walkie. "Clear. Move."
They sprinted.
Apartment 4B was a rundown building with peeling paint and a crooked buzzer.
Peterson knocked three times. A man opened the door just enough to slip the package through.
No words.
He shut it again.
Jean-Daniel exhaled. "Mission complete."
Peterson glanced at the street.
And saw Miranda.
She was across the street, behind a corner. Watching.
His heart dropped.
"Go," he whispered. "Now."
They ran.
Behind them, the city swallowed the secret.
But the stakes had risen.
Miranda had seen everything.