The Port of Spain skyline glittered through the panoramic glass of Jackie Jagessar’s penthouse, a constellation of artificial stars mocking the fading Caribbean twilight. She padded barefoot across the cool marble, the silk of her bathrobe whispering against her skin, a soft sigh escaping her lips. The day’s boardroom battles, the endless calls, the polite smiles masking ruthless ambition, all melted away under the gentle hum of the central air. She carried a steaming mug of cocoa, its rich scent a comforting balm.
Johnny, her son, sprawled on the plush sectional, his gaze fixed on the holographic display hovering above the coffee table, a map of Chaguaramas pulsing with red markers. He chewed his lip, a familiar intensity in his eyes.
“It’s getting worse, Ma,” he said, his voice low, a tremor of frustration underneath. “The chatter’s everywhere. Soca fetes. They’re using them as fronts.”
Jackie stopped beside him, the warmth of the mug seeping into her palms. “Kidnappings?”
He nodded, his jaw tightening. “Ransom. They snatch people right off the dance floor, disappear them into the mangroves.” He swiped a finger across the holo-map, zooming in on a cluster of green dots near the coastline. “This isn’t just small-time thugs. This is organized. Black Tamarind, I’m hearing.”
A cold knot tightened in Jackie’s stomach. Black Tamarind. Their tendrils snaked deep into the island’s underbelly, rotten roots choking the life out of everything they touched. Her cocoa suddenly tasted bitter.
“Any names?” she asked, her voice calm, though a current of steel flowed beneath it.
“Two main players,” Johnny explained, his eyes scanning the data scrolling across the display. “A local promoter, Crixx. The fetes are his. And a Venezuelan smuggler, Saltfish. He’s the muscle, the one getting them off the island.”
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