Waves of Blood

The boat scraped against the pier, the old wood groaning under the weight. Joseph “Joey” Daley swung himself over the side, boots splashing into the saltwater, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. He moved through the morning mist, the cool breeze raking over his sweat-soaked skin, tasting like the sea and fear. Montego Bay stretched out in front of him—pastel-colored houses rising along the hills, the pulse of dancehall music creeping through the alleys even this early.

It had been two years since he’d left, but Joey didn’t recognize the city anymore. And it wasn’t just the new resorts or the tourists spilling out from the cruise ships. It was the way people talked, the way they kept their heads down. The city had gone silent, even in its noise.