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The humid February air hangs thick as Roarke slides open his mahogany desk drawer. Inside, coiled like polished obsidian, a spectacled cobra raises its hooded head, hissing sharply. Tattoo instantly recognizes the serpent’s unnerving stillness—too deliberate.
"That reporter!" he gasps, voice tight. "The one ranting about cult curses! She left this!"
Roarke’s usual composure fractures; his hand twitches toward the snake, but Tattoo shoves his arm aside.
"Non, Monsieur! Religieux, remember?" Tattoo snatches Roarke’s carved teak walking stick, its handle worn smooth.
With a grunt, he brings it down hard—thwack!—crushing the cobra’s skull against the drawer’s lining. The creature spasms, then lies still. Without hesitation, Tattoo grabs the limp body with a handkerchief, strides to the villa’s open window, and flings it into the jungle’s emerald tangle. He turns back, wiping sweat from his brow. Roarke stares at the drawer’s dark stain, his expression unreadable, but his knuckles pale.
Tattoo meets his eyes, fierce. "No snakes near you."
The silence between them thrums, heavy as the island’s heat.