Chapter 8: Bluesrock Delta

Darkness fell. Henderson, pocketing his cheap sunglasses, led Riff over to a small dock on the river’s edge.

“You call this ferrying?” Riff asked as he surveyed the lakeboards Henderson placed onto the dock.

“Heh, heh,” chuckled Henderson. “You thought I meant a boat? No, man; coastal security would catch a boat. You gotta lay low: if you stand up on your board, the sensors will catch you. The problem with riding low, though, is it puts you a little closer to the crocs…”

Riff looked into the water. There was sufficient moonlight to see the outlines of large crocodilians next to the dock. “Dude, really?” he protested.

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