The scent of damp earth and rotting leaves was sharp in her nose, but she ignored it, her eyes fixed on the path ahead. One of the poachers had left his rifle leaning against a crate a few paces away. If she moved quickly, she could slip past him. But every second she lingered was a second too long.
Her fingers tightened around the tiny knife, her only weapon in a place where she had no business being. She darted from the bush, using the larger crates and barrels as cover, weaving between them, her heart racing each time her foot met the ground.