I jam my torn-up foot into the first groove and push myself up. Pain shoots through my sole immediately. The fabric wrappings I made from my blouse are coming loose, offering almost no protection. The rough dirt scrapes against my open cuts and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out.
My fingers dig into the grooves above for purchase. Dear God, this is hard. Midway up, I run out of steam, the upper body strength it takes to drag my whole body up this slick, dirt wall is almost too much for me.
But then I hear more gunfire and move faster than I ever thought possible.
I’m at the top now, face level with the wooden slats, but this is where it gets impossible. I need both hands to pry at the rotted board, but I also need both hands to hold myself in place. Thefootholds are shallow and my legs and arms are already shaking from the effort of holding and bracing against the top of the wall.
I wedge my left forearm against the frame of the pit opening, pressing hard to anchor myself. It’s not stable — nothing about this is stable — but it frees up my right hand to work. I grab my flat little rock and jam it into the gap between the rotted board and the frame.
The board creaks but doesn’t give.
My legs burn and my forearm is scraped raw against the wooden frame. I’m essentially doing a wall sit from hell while trying to perform delicate demolition work with one hand.
Pry again. Wiggle.
My foot slips slightly in the groove and my stomach drops as I scramble to re-establish my position. I press harder with my forearm, feeling splinters dig into my skin.
Come on. Come on, you bastard.
I jam the rock in deeper and throw my whole shoulder into it. More gunfire erupts above, and I use the noise as cover. One nail pops free with a screech of metal. The board shifts and I almost lose my grip from the sudden movement.
Then another nail gives way.
The board shifts, creating a gap maybe six inches wide. Not enough. I need more.
I abandon the rock and wedge my fingers into the gap instead, pulling with everything I have. The wood splinters, digging into my palms, slicing under my fingernails. I don’t care. I pull harder, a sob of effort escaping my throat. Twelve days of barely eating has made me weaker than I should be, and I can feel it now. My muscles are screaming at me to stop.
I don’t stop.
Suddenly the board swings aside, hanging by a single corner. The gap is maybe eighteen inches wide now. It’s going to be tight, but I think I can squeeze through.
My legs finally give out and I slide back down the wall, collapsing at the bottom of the pit. I allow myself three seconds to gasp for breath, shaking out my trembling arms. Then I start climbing again.
My arms shake as I reach up for the edge of the pit. I’m almost there. Night sky filters through the gap in the boards. This time I press harder, making sure I have solid purchase before I push up. My shoulders clear the edge of the pit. Then my chest. I grab the frame of the opening and manage to haul myself up, my stomach scraping against rough wood.
For one terrifying moment, I’m stuck.
My wide hips are wedged in the gap and I can’t move forward or backward. Panic floods through me. I’m going to die here, half in and half out of my own prison, like some kind of horrible metaphor for my entire life.
I wiggle and push with my arms. The board scrapes against my spine hard enough to draw blood, but then suddenly I’m through, collapsing onto the ground above.
For a few seconds I just lie there, gasping, staring at the dirt in front of my face.
Screams, gunfire and acrid smoke bring me back to reality and I push myself up onto my hands and knees.
The compound is chaos.
Muzzle flashes in the darkness. One of the buildings fully engulfed in flames now, orange light flickering across the scene. Guards are running, shouting, shooting at something. Someone. Shapes move through the compound that seem... large? Larger than the guards? But I can’t be sure — there’s too much smoke and confusion.
My brain catalogs everything automatically. The small compound I caught a glimpse of when they dragged me to the pit. Maybe six structures. Rough construction, probably builtquickly for temporary use. The vehicles I heard coming and going are parked near what looks like a main building.
I can’t see who’s attacking. The rational part of my brain says it could be anyone — rival cartel, police, military, private contractors. The hopeful part whispers that maybe, just maybe, someone came looking for me.
I squash that hope immediately. No one is coming for me. I told myself that twelve days ago when I stopped screaming for help. The only person who’s going to save Sloane Adams is Sloane Adams.
This chaos is just... lucky timing and I’m not going to waste it.
I’m already on the edge of the compound, near the tree line. The jungle is right there, maybe twenty feet away. Dark, dense and absolutely terrifying, full of things that could kill me just as dead as the cartel.
