I sprint across the rough ground. Every step is agony, sharp rocks and roots stab into my unprotected soles. The fabric wrappings fall away entirely and I leave them behind. I push deeper into the jungle, branches whipping against my face. The canopy blocks most of the moonlight, turning everything into dark shadows. I’m navigating by feel and instinct, one hand out in front of me to ward off branches, the other clutching my little rock like a lifeline.
The humid air is suffocating, like trying to breathe through a wet blanket. Sweat pours down my face and back. Insects buzz around my head, probably attracted to the blood. Something slithers away from my feet. My body screams at me to stop. Twelve days of malnutrition and dehydration have taken their toll, and I can feel myself running on empty.
But I keep pushing because stopping means they catch up. At some point the fighting will end and they’ll realize I’ve escaped. I have to do my best to widen the head start I’ve been given. Maybe I can hide somewhere?
Eventually, though, my body makes the decision for me. My legs simply give out and I collapse against a massive tree trunk, sliding down until I’m sitting on the jungle floor. I lean my head back against the rough bark. Jungle sounds filter back in now that I’m not crashing through the undergrowth — insects chirping, something hooting in the distance.
It’s almost peaceful.
No, Sloane. Don’t get comfortable. You need to keep moving.
I need to figure out which direction leads to civilization and find some kind of shelter before dawn, because wandering through the jungle in daylight will make me an easy target.
I need a lot of things I don’t have.
What I have is a jagged rock, the clothes on my back (torn and filthy), and my wits (questionable after twelve days of captivity).
It’s going to have to be enough.
Okay. Time to?—
I freeze.
Footsteps.
My eyes snap open. I hold perfectly still, ears straining.
There it is again. Not random jungle sounds but deliberate movement. Something big pushing through the undergrowth. Coming toward me fast.
Oh fuck.
Someone followed me. One of the guards escaped the firefight and noticed the empty pit. Or maybe they had a tracker on me somehow or they just got lucky, following the blood trail I must be leaving with my destroyed feet.
The footsteps get closer. Whoever it is, they’re moving faster than a human should be able to move through this terrain in the dark.
That thought sends ice down my spine. What the hell moves that fast in the jungle at night?
I press myself flat against the tree, making myself as small as possible. My heart hammers so loud I’m sure they can hear it. The jagged rock is clutched in my fist, the only weapon I have.
The footsteps stop.
I hold my breath. Silence. The jungle has gone quiet around us, like even the insects know something is about to happen. Whoever followed me is right there, in the darkness, probably scanning for movement.
Please don’t see me. Please let them give up and go back to the compound. Please?—
A twig snaps. Closer now.
Shit. I grip my rock tighter. I picture myself leaping up, swinging for the temple, using every ounce of strength I have left?—
“Sloane.” The voice cuts through the darkness. Low and urgent but not Spanish. English.
Wait, I know that voice. My brain stutters, trying to process. I’ve heard that voice through laptop speakers at two in the morning. I’ve heard it laugh at my bad jokes and get serious when I pushed too hard on a question. I’ve heard it say “be careful” with an undertone of something neither of us ever acknowledged.
But that’s impossible. He’s in California, seven thousand miles away.
“Sloane.” The voice again. Raw. Furious. Desperate. “I’ve got you.”
My heart stops then restarts at double speed. No. No, it’s not possible. I’m hallucinating. Dehydration does that. Stress does that. I’m imagining things because I want so badly for someone to be here.
