Ryan turns back to the tour guide. “You guys have fun. But nottoomuch fun.” He swipes one finger across his nose suggestively, and several people laugh.
“That’s just more for us, man!” one of the West Coast bros calls out as we head back toward the bunkhouse.
“I’m sorry about your demo.”
“It was just a stupid gimmick.” But his smile is stiff. This isn’t the first time he’s missed out because of me.
We’re still several minutes from the camp when a scream tears through the jungle, silencing the ambient birdsong.
I freeze. Chills race down my spine and pool in my stomach. “Was that Penelope?”
45 HOURS EARLIER
GENESIS
A scream slices through my sleep, leaving the edges of my dream frayed and dangling. I bolt upright, my heart pounding, and pull on my shorts. I glance at the time on my phone—it’s not quite seven in the morning—then shove it into my pocket and unzip my tent flap.
Before I can peek into the aisle between the rows of tents, more shouting startles me.
“Come out!” a man yells.“¡Venga!”
I scramble back and pull on my hiking boots, but then I freeze when heavy footsteps clomp past my tent, accompanied by deep voices speaking rapid-fire Spanish. Most of the words are too muffled for me to understand over the whooshing of my own pulse, but my name comes through loud and clear.
I recognize the heavy click and the scrape of metal as the footsteps fade. Someone has just chambered a round in a large gun. Something bigger than anything I’ve ever fired on the range with my dad.
Strange men are carrying rifles through our camp, ordering people from their tents.
They’re looking for me.
The metallic whisper of a zipper comes from the tent next to mine and I go still as I listen.
“¡Salga!”
“What?” Penelope’s voice is high-pitched and terrified. “I don’t understand—”
“Come out of the tent!” the voice orders in a heavy Spanish accent.
Penelope’s air mattress squeaks. “Can I please get dressed?” Her words are shaky.
There’s no reply, but a shuffling sound comes from her tent as she digs through her bag.
My pulse races so fast I can hardly think.
Clear your head and get out of your own way.The voice of reason sounds like my trainer guiding me through a Krav Maga workout.Let your senses do their job. Let the information in.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
Heavy footsteps. Heavy weaponry. Commands issued in Spanish, from several different voices. They probably don’t outnumber the hikers, but they’re armed. Resisting or fighting back would be suicide.
Watch for your opportunity, my instructor’s voice says.
The barrel of a rifle slides inside my tent. I gasp and scramble backward, but can’t tear my gaze from the muzzle aimed at my chest.
The gun is military issue. Semiautomatic. The same general type carried by the soldiers at Tayrona. There’s no move in my self-defense repertoire that can be executed faster than a bullet leaves the barrel of a gun.
A face appears in the opening. Dark eyes glance around my one-person tent, taking in my air mattress and supplies. Below the face is a torso wearing jungle camo.
“¡Salga!Bring your passport and your cell phone.”
