“The breakfast of champions. I got ‘Menu twelve: Fancy Penne Pasta. Vegetarian.’” He rips into his packet. “Bon appétit!”
I start to tear open my envelope, but when I look up, I find Sebastián watching me from across the clearing.
It’s six thirty in the morning, according to Indiana’s waterproof camping watch. Eight and a half hours until the deadline Silvana gave my father. Time is running out.
“Thanks,” I say as I reluctantly hand the MRE back to him. “But I think I hear opportunity knocking. Wish me luck.”
“I’ve seen you handle yourself. You don’t need luck,” he whispers as I stand. But I can hear concern in his voice, and that makes me feel oddly warm as I cross the clearing.
Sebastián sees me coming, and his smile actually looks welcoming. “¿Qué pasa, Genesis?”
“I didn’t get any fruit.”
The men around him laugh, clearly amused by my willingness to make demands from a man holding an automatic rifle.
“We ran out,” Sebastián says.
“Rumor has it, fruit grows in the jungle.”
His brows rise. “You’ll have to pick it yourself.”
“Then I’ll need an escort.” I gesture toward the narrow footpath, as if I don’t know it goes to the beach. “Lead the way.”
He stands, then gestures in the other direction. Away from the ocean. As we head across the clearing, a crescendo of laughter and crude jokes from his men follows us.
I ignore them all and focus on Indiana instead. He’s right. I don’t need anyone to wish me luck.
Valencias make their own luck.
21.5 HOURS EARLIER
MADDIE
When the first rays of dappled sunlight wake me, I find Luke curled up to my back with his arm draped over my stomach, as if he’d tried to stop me from leaving in his sleep.
For a moment, I savor his warmth. But then reality kicks in.
Luke shouldn’t depend on me. Following me into the jungle nearly got him killed. And it may still.
I shouldn’t have let him come, but I can’t leave him now, even for his own good.
I don’t want to leave him.
I carefully lift his arm and sneak out of the tent. By the time I get back from relieving myself in the jungle, Luke is packing up our camp.
“Did you know that Parque Tayrona contains more than seventeen thousand square acres of jungle?” he says as he folds up the camp stove.
“So what?” I ask as I strap our sleeping bag to the bottom of my pack. “You think we’re still in Tayrona?”
“Probably. The vast majority of the parque is unexplored, unmapped wilderness.”
I shrug into my backpack. “If this is a needle-in-a-haystack analogy, you know exactly where you can shove your odds and statistics. I will find them.”
“I know. And I’m still with you. But I have an idea. Silvana was marching you guys northwest, right?”
“Yes. We were headed away from the rising sun.”
He shoves the folded camp stove into his bag and zips it up. “Then I propose we head due north, instead.”
“Why?”
Luke looks at me as if I should already have caught onto his point, and I hate how clueless that makes me feel. “Because the Caribbean is due north, and heading toward the shore means we’ll be going downhill. Which will make hiking easier. We can turn west once we hit the water, and that’ll be much easier going.”
“You’re leaving something out.” I can see it in his eyes.
If we hike along the beach, we might see a boat, or run into other tourists, or pick up a stronger cell signal. “You’re not trying to help me find Ryan’s murderers.” The betrayal feels like a bruise deep in my chest. “You’re trying to get us rescued.”
“I’m trying to do both,” he insists. “We’ll still be heading north and west, but at a much faster pace. And if we find help before we find the kidnappers, we can alert the authorities and let them take over. We owe that to your cousin and her friends.”
“I know, but . . .” I don’t want Ryan’s killer apprehended. I want him dead.
“Maddie, you don’t even have a plan.” Luke throws his hands up in frustration. “Even if you’re willing to kill someone—and I really hope you’re not—we have a rifle you don’t know how to use, and a grand total of five shells.”
But five shells is plenty, because I do have a plan.
Find the kidnappers’ base camp. Shoot from a hidden location. Flee with Genesis and her friends in the subsequent chaos.
The hard part will be deciding whether to aim for Silvana or Julian, in case I only manage one shot.
“You’re low on insulin, we’re both low on food,” Luke continues. “And if we hike much farther, we won’t make it back to the bunkhouse in time to meet the helicopter tonight. So if we’re going to press on, we have to head for the shore.”
I open my mouth to argue again, but he cuts me off.
“And if that doesn’t convince you, think about this: Silvana and Sebastián are almost certainly heading for the shore too. There’s no more convenient way for the kidnappers to get the supplies they need to keep themselves and their captives alive than by boat.”
I frown, resettling my bag on my shoulders. “Then why didn’t they march us straight to the beach in the first place?”
“Because they don’t want to be found. And they probably wanted to keep you guys disoriented.” He watches me for a second, letting me think it over. “This is our best bet, Maddie.”
He’s right.
“Fine.” I smile and toss my pack over my shoulder. “Lead the way north, Boy Scout.”
21 HOURS EARLIER
GENESIS
“¿Qué prefieres?” Sebastián asks as we pick our way through the jungle. His voice is low-pitched and smooth. It’s the voice of an announcer or a politician. A voice people will listen to.
A voice like my uncle’s. Like my father’s.
“Bananas, if we can find them.”
“You’re in luck.” He strikes off to the east, clearly leading me some place he knows well.
Every step I take through this untouched patch of jungle feels like the ticking of a clock counting down to three p.m. To the moment my father will either let me die, or help these terrorists kill hundreds of innocent people.
I can’t let it come to that.
“Who are you?”
“Philosophically?” Sebastián laughs. “Or are you asking for my National Identification Number?”
“You’re not cartel.” I shrug. “Silvana, maybe. But not you.”
He holds out his arms and lets his rifle hang across his chest, showing off his uniform and his gun. “Do I not look the part?”
“You don’t sound the part. You’re not after money, and you don’t relish violence.”
He laughs again. “I bet you’re no fun to play poker with.”
We arrive at a small cluster of banana trees, each bent by a massive ring of fruit bunches so heavy they hang just feet from the ground. Several of the bunches have gaps, where someone’s already picked the fruit.
Sebastián studies the clusters, then breaks off two bananas. He holds them out, letting me choose.
“You’re an activist, aren’t you?” I select the ripest, but it’s still greener than any I’ve ever seen in a store. “You’ll pick up a gun if you have to, but you’d rather fight with words.”
He breaks open his banana and it’s perfectly ripe on the inside, in spite of the green peel. “What would you fight with, Genesis Valencia?”
Every weapon at my disposal. But I can’t show him that.
“If I have to fight, I’ve made a mistake somewhere along the way,” I say as I peel my banana.
“That’s because you’re privileged. If you wind up somewhere you shouldn’t be in life, it’s because you took a wrong turn. For most of us, someone else is behind the wheel.”
“I didn’t put myself here.” I spread my arms to take in the jungle and
the entire hostage situation. “Someone else is driving this time. You’re driving. You’ve been watching me since the night I got to Colombia.”
“And how did that happen, Genesis? How did you wind up in Cartagena?”
“I—” I stare at him, stunned.
“That was your wrong turn.” He breaks off the end of his banana. “You could be in the Bahamas right now.”
“How the hell did you know that?”
Sebastián just watches me, biting into the fruit.
“Nico?” My grandmother would have told him as soon as I agreed to come visit, so he could help her get the house ready. “Is he in on this?”
Sebastián shrugs. “We all play a part. Whether we know it or not.”
“And my dad’s part? I told you, you can’t just fly a bomb into—”
“And I told you we don’t want a plane.”
“But that’s the fastest—” My mouth snaps shut as I think it through. Planes are the fastest way into the United States, though airports do have a lot of security and vigilant customs inspections. “You want a ship.”
His smile is grim. Like he’s reluctantly proud of me. “I told Silvana you’d figure it out.”
Blood rushes to my head as I fight panic. “What port?” I demand. “Where is Silvana sending her bombs?”
He gives me a bleak shrug. “What does that matter?”
“Sebastián, we can stop her.” I stand straighter, and we’re almost eye to eye. “I know this isn’t what you want. You don’t have to kill people to send a message.”
He drops his banana peel on the ground and crosses his arms over his chest. “You have a better idea?”
I fight through exhaustion and hunger, grasping for a clear thought. I’ve never felt so desperate or out of my element. “I know cash isn’t what you’re after, but money can do a lot of good. A lot of money can do even more. You could start a foundation to help disenfranchised farmers get a new start. Or establish scholarships for their kids. Or fund a series of free clinics. Or build houses for the poor.” Before he died, my uncle worked for a non-profit that did all of those things.
“Those are Band-Aids for bullet wounds, Genesis. Until the US stops interfering, Colombia’s problems will persist.”
“Okay, then take out a bunch of ads, to educate the American public.” I feel like an auctioneer, trying to sell him all the right words before time runs out. “Or back a US politician dedicated to your cause. My dad does that all the time, for issues he thinks are important.”
“So, your father throws money at problems?” Sebastián’s laugh is harsh and bitter. “That’s no surprise.”
“He’s trying to help,” I insist.
“He’s the problem, Genesis!” Sebastián stands, and I push myself to my feet in front of him. “The gap between the rich and the poor is getting bigger all over the world. Wealth and entitlement create inequalities, not fix them.” Anger flashes in his eyes, and I step back, distancing myself from his clenched fists.
“Is that why you killed his brother?”
Sebastián’s fists release suddenly. “We need to get back.”
“Tell me!” I demand. “He was my uncle. I deserve to know!”
“You . . . ?” His voice is soft, but his gaze is hard. “All you care about is what you deserve. Because you’re part of the problem too.”
18 HOURS EARLIER
MADDIE
“I hear another stream.” Luke faces the direction of running water like a hunting dog on point. “That’s our cue for a break.”
“No, it’s too early for lunch, and I’m not tired yet.” I stand straighter to make my lie more convincing. I don’t have time to be tired.
“We’ve been walking for three hours.” Luke adjusts the straps on his pack, and his shoulders sag. “We have to take water where we can find it, Maddie.”
I know he’s right. And the only way we can boil water is to empty more soup cans.
I don’t realize how hungry I am until I pop the top from my beef stew, and my stomach growls.
When our refilled cans are sitting on the attachable grill over the camp stove, I notice Luke watching me with a cryptic smile. “What?”
“I have a surprise.”
I fake a gasp. “How could you possibly improve on lukewarm soup and boiling water?”
He pulls a clear plastic bag from his backpack. Clumped up in the bottom are four soft, white poufs.
“You have marshmallows?”
He shrugs. “This is all that’s left from camping with my parents. Will it upset your glucose level?”
“Not if I just have one.” Right now, I want a marshmallow so badly that I don’t give one single shit about my blood sugar level. Which is easy to say, as long as I still have insulin in my pump.
Luke reaches behind the log he’s sitting on and pulls out two sticks he must have trimmed while I was getting water. He impales a marshmallow on the end of each stick, and when he hands one to me, our pinkies brush.
We hold our marshmallows over the fire, and Luke’s goes up in flames almost instantly. I laugh as he grins, then blows it out.
I roast mine slowly, savoring the brief break from pain, grief, and misery.
He pulls his burnt marshmallow from the stick. “Come on, we have to eat them at the same time.”
“Is that a Boy Scout thing?”
“No, that’s just how my parents do it. So they can share the experience.” He shrugs, and for once, his cheeks don’t flush. “It’s just more fun that way.”
I lower my marshmallow until it catches fire. He watches me blow it out. “Ready?” I ask, and he nods. “Okay, but you have to eat the whole thing at once. That’s how Ryan and I used to do it.”
Luke gives me a solemn nod. Then we count to three and each shove a charred marshmallow into our mouths.
“That’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” he moans around a mouthful of sugar goo.
“Right?” I agree, though that might have as much to do with how he’s watching me as with the sweet surprise.
His eyes close, and I watch him chew. He looks truly at ease and confident for the first time since he gave me the other half of his sandwich on the beach at Cabo.
The bag crinkles when I pick it up, and his eyes fly open. “No, we have to save them for tonight!”
“We don’t even know where we’ll be by then. We could be rescued. Or we could be captured. Or we could be . . .” Dead.
“We’ll be fine, and having something to look forward to will get us through the day, even if that something is just a brick of processed sugar.”
“But I really want that other marshmallow.”
Luke eyes me suspiciously. “Give me the bag, Maddie.”
Instead, I grin and deliberately tuck it behind my back. He reaches out, but I lean to block his arm. He can’t take the marshmallows if he’s too shy to touch me.
Luke’s eyes narrow. He lunges. I squeal, and we fall onto the ground, the log shielding us from the camp stove. His elbow lands on my hair, his face inches from mine. He’s cute, for a Boy Scout gamer, and the flash of heat in his eyes has nothing to do with the firelight flickering on the side of his face.
Then Luke freezes, and suddenly seems very aware that he’s lying half on top of me, his left knee between my thighs. His chest pressed against mine.
“I’m s-sorry . . .” he stammers, lifting himself. “I didn’t mean to—”
I pull him down, his hesitancy melting until our lips meet.
My eyes close and we both relax into the kiss. For a few minutes, there is no jungle. There are no kidnappers and no hostages. There are no spiders, snakes, or caimans. There is no grief, and no pain.
For a few minutes, there is only Luke and me, and the sweet, shared taste of marshmallow.
17 HOURS EARLIER
GENESIS
“Gin!” Domenica says as she lays her cards on my straw mat. I’ve lost four games in a row, and no one will play poker with me anymore because I won all
of Domenica’s breath mints and all of Rog’s rolling papers. Which are no good without anything to roll.
Hiking through the jungle sucked, but boredom is its own special kind of hell.
Álvaro cranks up the radio his group is listening to at the next campfire.
“Thanks for joining us. It’s eleven a.m. here in Miami . . .” Neda’s voice rings out loud and clear.
I look up as Holden finally stops trying to suck Penelope’s soul out through her mouth.
“This morning, we have confirmation that a small group of the missing hikers were actually out of camp on a sightseeing tour during the kidnapping. They made it out of the jungle overnight and have reported their fellow hikers missing. Among those Americans still unaccounted for are a husband and wife from Texas, four young backpackers from San Diego, and a high school dropout from Indiana. You can hear more about that on just about any news channel. Seriously, they’re playing it over and over,” Neda continues. “But what we have for you today on South Florida’s Power 85 FM is an exclusive interview with the parent of one of the Miami Six, the local teens and my personal friends who were brutally kidnapped at gunpoint yesterday from a Colombian army bunkhouse. Stay tuned . . .”
Neda has found her calling, and after all the years she’s spent pining for a career in modeling, I’m surprised that it’s radio.
Thinking about Neda makes me miss my dad. I don’t care if he’s nagging me to try that disgusting protein powder his trainer got him hooked on or trying to talk me into going to his alma mater. I just want to hear his voice.
When the show comes back on the air, Neda teases the exclusive interview, then shares several short, funny stories about the Miami Six, no doubt intended to cement her personal connection to the crisis. She tells the world how Penelope can do a back tuck on a four-inch wide balance beam, but won’t walk over a street grate because she’s afraid it’ll collapse and dump her into the sewer. How Holden handed out gourmet muffins to the poor, without mentioning that his community service was court-ordered.
“And Genesis . . .” Neda’s voice breaks with emotion, and my eyes water. “Genesis is my best friend, and if it weren’t for her, I’d still be out there like everyone else, only crippled by my recent injury. She’s the one who arranged for me to be airlifted out of the jungle, and . . .” Her voice cracks again, and the DJ suggests another break.