100 Hours

  The first real tears come during Holden’s piggyback shift. “I can feel my ankle expanding by the second,” Neda moans, practically choking him with her arms wrapped around his neck. “What if that’s permanent? They won’t let a girl with jiggly ankles anywhere near a runway.”

  “The swelling will go down,” I assure her, before Holden can tell her that it won’t be her ankle keeping her off the runway.

  “Are you sure? How far is it to these ruins?” She clutches Holden tighter as he veers around a big rock, and a branch snags in her hair. “I can’t take any more of this jostling. Did anyone pick up my sandal?”

  “We have to get rid of her,” I whisper to Nico, while I ignore Penelope’s millionth attempt to catch my gaze. “Or at least shut her up.” I would gag Neda with the strap from her Tom Ford calf-hair clutch, if that wouldn’t be a waste of a damn fine bag.

  “We should be about an hour from a bunkhouse used as a campsite by various tour groups,” Nico tells me as we round a sharp bend in the trail. “They get supply shipments by helicopter every other day for the soldiers who patrol the parque and the popular ruins. I can probably get the pilot to airlift Neda back to Cartagena.”

  “If we camp there, we won’t get to see the ruins today.”

  “We wouldn’t anyway.” Nico gives the sinking sun a pointed glance. “Your friends move too slow.”

  “Okay. The car’s coming for us at Cañaveral tomorrow night. If we get a decent start in the morning, can we see the ruins and make it back to the park entrance by nightfall?”

  He nods. “If you can light a fire under your friends’ feet.”

  “Done.” I turn around to address the entire group as I walk backward. “We’re camping at an army bunkhouse tonight.” I let my gaze linger on Holden, driving home my threat to have him searched. “Let’s go.”

  The bunkhouse turns out to be a short, squat building made of rough wood planks, in the middle of a large clearing. A patch of bare dirt to the west of the building has been designated for helicopter landings, and a dozen other tourists have pitched tents on the opposite side of the bunkhouse.

  “How long am I going to be stuck here?” Neda demands as Ryan, Domenica, and Maddie start unpacking their gear. Holden, Rog, and the bros drop their packs and head straight for a large campfire, where people are already grilling hot dogs and passing around bottles of beer.

  Penelope hangs back, glancing first at Holden, then at me, as if she needs my permission to get within ten feet of him.

  She does.

  I leave her standing there while I help Neda hop toward the bunkhouse, where Nico is making arrangements to have her removed from our company. I totally owe him a beer.

  We can already hear her ride coming, but in the end, I have to part with a fifty-dollar bill—US currency—to buy Neda a one-way ticket out of the jungle.

  It’s money well spent.

  “You should still try to have fun without me,” Neda shouts as the helicopter descends into the clearing, blowing back our hair and our words. “I totally don’t blame you for dragging me into the jungle without telling me I’d need boots. So don’t let that ruin your hike, okay?”

  I laugh as I return her hug and shout into her ear, “I promise I won’t let your lack of coordination and common sense plague my vacation.” Now that she’s leaving, I’m sure I’m going to miss her, for the entertainment factor alone.

  “I’m not uncoordinated. The jungle was out to get me,” she insists with a grin.

  “Take it easy when you get back. In fact, have a spa day in Cartagena, on me. They have my card on file from the reservation we canceled.”

  “A spa day by myself?” Neda pouts, but she’s clearly pleased. The spa is all she wanted in the first place.

  Nico and one of the other guides help her into the helicopter, and we watch, our hair whipping around crazily, as it rises into the air. Neda waves from the open side of the helicopter, her heavily wrapped ankle propped up where we can all see it from the ground, in case we’re tempted to forget about her hardship.

  The moment she disappears over the treetops, our party begins.

  59 HOURS EARLIER

  MADDIE

  With Neda gone, my day brightens by about 300 percent, even as the sun drops beneath the jungle canopy to the west. And seriously? Removed from the party by her own couture sandals? Those strappy death traps may have cost her a fortune, but the irony is truly priceless.

  I take a seat at the campfire, as far from my cousin’s asshole boyfriend as I can get, and Luke sits between me and a middle-aged tour guide wearing a stained white T-shirt and dark cargo shorts.

  “I’m Nixon,” he says with a thick but clear accent as he shoos a small, scruffy-looking mutt away from his hot dog.

  “Maddie.”

  Luke sticks his hand out in front of me. “Luke Hazelwood.”

  “Are you going to Ciudad Perdida?”

  “No. We have to be back in Cartagena tomorrow night,” I tell him as the dog begs for a bite of meat.

  “Vamos, Caca,” Nixon says, and I can’t help laughing over the dog’s name. “Fetch my pipe.”

  The dog yips, then runs off toward the small city of tents.

  “Why did you name your dog after . . . poo?” I ask.

  “What else would you call a smelly brown lump on the ground at your feet?”

  Caca comes back with a hand-carved wooden pipe in her mouth. “Good girl.” The tour guide takes it, then tosses a hunk of meat at her.

  The other hikers are friendly and laid-back, but the soldiers watch us in small groups, wearing muddy boots and holding automatic rifles. They don’t seem to care about the alcohol and pot being passed around the campfire, but a cold, hollow feeling swells in my chest when I notice them whispering to each other on the edge of the light cast by the fire. I try to listen, but all I can make out is something about increased foot traffic on some jungle path.

  “What’s with all the soldiers?” Penelope asks when she notices me watching them. “Is this a police state?”

  “They’re for security, on the beaches, and they patrol known drug trafficking routes in the jungle,” Nico explains.

  “See?” Holden turns on me. His eyes are glazed and his words are slurred. “There is drug trafficking here.”

  “There’s drug trafficking everywhere,” I tell him. “But no one ever tries to paint that as the defining characteristic of the US or Canada as nations. The truth is that the RDP—La Revolución del Pueblo, the People’s Revolution—is in talks to end the guerrilla rebellion, and the Moreno cartel was nearly eradicated last year.” According to my dad, the CIA made some shady backdoor deal with another cartel to drive them out of business, and while I don’t support the approach, Colombia is better off now that its citizens—and its tourists—have little to fear from armed militants.

  Bored with my politics, Holden joins a drinking game with the bros. Luke takes a little of everything that is passed to him, and soon, I notice him staring into the fire, tracing bits of burning ash as they rise from the pit.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  He stares through the flames. “The fire makes your cousin look evil.”

  “Wings and a halo could make my cousin look evil,” I mumble. When the joint comes our way again, I try to pass it to the bro on Luke’s other side, but he intercepts my arm with a scowl.

  “Hey. You can’t just skip people.”

  I’ve seen Ryan wasted often enough to know that the fog Luke’s mired in can’t be penetrated with logic. Which will make him easy to bargain with. “Would you rather have a hit from this or from the bottle?”

  Luke gives the decision more thought than it deserves. “I want the weed!” He sucks deeply on the joint, determined to get the better end of a choice he was under no obligation to make.

  When he starts to tilt sideways, I guide him to his bright blue tent.

  “Thanks for inviting me,” Luke says as I help him into his sleeping bag. “This is the best vaca
tion I’ve ever had.”

  I start to tell him how sad that sounds, but then I notice how long and thick his guy-lashes are, now that his hair isn’t falling into his face.

  With Luke tucked in, I head toward my own tent to crash, free from both the bite of mosquitoes and the sting of Miami’s queen bee.

  As I duck beneath the flap, I notice the silhouette of a man holding a rifle, backlit by the campfire in the distance. The soldier stares at me in the dark until I zip up my tent.

  Even in my sleep, I can feel him watching me.

  53 HOURS EARLIER

  GENESIS

  When the campfire has died down and Holden and the bros have passed out, I zip up my tent and collapse onto my sleeping bag, still buzzing from several shots of aguardiente. My phone screen is lit up for the first time since we arrived at Tayrona—I have one-bar reception at this outpost. There must be a tower somewhere nearby, which makes sense, considering that this bunkhouse is a point of communication for soldiers and tour guides.

  I have twelve missed calls and three text messages. They’re all from my dad.

  Genesis, answer your phone!

  Call me as soon as you get this message. I want you on that jet ASAP!

  Go back to your grandmother’s house as soon as you get this, Genesis. THIS IS NOT A GAME.

  No, it’s not a game. It’s my birthright. Colombia is my history. It’s in my blood, just like it’s in my father’s, and he has no right to try to take that from me just because he wants nothing to do with his homeland anymore.

  My return message reads:

  We’ll come home tomorrow night, I promise. Everything’s fine. Te amo.

  Seconds after my head hits the folded blanket I’m using for a pillow, my phone buzzes again. My message has failed to go through; evidently the incoming signal is stronger than the outgoing. I set an alarm and resign myself to the early hour, so I can try to resend the text before we leave the bunkhouse and its isolated, if weak signal.

  If he doesn’t hear from me soon, my father will lose it.

  46 HOURS EARLIER

  MADDIE

  My tent is still dark when my brother shakes me awake. I grumble and roll over, but Ryan won’t be ignored. “Wake up, Maddie! We have to go!”

  “What?” I sit up, adrenaline driving my heart at a crazy speed, and my knee knocks over a half-empty bottle of water. “It’s the middle of the night. What’s wrong?”

  “The sun will be up in a few minutes. Come on! They’re going to leave without us.”

  “Who?”

  “There’s a cocaine manufacturing . . . facility—or whatever—about an hour from here. Some of the hikers are going to see a demonstration, and I thought we could—”

  “This is about sightseeing? Wait, isn’t that incredibly illegal?”

  “Nico says it’s just a gimmick for tourists.” Ryan grabs my backpack and digs around inside it, no doubt making sure I have plenty of food and water. “Everyone’ll probably be wrist deep in powdered sugar. It’ll be hilarious!”

  I snatch my bag from him. “It’ll be exploiting a stereotype.”

  “Come on.” Ryan grins at me and stuffs another bottle of water into my pack. “You owe me a picture of you with powdered sugar caked beneath your nose, after you stole my funnel cake at the fair and I got blamed for your diabetic shock.”

  “I was seven! And I didn’t steal it. You gave me half.” Because I’d begged, and he never could say no to his little sister. Ryan has looked out for me ever since that day, even when that meant giving up sweets to keep from tempting me. Even though I’ve had several drinks right in front of him since we got to Colombia.

  “Fine.” I throw back the corner of my sleeping bag and crawl out of it. His grin is contagious, and I’ve hardly seen him since we got off the plane. “One picture. But you can’t post it.”

  I pull my hair into a ponytail, then use a camping wipe to clean my face and armpits. When I emerge from my tent carrying my backpack, Ryan and two of the bros are waiting for me, along with the six other tourists who got up in time to see the gimmicky demonstration before breakfast. The campsite feels eerily quiet—almost dead—as we set off through the jungle on a narrow, well-worn trail, leaving everyone else asleep in their tents.

  Not gonna lie. I wish I were still sleeping too.

  Two protein bars into the excursion, I remember to check my insulin pump. I blame the lapse on the disorienting wakeup call.

  “How’s it look?” Ryan asks.

  “My blood sugar’s fine. But . . .” Guilt washes over me. I should have checked before I even left my tent. “Um . . . my insulin vial is gone. It must have fallen out of my bag.”

  Ryan groans. “What’s left in the pump?”

  “About an eighth of the reserve.”

  He exhales heavily. “What is that, a few hours’ worth?”

  “A little more, maybe. I’m sorry! I was going to change the infusion set this morning, but I got distracted by the field trip.”

  Everyone has stopped hiking to listen, and I hate being stared at.

  “You go ahead,” I tell Ryan. “I’ll find my insulin, and I’ll see you after the demonstration.” I start to head for the bunkhouse, but he grabs my arm.

  “Maddie, if you can’t find that vial, we have to go back to Cartagena now and call in a refill.”

  He’s right. I have maybe half a day’s supply left in the pump. But I really want to see the ruins, and I really don’t want to be the reason the rest of our group has to miss it.

  Ryan turns back to the tour guide. “You guys have fun. But not too much 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.”

  My hands shake as I grab my passport and my cell phone on the way out. Pen is standing in front of her tent a few feet away. She holds her hands up at head height, one clutching her own passport, the other her cell phone. Down the row of tents to my right, more hikers stand in the same position. They all look terrified.

  The man with the rifle turns to unzip the tent across from mine, and through the opening, I see Holden still asleep facedown on his sleeping bag. After a binge, Holden could sleep through the Apocalypse.

  “¡Levántate!” the soldier orders. When he gets no response, he kicks Holden’s foot.

  Holden mumbles an obscenity as he rolls onto his side, his eyes still tightly closed. “People are trying to sleep.”

  The soldier aims his rifle at my boyfriend’s head, and my airway tries to close. “Get up!” he shouts, and Penelope flinches.

  Holden’s eyes open. He blinks, his forehead furrowed in anger, and I can tell the instant reality comes into focus for him, because his eyes widen and his jaw snaps shut. He’s never been on the wrong end of a rifle.

  “Come out with your phone and your passport.”

  Holden stumbles out of his tent on bare feet, clutching his phone and a well-worn passport. His stunned gaze finds me, and his eyes narrow. “What the hell did you do?”