100 Hours

  I frown at him. What did I . . . ?

  “Am I under arrest?” he demands. “I have the right to a lawyer!”

  Holden thinks I’ve hired these soldiers to pay him back for sleeping with Penelope.

  “Shut up!” I tilt my head toward the campers lined up on my right. His mouth snaps shut. Blood drains from his face when he realizes we’re all being held at gunpoint. But something else has caught my attention.

  None of the soldiers’ camo matches. They aren’t carrying standard issue canteens or sleep rolls, and they’re armed with three different rifles.

  Terror blazes a path up my spine.

  These are not soldiers. We are not under arrest.

  We’ve been taken hostage.

  MADDIE

  Penelope’s scream echoes through the jungle, raising chill bumps on my arms.

  Ryan’s eyes narrow and his jaw clenches. “Wait here.” He starts to take off toward the camp, then spins to face me again. “I changed my mind. Stick close and be quiet.”

  “She probably just saw a spider,” I whisper as we tiptoe over roots and fallen branches. But neither of us believes me.

  “¡No se mueva!” another voice shouts from the direction of the bunkhouse, and I realize I’m breathing too fast.

  “Ryan,” I whisper, but the word hardly carries any sound. He reaches back for my hand, and I slide my palm into his grip. We stand frozen, listening to the rush of our own pulses in a jungle that has gone strangely quiet.

  “¡No se mueva!” the voice repeats, and I jump when a burst of gunfire punctuates the order.

  Ryan squeezes my hand. I suck in a breath and hold it as a wave of panic washes over me.

  “¡Pónganse en fila!” that voice shouts again, ordering people to form a line.

  “Ryan!” I whisper, my voice shaky with fear. “What’s happening?”

  “Stay here,” he says, but I can barely hear him. “Hunch down behind that bush and don’t come out unless I call for you. Okay? And watch out for snakes.”

  “What are you doing?” I demand as quietly as I can.

  “Recon.” His eyes hold a reckless determination. “I need to see what’s happening.”

  “No!” I clutch his hand, but he pulls it from my grip and points to the clump of brush again. “Don’t leave!” Then he quietly pushes toward camp.

  My focus flicks from tree to tree, shadow to shadow as fear fuels my racing heartbeat. Careful not to step on anything loud, I drop into a squat behind the brush, then nearly scream when a lizard scurries over my hand.

  Alone, I can only listen and wait, terrified.

  “¡Vete de la carpa!” another voice barks, ordering someone to come out of a tent. Another burst of gunfire makes me flinch. More people scream.

  Was my brother one of them? Was my cousin?

  I stand, terrified of going closer to the gunfire, but even more terrified of not knowing. A twig snaps behind me. I gasp and whirl around.

  A man in green fatigues aims a rifle at my face.

  GENESIS

  Are they going to kill us? Penelope mouths to me from a few feet away, where she’s still standing in front of her tent.

  I shake my head. If these men wanted us dead, they could have shot us in our sleep.

  My thoughts race as I evaluate our situation, running through the threat assessment steps from the survival class my father made me take two years ago.

  Assets: my fellow campers.

  Liabilities: my fellow campers.

  As far as I know, none of my friends have had a single self-defense course, and Holden’s the only other one who’s ever fired a gun—a hunting rifle.

  Thanks to my paranoid father, I know how to handle myself one-on-one—or even one-on-three—but there are nearly a dozen armed gunmen.

  Nico and the other guides can get us back to civilization, if we can escape, but Maddie—

  Maddie and Ryan aren’t standing in front of their tents. Neither are Luke and at least two of the bros. Maddie probably chased a rabbit into the jungle to make sure it wasn’t being exploited as a native resident, but the guys could be anywhere.

  “¡Pónganse en fila!” one of the armed men shouts, waving his rifle at an open area between the outdoor showers and the tent village. Scared campers begin to form a rough line, and Holden, Pen, and I file in with them.

  Holden reaches for my hand as we walk, but one of the men in camo uses the barrel of a rifle to shove him away from me. He stumbles and curses, then scowls as he slides his hand into his pocket.

  In the clearing, Indiana and Domenica line up next to us, in front of the bunkhouse. She looks scared, but Indiana watches quietly, drawing no attention to himself.

  “Be chill,” Rog whispers to the bros. I’m surprised by how focused he sounds now that he isn’t high.

  “Should I call my dad?” Holden asks me, when the nearest gunman’s gaze travels away from us down the line of hostages.

  “Do not reach for your phone,” I whisper. “Those are not soldiers.”

  “They’re carrying military issue M16s, M4s, and AK-47s.” Rog lets out a long, soft breath. “That is not chill.”

  I watch the campers still falling into line, searching for Maddie and Ryan, yet I hope I don’t find them. If they’ve avoided being captured, they’ll be able to report the kidnapping.

  Nico is among the last out of the tent city. “Everything will be fine,” he whispers as he steps into place next to me.

  Holden’s eyes narrow. “Either your English isn’t very good or something got lost in translation,” he whispers. “Because this is pretty damn far from fine.” A toxic blend of fear and rage burns in his eyes.

  We’re being taken captive by armed gunmen, yet it’s Holden who makes me nervous.

  “I thought you said this shit doesn’t happen anymore,” he hisses at me. “You said this place was safe.”

  “It is,” Nico insists before I can answer. “They’re probably RDP. Their problem is with the Colombian government, not with us,” he insists as his gaze travels over our captors.

  “Oh, well, then I guess it’s okay that we were dragged out of bed at gunpoint by a bunch of psychos. Whose side are you on?”

  Nico scowls at Holden. “I’m just saying that it could be worse.”

  His last word is swallowed by a burst of gunfire. Several of the women in line scream. Holden takes my hand, and I let him hold it because while I get focus and calm from meditation, he gets them from anger. His grip is rock-steady.

  “Everyone shut up and listen.”

  The female voice surprises me, and at first I think one of the other hostages has spoken. But then I see a female kidnapper, her rifle still aimed at the air. Instead of fatigues, she wears a green tank top with her camo pants and black boots and her makeup is as dramatic as her fierce brown eyes. When her gaze settles on me, I see nothing soft or yielding in her expression.

  Like her voice, this woman is all hard planes and sharp edges.

  “Three of my men are going to walk down the line,” she says. “You will give the first man your cell phone, the second your passport, and the third any electronics, watches, or valuable jewelry.”

  Her accent is thick, but her English is flawless. She doesn’t ask if we understand, even though the hostages represent at least six countries, and I’m not sure they all speak English. A woman like this cannot be negotiated with. She will not bend to either sympathy or logic.

  She will not let us go until she has whatever she wants.

  “If you try to escape or call for help, you will be shot,” she says as her men make their way down the line, confiscating our property. “If you refuse an order, you will be shot.”

  Holden hesitates, clutching his phone, and I grab his hand again because I see rebellion in his eyes. In his entire life, the worst-case scenario has never once applied to him. He’s been the exception to every rule.

  He doesn’t truly believe the kidnappers will shoot him, even if they’re willing to kill t
he rest of us.

  “Do you know who I am?” he demands, holding his phone over the open bag, and I flinch. If our captors didn’t already hate him personally, they will now.

  “Just give them the phone,” I whisper, but it’s too late.

  “¿Qué pasa?” The woman in charge stomps toward us, and the casual way she aims her rifle at Holden’s gut makes my stomach churn. “Passport.” She holds out her free hand, and Holden slaps his passport onto her palm. Her eyes narrow and she opens it one-handed. “Holden Wainwright.” She looks up at him again, one brow raised. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  Holden scowls. “Wainwright. As in Wainwright Pharmaceuticals.”

  My friends and I have always found it amusingly ironic that his parents’ wealth comes from one of the largest prescription drug manufacturers in the world, considering his fondness for recreational chemicals.

  “You’re worth something?” The woman looks him up and down, as if she finds that hard to believe.

  “Only a couple billion,” Holden snaps, evidently as angry about the lack of recognition as he is about being taken hostage.

  “Go stand over there, Wainwright Pharmaceuticals.” The woman points to an unlit torch post near the front of the bunkhouse.

  The strange satisfaction in Holden’s eyes makes no sense—until I realize he thinks he’s been invited to the VIP lounge of this hostage situation.

  “Óscar!” the woman shouts at one of her gunmen.

  “Sí, Silvana.” A gunman about my age jogs toward her with his rifle aimed at the ground.

  Silvana pulls a pistol from the back of her pants and hands it to the gunman. “If Wainwright Pharmaceuticals moves, shoot him in the leg.”

  Holden’s step falters. His shoulders stiffen. Now he understands.

  But when Óscar takes aim at his left thigh, Holden doesn’t even flinch. He’s eyeing the pistol. He thinks he will have revenge.

  I am terrified that his revenge will get us killed.

  Silvana turns to me. “Genesis Valencia. Of Genesis Shipping.” She’s not asking. She doesn’t need to look at my passport. She knows who I am, and she knows what I’m worth.

  I’ve been the target all along.

  MADDIE

  “¿Hablas español?” the man with the gun says as his dark eyes burn into me.

  All I can see is the rifle pointed at my face. “Sí.” My voice sounds strangely hollow. My heart is beating too hard.

  This can’t be happening.

  “Marcha.”

  Numb with fear, I slowly turn around, praying that I’m not about to be shot in the back. When I hesitate, he shoves me with the barrel of the gun, and I gasp. I’ve never touched a weapon in my life. I’ve never been threatened with anything worse than the confiscation of my phone.

  I walk forward, and I hear nothing but the roar of my pulse, even as my boots crunch through twigs and leaves.

  My breath freezes in my throat, and my legs stop working. Is this what happened to my father?

  “¡Ándale!” the gunman shouts, and I flinch. “Back to the bunkhouse.”

  “Okay.” Slowly, I lift my arms to show him I’m not resisting. “Who are you?”

  He shoves me in the back with the rifle again, and I stumble forward. My heart races and my vision begins to swim. The jungle starts to spin around me.

  Calm down, Maddie. You’re still alive for a reason. Think it through.

  I take a deep breath and take another step. Then another. Finally my legs are working on their own, and so are my thoughts. “Is this about cocaine?” Have we gotten caught up in some kind of drug trafficking . . . incident?

  “¡Cállate!” The gunman shoves me again, and my jaw snaps shut. “No talking.”

  It’s going to be fine, Maddie. But I’ve never been a very good liar. Not even to myself.

  44 HOURS EARLIER

  GENESIS

  “Who else is with Genesis Shipping and Wainwright Pharmaceuticals?” Silvana demands.

  To my surprise, Indiana steps forward.

  After a second, Domenica joins him. I hear her whisper as she passes Silvana, “No soy americana. Por favor, no me mates.”

  “I don’t care if you’re not American.” Silvana motions her toward us with the butt of her pistol.

  Penelope finally takes one shaky step forward, staring at the ground.

  “I’m their tour guide,” Nico says as he joins us.

  Silvana shoves him back into line. “You four, over there.” She waves us toward the post where Holden stands. Then she studies the remaining hostages one at a time. After a couple of minutes, she shoves Rog toward us, then orders everyone else to lie facedown on the ground with their hands behind their backs.

  Armed gunmen don’t tell people to lie facedown on the ground because they’re about to hand out candy and send everyone home. Chill bumps rise on my arms and legs. The tour guide’s stray dog lies by his side and tucks her nose beneath her paws.

  Penelope watches with wide, teary eyes, and Indiana looks sick when one of the gunmen comes forward with a bundle of zip ties. He begins binding the prone hostages’ hands at their backs.

  Two of the women are crying, their wet cheeks pressed into the dirt, and I want to look away. My own terror is more than enough to deal with. But I know what’s going to happen to them, and I won’t turn away from their pain.

  Not this time.

  “Don’t look, Genesis.” She’s choking on tears, facedown on the floor, but I can still understand her. “Close your eyes, baby.”

  “Listen to your mother.” The man’s face is in shadows, but light glints off his knife.

  “Just keep your eyes closed, baby, no matter what you hear.” She’s sobbing, and I don’t know what to do. “It’ll all be over in a minute.”

  So I close my eyes.

  I refuse to look away.

  But when the gunman has bound them all, he only stands behind them, rifle at the ready. He’s going to drag it out. He’s going to torture them with the inevitability of their own deaths.

  Bastard.

  “Silvana! ¡Vamos!”

  I follow the voice to find another man in fatigues coming out of the bunkhouse carrying an automatic rifle.

  “Oh, shit. Sebastián.” Nico’s friend, who danced with Maddie in Cartagena. He didn’t just follow us to the beach. He led us to Tayrona, through Nico. Then he led us into the jungle.

  I clench my hands together to keep them from shaking.

  We’ve been targets since the moment we stepped off the plane.

  MADDIE

  The shouts from camp get louder as the man with the gun marches me closer.

  “¡Silencio!”

  “¡Formen una línea!”

  “¡Pongan sus teléfonos en la bolsa!”

  The hikers are being kidnapped. I’m being kidnapped.

  Twigs snap beneath my feet. A branch slaps my arm. I have to do something, but I don’t know what to do, other than to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

  I step into the clearing with the rifle pressed into my spine. Terror shoots through me. There are at least eight gunmen, and two of them are soldiers stationed at the bunkhouse. The men who watched me get into my tent last night. Who are supposed to protect tourists from things like this.

  Most of the hikers lie facedown on the ground, bound with plastic zip ties. I recognize two of the bros and Nico, but Ryan, Genesis, and Luke aren’t with them.

  Near panic, I search the rest of the clearing. Genesis and her friends are in front of the bunkhouse, with two gunmen. My brother isn’t with them.

  Genesis looks relieved to see me, but then she mouths Ryan’s name, her brows arched in question.

  I can only shrug, but a small buoy of hope bobs to the surface of my fear. They haven’t caught Ryan. He can go for help.

  “Silvana,” the gunman at my back calls.

  A woman in camo pants with a headful of poufy curls turns. Her brows rise. “What have you brought me,
Moisés?”

  “I found her in the jungle.”

  Silvana comes closer, an automatic rifle slung over her back. Her gaze takes in my cheap boots and faded tee, then settles on the lump at my waistband. She reaches for the hem of my shirt and I flinch away from her. Moisés holds me in place while she lifts my shirt and eyes my insulin pump.

  I can see her weighing some decision, as if my worth can be established by a column of pluses and minuses. Genesis and her friends are going to be moved, but the people on the ground have guns aimed at their backs.

  My head spins so fast the campsite blurs around me. “I’m stronger than I look. I can hike.”

  I don’t want to die.

  She points toward the bound hostages. “Lie on your stomach and put your hands behind your back.” My strength and determination have not moved her. My life means nothing to her. She looks at Moisés. “If she tries to get up, shoot her.”

  “No! Please!” I shout as he drags me across the ground. My tears blur the clearing. “Please!”

  “Wait!” Genesis shouts. “She’s my—” But another gunman aims a pistol at her head, and her mouth snaps shut.

  The captives on the ground strain to look up at me. Several of the women are crying.

  Moisés throws his rifle over his shoulder and hauls me past the picnic tables. I stumble, struggling for each panicked breath. My feet drag the ground.

  I grab a branch as Moisés pulls me by a thick clump of brush, and it skins my palm as it slides through my grip.

  The brush rustles. A blur in dark pants and a familiar blue T-shirt lunges into the clearing.

  My brother slams into Moisés’s shoulder. The gunman falls, pulling me down with him. The impact drives the air from my lungs.

  Ryan reaches for me. Fear lines his forehead. Over his shoulder, I see another gunman take aim.

  “No!” I shout.

  The rifle thunders. Ryan stumbles forward.

  Blood blooms on the front of his shirt like a rose opening in time lapse. He collapses onto his side, just out of my reach.