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.
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.
