Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Marie
The men moved fast and had me in the back of a transport car within fifteen minutes. Two guards sat up front—Dave and a younger driver.
The useless doctor sat as far away from me as possible, his mask pulled tight over his face, his eyes watching my arm as if it might rupture into something worse.
The doors closed with that heavy, final sound I'd heard a thousand times before. Metal on metal, locks engaging. The sound of freedom being taken away, except this time I wasn't planning on letting it stick.
The engine rumbled to life beneath me, and I felt the change immediately.
The subtle shift from level ground to incline, the way my stomach lifted as we climbed up out of the underground where they'd kept me buried for five years.
Up toward natural light and open air and the world I'd been stolen from.
I pressed my good hand against the canvas bag hidden under my shirt and felt the weight of the evidence. It was everything I'd need to burn The Sanctuary to the ground if I could just get it to the right people. It was everything I'd need to save the girls I'd left behind.
The car turned left, then right, then left again. I counted each one, tried to build a mental map of where we were going, though my internal compass was spinning.
Being underground for so long had destroyed my sense of direction, made the world above feel foreign and disorienting. But I knew we were heading away from the deepest part of the jungle, away from The Orion. That was something.
The doctor kept glancing at my arm—it looked worse than it felt, which was saying something because it felt like my arm was being consumed by fire.
"How long until we reach the clinic?" Dave's voice came from the front, tight with something that might have been worry if he was even capable of it.
"Twenty minutes," the driver said. "East side, near the port district."
Port district. The words sent electricity through my veins. That meant coast, that meant ocean. That meant I'd be close to everything I'd been separated from, close to home.
Twenty minutes. I had twenty minutes to figure out how to get out of this car before they locked me in another room, another facility, another place where Castellanos’ money bought silence and cooperation.
The smell hit after maybe ten minutes. It was almost salty, clean, and so achingly familiar it made tears spring to my eyes. We were getting closer to the coast, close enough that I could taste it in the air filtering through the vents.
My body recognized it before my mind did, every cell in me oriented toward it like a compass finding north.
This was my chance. My only chance. Once we reached the clinic, once they had me inside, I'd never get out. Castellanos would make sure of that.
I started coughing.
They weren’t subtle little coughs, but deep, wracking things that shook my whole body and made my stomach ache. I doubled over and let the coughs turn to gasps, every sound wet and gross.
I made it seem like whatever was happening to my arm had spread to my lungs, to my blood, to everything they might catch if they breathed the same air.
"She's getting worse." Dave's voice carried panic now, real fear threading through the words. “Is she contagious?"
"I don't know." The doctor pressed himself harder against the far wall, his hands squeezing his knees. "It could be bacterial, it could be airborne—I've never seen anything like this. The progression is too fast."
"Roll down the windows." The driver was already hitting the button, and warm, fresh Caribbean air flooded into the van. It was humid, carrying the scent of the ocean so strongly that it made me ache.
The window lowered halfway, glass reflecting streetlights and the dark shapes of buildings. Just enough space for air to circulate, for them to feel safe from whatever plague they thought I carried.
Just enough space for me.
I coughed harder, leaning toward the window like I desperately needed air. I let them see me as weak, as me dying, like I was too sick to be dangerous. My fingers wrapped around the canvas bag pressed against my chest, feeling the weight of everything I was fighting for.
The van slowed for a sharp turn, the driver easing into it carefully. My heart was slamming so hard against my ribs I could hear it in my ears, could feel it in my throat. This was it—now or never. Freedom or death, and either one sounded better than going back.
I was going to save the girls. They'd trusted me to protect them, to make things bearable, to somehow keep them alive in a place designed to destroy them, and now I was about to either save them all or abandon them forever.
Then I thought about my dad and Honey, about the ocean that had been mine before Castellanos stole me, and I found the strength.
I launched myself at the window, got my good arm through first, then my head and shoulders. The window frame caught on my ribs, scraping skin and tearing my shirt.
Behind me, someone shouted. Dave, maybe, or the doctor, but I was already pulling myself through, my burned arm screaming as it scraped against the glass.
"Grab her!" Dave's voice was sharp and shocked. "She's—fuck, stop the van!"
But I was already halfway out, my hips clearing the window frame. The ground was rushing past below me, asphalt and the terrifying reality of what I was about to do. The van was still moving, fast enough to hurt but not enough to kill.
Probably.
I pushed off hard with my legs, and felt myself falling, the world spinning into a blur of streetlights and sky and the smell of freedom so strong it was all I could taste.
Then I hit the ground.
The impact punched the air from my lungs and sent shock waves through every bone in my body.
I rolled and instinct took over—I tucked and let momentum carry me across rough asphalt that tore at my skin like sandpaper.
The bag dug into my ribs, protected by my body even as everything else scraped and burned.
I came to a stop against a curb, breath gone, vision white at the edges. Behind me, brakes shrieked, doors slammed, and footsteps pounded against pavement.
Move. I had to move. I had to get up and run.
I scrambled to my feet, bare soles slipping on blood. One of my sandals had torn off in the window, the other disappeared completely. My shirt hung in tatters, soaked with blood. Every part of me was screaming, but the adrenaline was louder.
"Stop!" Dave's voice was behind me, close. Too close. "Marie, you can't—"
I ran.
The street was lined with buildings—warehouses mostly, their windows dark and empty. But ahead, maybe fifty yards, I could see light. Warm, golden light spilling from windows, the glow of what looked like a restaurant. It was civilization. People. Help.
My feet slapped against the pavement, leaving bloody prints with every step. I could hear them behind me—Dave and the younger guard, their boots heavy. I was barefoot, but desperation made me faster than they expected.
The building grew closer, its light brighter.
I could see figures moving behind the windows now, could hear music drifting out through open doors.
My lungs burned, my legs threatened to give out, but I kept running.
Kept moving toward that light like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.
I burst around the corner of the building, toward the entrance where the light was strongest. The door was open, golden warmth spilling out onto the sidewalk.
I could see people inside, well-dressed people sitting at tables, drinking from glasses, living normal lives where freedom was assumed instead of fought for.
Almost there. Almost—
I slammed into something solid.
A person. Strong hands caught my shoulders, steadying me before I could fall. The impact knocked what little air I had left in my lungs and sent fresh waves of pain through my burned arm and shredded feet. The world tilted sideways, streetlights and buildings spinning into a blur.
I didn't even register who they were. Couldn't process faces or features or anything beyond the desperate need to get the words out before Dave caught up. Before they dragged me back, before I lost my only chance.
"Help me." The words scraped out of my throat, raw and torn. I grabbed their shirt, pleading with all I had. “Please, help me."
My vision was blurring, going dark at the edges. Adrenaline, pain, and five years of survival instinct all crashed into each other, making it impossible to focus.
I couldn't see the person holding me up through the tears and terror, but their hands were steady on my shoulders, strong and real.