Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Sloane
Gunfire.
Definitely gunfire.
I scramble to my feet in the pit, heart pounding, ears straining. More shots crack through the night, closer now. Shouting in Spanish — panicked, not controlled. The guards are scrambling above, their footsteps pound across the wooden slats that have been my ceiling for twelve days.
What the hell is happening up there?
Rival cartel? Military raid? Police? Some kind of drug deal gone wrong?
More gunfire. An explosion — something just blew up. The wooden slats above me rattle with the force.
I press myself against the dirt wall of my pit, mind racing.
This could be very bad. If it’s a rival cartel, I’d be trading one set of captors for worse ones.
The Reyes cartel wanted me dead eventually, but at least they’d been taking their time and hadn’t raped me yet. A rival group might not be so patient.
The night guard abandoned his post. The man who actually checks on me, who’s more alert than the others, he’s gone.
I’ve been planning this escape for days. The rotted board and the footholds I carved into the wall. Tonight was always going to be the night. I just didn’t expect backup chaos.
My hands shake as I move to the corner of the pit where I’ve been working. The rotted board is directly above me. The footholds I spent two days carving into the wall are to my left. I’ve been obsessing over this escape route for forty-eight hours, running through it in my mind again and again.
Okay, Sloane. This is it. No more planning. Time to actually do this.
I move to the shallow footholds I carved into the dirt wall.
They’re not terrific but better than nothing.
I tested them yesterday and they held my weight.
Of course, yesterday I wasn’t shaking with terror.
And yesterday I was only testing whether I could climb only a short way up, not all the way and pry boards loose at the same time.
I jam my torn-up foot into the first groove and push myself up. Pain shoots through my sole immediately. The fabric wrappings I made from my blouse are coming loose, offering almost no protection. The rough dirt scrapes against my open cuts and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out.
My fingers dig into the grooves above for purchase. Dear God, this is hard. Midway up, I run out of steam, the upper body strength it takes to drag my whole body up this slick, dirt wall is almost too much for me.
But then I hear more gunfire and move faster than I ever thought possible.
I’m at the top now, face level with the wooden slats, but this is where it gets impossible.
I need both hands to pry at the rotted board, but I also need both hands to hold myself in place.
The footholds are shallow and my legs and arms are already shaking from the effort of holding and bracing against the top of the wall.
I wedge my left forearm against the frame of the pit opening, pressing hard to anchor myself. It’s not stable — nothing about this is stable — but it frees up my right hand to work. I grab my flat little rock and jam it into the gap between the rotted board and the frame.
The board creaks but doesn’t give.
My legs burn and my forearm is scraped raw against the wooden frame. I’m essentially doing a wall sit from hell while trying to perform delicate demolition work with one hand.
Pry again. Wiggle.
My foot slips slightly in the groove and my stomach drops as I scramble to re-establish my position. I press harder with my forearm, feeling splinters dig into my skin.
Come on. Come on, you bastard.
I jam the rock in deeper and throw my whole shoulder into it. More gunfire erupts above, and I use the noise as cover. One nail pops free with a screech of metal. The board shifts and I almost lose my grip from the sudden movement.
Then another nail gives way.
The board shifts, creating a gap maybe six inches wide. Not enough. I need more.
I abandon the rock and wedge my fingers into the gap instead, pulling with everything I have.
The wood splinters, digging into my palms, slicing under my fingernails.
I don’t care. I pull harder, a sob of effort escaping my throat.
Twelve days of barely eating has made me weaker than I should be, and I can feel it now. My muscles are screaming at me to stop.
I don’t stop.
Suddenly the board swings aside, hanging by a single corner. The gap is maybe eighteen inches wide now. It’s going to be tight, but I think I can squeeze through.
My legs finally give out and I slide back down the wall, collapsing at the bottom of the pit. I allow myself three seconds to gasp for breath, shaking out my trembling arms. Then I start climbing again.
My arms shake as I reach up for the edge of the pit.
I’m almost there. Night sky filters through the gap in the boards.
This time I press harder, making sure I have solid purchase before I push up.
My shoulders clear the edge of the pit. Then my chest. I grab the frame of the opening and manage to haul myself up, my stomach scraping against rough wood.
For one terrifying moment, I’m stuck.
My wide hips are wedged in the gap and I can’t move forward or backward. Panic floods through me. I’m going to die here, half in and half out of my own prison, like some kind of horrible metaphor for my entire life.
I wiggle and push with my arms. The board scrapes against my spine hard enough to draw blood, but then suddenly I’m through, collapsing onto the ground above.
For a few seconds I just lie there, gasping, staring at the dirt in front of my face.
Screams, gunfire and acrid smoke bring me back to reality and I push myself up onto my hands and knees.
The compound is chaos.
Muzzle flashes in the darkness. One of the buildings fully engulfed in flames now, orange light flickering across the scene.
Guards are running, shouting, shooting at something.
Someone. Shapes move through the compound that seem.
.. large? Larger than the guards? But I can’t be sure — there’s too much smoke and confusion.
My brain catalogs everything automatically. The small compound I caught a glimpse of when they dragged me to the pit. Maybe six structures. Rough construction, probably built quickly for temporary use. The vehicles I heard coming and going are parked near what looks like a main building.
I can’t see who’s attacking. The rational part of my brain says it could be anyone — rival cartel, police, military, private contractors. The hopeful part whispers that maybe, just maybe, someone came looking for me.
I squash that hope immediately. No one is coming for me. I told myself that twelve days ago when I stopped screaming for help. The only person who’s going to save Sloane Adams is Sloane Adams.
This chaos is just... lucky timing and I’m not going to waste it.
I’m already on the edge of the compound, near the tree line. The jungle is right there, maybe twenty feet away. Dark, dense and absolutely terrifying, full of things that could kill me just as dead as the cartel.
I sprint across the rough ground. Every step is agony, sharp rocks and roots stab into my unprotected soles.
The fabric wrappings fall away entirely and I leave them behind.
I push deeper into the jungle, branches whipping against my face.
The canopy blocks most of the moonlight, turning everything into dark shadows.
I’m navigating by feel and instinct, one hand out in front of me to ward off branches, the other clutching my little rock like a lifeline.
The humid air is suffocating, like trying to breathe through a wet blanket.
Sweat pours down my face and back. Insects buzz around my head, probably attracted to the blood.
Something slithers away from my feet. My body screams at me to stop.
Twelve days of malnutrition and dehydration have taken their toll, and I can feel myself running on empty.
But I keep pushing because stopping means they catch up. At some point the fighting will end and they’ll realize I’ve escaped. I have to do my best to widen the head start I’ve been given. Maybe I can hide somewhere?
Eventually, though, my body makes the decision for me.
My legs simply give out and I collapse against a massive tree trunk, sliding down until I’m sitting on the jungle floor.
I lean my head back against the rough bark.
Jungle sounds filter back in now that I’m not crashing through the undergrowth — insects chirping, something hooting in the distance.
It’s almost peaceful.
No, Sloane. Don’t get comfortable. You need to keep moving.
I need to figure out which direction leads to civilization and find some kind of shelter before dawn, because wandering through the jungle in daylight will make me an easy target.
I need a lot of things I don’t have.
What I have is a jagged rock, the clothes on my back (torn and filthy), and my wits (questionable after twelve days of captivity).
It’s going to have to be enough.
Okay. Time to—
I freeze.
Footsteps.
My eyes snap open. I hold perfectly still, ears straining.
There it is again. Not random jungle sounds but deliberate movement. Something big pushing through the undergrowth. Coming toward me fast.
Oh fuck.
Someone followed me. One of the guards escaped the firefight and noticed the empty pit. Or maybe they had a tracker on me somehow or they just got lucky, following the blood trail I must be leaving with my destroyed feet.
The footsteps get closer. Whoever it is, they’re moving faster than a human should be able to move through this terrain in the dark.
That thought sends ice down my spine. What the hell moves that fast in the jungle at night?
I press myself flat against the tree, making myself as small as possible. My heart hammers so loud I’m sure they can hear it. The jagged rock is clutched in my fist, the only weapon I have.
The footsteps stop.
I hold my breath. Silence. The jungle has gone quiet around us, like even the insects know something is about to happen. Whoever followed me is right there, in the darkness, probably scanning for movement.
Please don’t see me. Please let them give up and go back to the compound. Please—
A twig snaps. Closer now.
Shit. I grip my rock tighter. I picture myself leaping up, swinging for the temple, using every ounce of strength I have left—
“Sloane.” The voice cuts through the darkness. Low and urgent but not Spanish. English.
Wait, I know that voice. My brain stutters, trying to process.
I’ve heard that voice through laptop speakers at two in the morning.
I’ve heard it laugh at my bad jokes and get serious when I pushed too hard on a question.
I’ve heard it say “be careful” with an undertone of something neither of us ever acknowledged.
But that’s impossible. He’s in California, seven thousand miles away.
“Sloane.” The voice again. Raw. Furious. Desperate. “I’ve got you.”
My heart stops then restarts at double speed. No. No, it’s not possible. I’m hallucinating. Dehydration does that. Stress does that. I’m imagining things because I want so badly for someone to be here.
A shape moves in the darkness. Massive. At least seven feet tall.
Moonlight catches something and I see—
Green skin. The outline of horns rising from his forehead.
A rifle in his hands, but pointed down, not threatening.
Dark eyes that find me in the darkness, because orcs can see in the dark.
I know that because I wrote about that in my articles.
And he’s looking right at me, even though I’m pressed against this tree trying to be invisible with an expression of pure, overwhelming relief.
My brain refuses to process what I’m seeing.
A face I’ve only ever seen through a laptop screen, pixelated by bad wifi at two in the morning.
A face I’ve never seen in person, never touched, never been in the same room with.
That face is here in a Colombian jungle, covered in sweat and jungle grime, standing in front of me like something out of a fever dream.
“Sloane,” he says again, and his voice cracks on my name.
The rock falls from my fingers.
“Jonus?”