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 the 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.