I shove him back until I can see his eyes. “Believe it or not, your sledgehammer approach isn’t appropriate for every problem,” I snap softly. “I can’t stop whatever they’re planning until I understand what that is. Which won’t happen until Sebastián trusts me. I’m trying to make a connection.”

Holden snorts. “We both know you don’t need to talk to connect with a guy. Stick to what you’re good at.”

“You have no idea what I’m good at,” I say, my cheeks flaming. Even Holden only sees what I show him, and I’m done showing him how to hurt me.

“You crossed a line with Penelope,” I hiss, my hands curled into fists. “And you damn well know it. You should be on your knees right now, begging for forgiveness, but you’re trying to pimp me out to armed terrorists instead. What the hell kind of apology is that?”

Holden glances around to see if anyone is close enough to overhear our quiet implosion. “You’re totally overreacting,” he whispers. “And we have bigger problems right now than—”

“Stay away from me.” I let my voice carry, and everyone who wasn’t already watching turns to stare. Pen is on the edge of her seat, waiting to see how this will play out. “We’re done.”

Sebastián and most of the other gunmen chuckle. Silvana makes a snide comment about Holden’s inadequacies in Spanish, using his name so he knows he’s being ridiculed.

Holden’s jaw clenches so hard I can hear his teeth grind. I’ve never seen him this mad, but my anger matches his so fiercely that for the moment, I don’t care how reckless it is to make new enemies, when I’m already being held at gunpoint.

He sits on the log next to Penelope and pulls her close for a kiss. I laugh out loud. Poor Penelope is the only one who can’t see that his pathetic display is actually for my benefit.

Indiana watches me as he stores a nearly empty water bottle. His brow rises, asking a silent question.

Did that go as planned?

Are you okay?

Do you want to rethink this approach?

I’m not sure which of those he’s asking, but the answer to all three is no.

33.5 HOURS EARLIER

MADDIE

“We can’t hike all night,” Luke says as he refills our last plastic bottle with the cooled water we boiled in our soup cans.

Yet that’s exactly what I want to do. We’re close enough to my brother’s killers to pick up radio static, but they’ll slip farther and farther away while we “rest.” As if I’ll be able to sleep while the kidnappers are out there getting away with murder. And hunting for me, if they’ve realized Moisés won’t be bringing me back.

“Come on.” Luke slides my backpack from my shoulders. “They won’t be hiking all night either.”

I should insist that we press on. That this is our chance to gain some ground. But the harder I push my body, the less predictably it will use the insulin I have left.

So as the last rays of daylight sink behind the jungle canopy, I reluctantly pitch our one-person tent on the bank of the river. While Luke gathers more wood for the camp stove, he lists his favorite movies in which people get lost in the wild. “And then there’s Alive,” he says as he shoves two more sticks into the stove. “That one about the plane crash in the Andes where the survivors resorted to cannibalism.”

I frown at him as I look up from the last tent pole. “Do you think you could leave out all the movies that don’t have happy endings?”

Luke’s sudden silence does little to reassure me of our chances. Suddenly the jungle seems built of shadows, rather than trees.

“We’re going to be fine,” I insist as I crawl into the tent. “We’re in the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta. Not the Andes.”

He climbs in after me, then zips up the transparent roof/door section. “True. Although we’re not far from the northern tip of the Andes.”

Of course he would know that.

33 HOURS EARLIER

GENESIS

Ahead, several flashlight beams pierce the darkness, illuminating slices of the jungle path as if they were thrown from a disjointed disco ball. Branches and vines seem to loom over us, jumping each time the light shifts.

I’m starting to think they’re going to march us all night.

Holden and Penelope are near the head of the line, walking so close together that their shoulders keep brushing each other. Álvaro takes up a position on my right, and the way he watches me makes me feel like I’m still kneeling on that cliff. As if he still holds his machete to my throat, and he’s waiting for me to flinch.

Fortunately, he loses interest in me when Óscar clips a small portable radio to the shoulder strap of his bag and begins dialing through the FM band.

The other gunmen argue in Spanish about whether or not we’re close enough to their base camp to pick up a signal. When Óscar finds not one, but three different stations, the gunmen cheer, and I’m tempted to join them. If they can pick up a radio signal, they might also pick up a cell phone signal.

Not that either of those will help, unless I can get ahold of a radio or a cell phone.

Óscar turns up the volume and sound crackles over the airwaves. I trip over my own feet when I hear my name come from the radio.

“. . . Genesis Valencia is seventeen. Her cousins Ryan and Madalena Valencia are eighteen and sixteen. Penelope Goh, an Olympic silver medalist on the uneven bars and a local celebrity, is seventeen. Holden Wainwright, only son of . . .”

At first, I am so shocked that the familiarity of the voice doesn’t register.

“Neda . . .” Penelope turns to look at me, having evidently forgotten that the only reason she and I are still on the same continent is that we’re being held at gunpoint. “How did she get on the radio?”

“Shhh!” Suddenly my feet don’t hurt. My mosquito bites don’t itch. The rest of the world fades away as the gunmen cheer over the realization that their efforts have made it onto an English-language radio show—surely the first part of whatever message they’re trying to send.

I listen, desperate for information from outside the jungle. I’ve been without my cell phone for all of eleven hours, and I already feel like the world has moved on without me.