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.
Watch for your opportunity, my instructor’s voice says.
The barrel of a rifle slides inside my tent. I gasp and scramble backward, but can’t tear my gaze from the muzzle aimed at my chest.
The gun is military issue. Semiautomatic. The same general type carried by the soldiers at Tayrona. There’s no move in my self-defense repertoire that can be executed faster than a bullet leaves the barrel of a gun.
A face appears in the opening. Dark eyes glance around my one-person tent, taking in my air mattress and supplies. Below the face is a torso wearing jungle camo.
“¡Salga! Bring your passport and your cell phone.”
My hands shake as I grab my passport and my cell phone on the way out. Pen is standing in front of her tent a few feet away. She holds her hands up at head height, one clutching her own passport, the other her cell phone. Down the row of tents to my right, more hikers stand in the same position. They all look terrified.
The man with the rifle turns to unzip the tent across from mine, and through the opening, I see Holden still asleep facedown on his sleeping bag. After a binge, Holden could sleep through the Apocalypse.
“¡Levántate!” the soldier orders. When he gets no response, he kicks Holden’s foot.
Holden mumbles an obscenity as he rolls onto his side, his eyes still tightly closed. “People are trying to sleep.”
The soldier aims his rifle at my boyfriend’s head, and my airway tries to close. “Get up!” he shouts, and Penelope flinches.
Holden’s eyes open. He blinks, his forehead furrowed in anger, and I can tell the instant reality comes into focus for him, because his eyes widen and his jaw snaps shut. He’s never been on the wrong end of a rifle.
“Come out with your phone and your passport.”
Holden stumbles out of his tent on bare feet, clutching his phone and a well-worn passport. His stunned gaze finds me, and his eyes narrow. “What the hell did you do?”
I frown at him. What did I . . . ?
“Am I under arrest?” he demands. “I have the right to a lawyer!”
Holden thinks I’ve hired these soldiers to pay him back for sleeping with Penelope.
“Shut up!” I tilt my head toward the campers lined up on my right. His mouth snaps shut. Blood drains from his face when he realizes we’re all being held at gunpoint. But something else has caught my attention.
None of the soldiers’ camo matches. They aren’t carrying standard issue canteens or sleep rolls, and they’re armed with three different rifles.
Terror blazes a path up my spine.
These are not soldiers. We are not under arrest.
We’ve been taken hostage.