I make my own money—I don’t need any inheritance or treasure.
I may have had some help from Enzo, giving me enough money to go to college and feed myself, but after college I got a job. I worked hard. I’ve even offered many times to pay Enzo back. He just never accepts my money.
Good riddance, I huff, pulling myself over the log.
A mistake—I come crashing down into a pile of mud on the other side.
Can this day get any worse?
My shoulder throbs, reminding me of my bullet wound. Memories flash, reminding me of the rape, the abuse, the child I gave up.
Yes, this day can get a lot worse.
I sit up as I hear more gunfire.
Langston said to run.
No one can move very quickly through this thick brush, but I should start moving faster in case anyone starts following me—mainly Langston.
So I force myself to get up.
I force my legs to run.
And run, and run, and run.
I stop thinking about Langston.
I stop wondering and analyzing his words—trying to determine if he lied or not.
I stop worrying that a stray bullet or misplaced bomb is going to blow me into a million tiny pieces.
I focus on putting one step in front of the other.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Until the sun has set.
Until it’s pitch-black outside.
And even then I keep going.
I refuse to be killed.
I refuse to be anyone’s captive.
I refuse to let any man control me.
I take another step.
This step makes all the difference.
I may not be able to see very well, but I don’t hear the crunch of leaves. I don’t have to dodge low hanging limbs. I don’t feel the brush of branches scratching my mud and sweat covered skin.
My feet sink into sand.
Did I take a wrong step toward the beach instead of walking in a straight line to the airport?
Or did I make it?
I take another and another.
The concrete of the runway greets my feet.
I smile for the first time all day. I bite my bottom lip as the grin spreads.
My lip—Langston’s kiss.
No, stop thinking about him, brain.
Focus.
I made it to the runway. There are no airplanes stored here, but I’ve spotted a handful of planes landing on this island while I’ve spent my time here. There are planes that fly here that don’t belong to Langston Pearce.
There will be a plane if I wait here long enough for one to land.
Tomorrow, come find me, huntress.
Langston’s words ring in my ear.
I don’t have time to wait—to get lucky.
I make my own luck.
There is a small building near the runway. It looks more like an outhouse than an actual building, but I have to try something.
When I get to the entrance, I realize there isn’t even a door.
I exhale loudly.
I’m not counting on there being anyone inside, or any electronics to call for help.
I step inside anyway.
The room is dark. I search the wall with my hand, but I don’t find a light switch.
I should just leave, but it’s the middle of the night.
The explosions and gunfire stopped—not that that’s comforting. It means Langston is probably looking for me now. If I head into the jungle again, I have to deal with jaguars, venomous snakes, poisonous spiders.
I need sleep if I’m going to have any energy to face tomorrow. This tiny building is better than sleeping on the jungle floor.
There isn’t a door, but there are at least three walls to protect me.
I lie down on the floor and curl up in a ball as I hear rain starting overhead.
Please, let the roof be waterproof.
I cross my fingers, squinting my eyes up at the dark roof.
After five minutes pass and I’m not wet, I realize my luck might have changed. At least the roof is holding.
A soft smile spreads as I close my eyes and begin to drift off to sleep from exhaustion with the help of the lightly tapping rain. The rain will make it harder for Langston to find me. And he won’t think I made it all the way to the runway in one night.
Tonight, I’ll sleep soundly. Tomorrow…
A buzzing wakes me up.
I blink rapidly, trying to make sense of my surroundings. I’ve been sleeping in a closet, and this room isn’t much bigger than that, but it’s not Langston’s closet.
I moan, wishing a buzzing noise would stop and let me sleep. It’s still dark outside. I have no idea how long I’ve been asleep, but it can’t be more than a couple of hours at best.
More buzzing.
Wait—buzzing!
There is something electronic in this room. It’s probably just a battery-powered alarm clock, but I can hope.
I move onto all fours as I pat around the floor, searching for the source of the buzzing.
I feel a strap.
A bag!
It’s sitting on a small chair in the corner.
I pick up the bag and put it on my lap, as I furiously search inside.
My heart races. Could I really find a phone? A way to make contact with the outside world and escape?
I touch a piece of glass.
My heart thumps to a stop.
It’s too big to be a phone.
I pull out the device—an iPad.
My heart flutters, not knowing if I should be elated or crushed.
I click the home button to get the screen to light up—praying that the iPad has a cellular connection. I doubt there is wifi.
Please, please, please.
I stare at the screen after the split second it takes to light up. I silence the alarm buzzing the device.
My eyes dart to the upper right corner.
It has cellular reception.
Thank god.
I pull up the phone app and am about to call Waylon when my fingers suddenly stop.
I don’t know what island I’m on. I care about Waylon. He’s a smart man, but he’s never had to worry about money, never gotten scrappy or creative, never dealt with dangerous people. The most he’ll be able to do is call
