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I rappelled down one mountain only to die on another, he thought bitterly before—miraculously—he felt himself slowing.

The mud beneath his hands grew gritty and dry, and he pulled at tufts of grass. Santiago rolled a few more times, his hard backpack painful and awkward, before sliding on his stomach to slightly flatter ground.

And now I’ve eaten the mountain, he thought, spitting mud from between his teeth.

Gingerly, he pushed himself up, afraid he was a mere hairbreadth from plummeting to his death. Instead, he found himself eye level with the river, close enough to see the rippling movements of the water.

He would have probably heard its rushing gurgle, if not for the three helicopters looming above him.

From his vantage point, the aircrafts seemed to hover in a line not far away. With unerring precision, the first lowered, the ATV’s wheels wobbling before settling on the ground with a reverberating thud.

The chopper’s rear ramp opened, and Santiago watched as two figures in black tactical gear walked to the edge. He was too far to see their faces, and the gear obscured their features anyway. Without warning, thick ropes dropped from somewhere inside the aircraft, unfurling with startling speed until they slammed onto the flattened grass.

Then, without hesitation, the dark figures descended, a blur of friction and momentum as their boots met the forest floor.

In seconds, they mounted their ATVs, the ropes were coiled upward, and the second helicopter flew into place. The ritual was repeated, and two more angels of death joined their associates on the ground.

They were there. The Huáscaros, with all of Bernardo Torres’s money and might behind them, were right there.

The serenity of the Andes, the comfortable connection he’d felt to this land, was blown away in the whir of helicopter blades. There was nothing left in Santiago but fear.

He didn’t stick around to watch them lower their boat into the river. He needed to find Ali, and they needed to run.

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Santiago tore to his left, scanning the expanse of the mountainside. It loomed above him, the outlook they had just fallen from barely visible from inside the valley.

Did we really just slide down that? His ancestors must really be looking out for him.

“Ali,” he cried out as he searched, eyes scanning. He knew the helicopters’ whirring blades would drown out his voice from the huaqueros, but he also feared it would drown it out from Ali. He scrambled around trees and brush, desperately seeking the place the mud path might have taken her.

“Ali,” he yelled louder, knowing it was useless but unable to stop himself from trying.

Santiago dashed up the sloped edge of the ridge, trying to find the woman he loved.

Though his every sense had sharpened to a fine point, he saw nothing. He turned away from the valley, toward the relative cover of the forest. But the farther he moved from the ATVs, the farther he would be from the snake-head boulder.

The white noise of the helicopter blades faded slowly, replaced by the roaring engines of the quads. He looked behind him to watch the aircrafts moving away from the valley and the river…

And just in time to lock eyes with a black-clad mercenary on engine-back.

“Shit,” he spat. He turned and sprinted to the trees. At least he could get a few thick trunks between himself and his pursuers. Maybe the terrain would be too crowded for their vehicles to follow.

Gunshots tore through the air.

Oh yeah? And how are you going to outrun bullets? the voice inside his head screamed in panic as he ducked, futilely throwing his arms over his head.

The growling of the engines sped toward him at breakneck speed. Dimly, he thought that he should be bobbing, or weaving, or running in zigzags or something, but couldn’t be sure if that advice was for outrunning gunmen or alligators.

Perhaps neither.

Explosions of dirt and grass burst like fireworks at his feet, bullets barely missing his fragile human body. If they hadn’t been shooting at a moving target, from a moving vehicle, Santiago was sure he’d be dead right now.

He neared the edge of the dense wilderness, desperate for somewhere to hide. Splinters of wood showered his hair and face as shots rang out in the near distance. Santiago stumbled into the brush, nearly tripping over his feet.

He burst into the trees, ducking behind trunks and vaulting over roots. Thin, reedy branches scraped across his face. He tasted salt, then iron, and realized he was bleeding.

To Santiago’s horror, the forest around the river was not as dense as he’d hoped. The ATVs followed him into the thicket. He managed to stay ahead of them by favoring uneven terrain they had to pay attention to in order to maneuver.