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I stand up, shouting, “I’m coming!”
All the soldiers’ heads turn toward our hiding place, and Montgomery points his gun at my chest.
“Good boy,” Smith says, not lowering the gun pointed at Archie. Neither does Carter. “Now come down very slowly, hands above your head, and don’t try anything funny. You, too, Miss Knowles. We all know you’re the real shooter of the group.”
Before I can tell Winter to stay hidden, she stands up, shrugging at me in a what-was-I-supposed-to-do? way.
We draw courage from each other as, hands raised above our heads, we walk down the hill to join the others.
“Search them,” Smith orders as we step into the camp. “I want that gun.”
Carter pats me down while Montgomery drags his hands all over Winter’s body. I’ve never felt anything more violent than the rage rising in my chest at seeing the filthy soldier’s hands on her.
“Sir,” Carter says. “He’s clean.”
“Yeah,” Montgomery echoes. “Her, too.”
“So, where’s the gun?” Smith asks.
“I dropped it,” Winter says. “When you started shouting. You startled me, and it slid down the hill before I could grab it.”
“Oh, really?” Smith looks unconvinced. He’s no fool; he knows something’s off. “Carter, go check if you can find a gun where Miss Knowles has indicated.”
With a sinking heart, I watch Carter trek up the hill.
What happens when he gets there and finds nothing? They’ll start asking questions, that’s what, and if they threaten Winter I’ll tell them everything.
“Sir!” Carter shouts after a few minutes. “There’s nothing here.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Smith says. “So, where’s the gun?”
Winter stares at me, eyes wide. We’ve run out of excuses. I’m sure Smith can read the lies on our scared expressions.
“Okay, Dr. Spencer, I tried to be reasonable, but I really don’t have time to play games,” Smith says. He steps behind Winter, wraps one arm around her waist, and points his gun directly at her temple.
20
WINTER
The metal is cold against my skin.
It’s a sharp contrast to Smith’s warm, rancid breath, which grazes past my ear when he speaks next. “You know the drill, Dr. Spencer. Tell me where the gun is, or…” He joggles the Beretta against my temple. “One…”
I always imagined having a gun pointed at my head would be more terrifying. Well, not that I’ve ever really pictured myself being taken hostage before today. I never thought I’d find myself in such a predicament. But now that I’m standing here, literally looking down the barrel of life and death, the experience is surreal. As if it were happening to someone else. Honestly, I half expect a camera crew to jump out of the bushes and scream, “You’ve been Punk’d!” any time now.
The psychology behind such a reaction is pretty straightforward: our bodies respond to life-threatening situations by creating a rush of adrenaline, supplying us with courage we don’t normally have. Providing a willingness to fight when exhaustion should’ve taken it away.
So here I stand, brave in the face of death. If I have to kick the bucket today, I’ll go with my head held high, staring into the eyes of the man I love. Not the worst way to die, I suppose.
“Two…”
But as I stare at Logan, I don’t see the same resolution in his hazel eyes. He’s too afraid for me. He’s going to cave and tell Smith all about the satellite phone and help being on the way. And then the colonel will pack us all off before the Thai police can get here.
But I don’t blame Logan. I’d do the same if it were him with a gun pointed at his head.
“Thr—”
The bushes around the camp explode into life. In a blur, heavily camouflaged soldiers emerge from the jungle, and before our captors have time to realize what’s happening, the newcomers overpower Carter and Montgomery. Guns pried from their hands, they’re made to lie flat on their bellies, faces smashed into the dirt, while our saviors bind their wrists behind their backs with zip ties.
