“If we do not return fire, they will shoot out our tires. Then we will not go anywhere,” Vasily yells. He holds a gun out at me.

“Okay! Okay, goddamn it!” I snatch the gun from him. “Naomi!” I bellow, though internally I’m wincing at my voice. “Come put your hands on Daniel’s wounds right now.”

“Dirty,” she whimpers, hands over her ears.

“The sooner you do this, the sooner we get someplace safe and quiet,” I tell her, taking the safety off the gun and making my way to the back of the van as they shoot at us again.

I duck as the back window shatters. Vasily curses again, and Naomi shrieks, but she’s heading to Daniel’s side.

Good enough. I ignore the glass on the floorboards and crawl forward. I’ll pick it out of my wounds later. My sticky, bloody hands make it hard to hold the gun, but I raise it, even as the van swerves, and shoot. Two shots.

They don’t hit anything, but I’m pleased to see Hudson’s car swerve in reaction. If I can keep him off balance, I can buy us time.

“Drive fucking faster,” I yell at Vasily, and when he pumps on the gas, my body slams against the side of the van. Well, I got my wish at least. I wince as more glass digs into my feet, but I raise the gun again. If I can hit the windshield . . .

I bite my lip, use both hands to steady the gun, and start shooting. It kicks wildly with every shot, and I miss every time. Every damn time. Then, to my shock, a lucky hit pings a side mirror on the car and the mirror goes flying, and Hudson’s car swerves wildly again.

“Keep shooting,” Vasily tells me. Like I didn’t know.

I fire once more, aiming down instead of at eye-level. All my shots have been going wide, so I try a different tactic.

Blam!This time his windshield shatters, and I watch his car skid.

“Yes!” I scream.

“Loud!” Naomi yells back at me.

“Sorry,” I murmur and raise the gun again. They’re still following us, but not as close now, and they’re weaving all over the narrow road.

The trigger clicks in my hand. Shit. “I’m out,” I yell at Vasily.

“We are almost there,” he calls back at me. “Hold on. We go in hot!”

I don’t even have time to ask what that means before we turn a corner so sharply that my entire body is flung against the opposite wall of the van, and I slam into a storage cabinet that rattles like it holds a million pieces of silverware. It gives me an idea, and I throw down the gun, jerk open the latched cabinet, and begin pulling out cutlery and tossing it out the window. Maybe that will buy us a bit of time or distance if it manages to hit Hudson’s car.

They shoot again, but they’re swerving madly . . . .and so are we. I slam into the wall again and see stars when my face slams against the door. That’s going to hurt in the morning, but adrenaline is pumping hard, and I don’t even pause. Each handful of forks makes Hudson’s car swing wildly to the side.

Then I hear Vasily slam on the brakes, and I careen into the side of the van again. Jesus. I’m going to be black and blue from the getaway trip.

“We are here,” Vasily calls.

I stare in horror as the van comes to a stop; Hudson is still following us. “He’s still behind us,” I scream. “Vasily!”

“Good,” he says in the most brutal voice I have ever heard.

Hudson pulls right up behind us, and before I can demand that Vasily start the van again, shots ring out. The remaining windows in Hudson’s car shatter, and someone yells something in Portuguese. I see hands go up in the air.

Hudson is surrendering.

An explosive sob of relief escapes me, and I crawl back to the front of the van, to Daniel. Naomi is at his side, her hands pressing against his wounds. He’s still breathing, but he looks so pale.

“We need a doctor, Vasily,” I tell him, but he’s not getting out of the driver’s seat. As I look around, there are men, armed men, swarming Hudson’s car. It’s Mendoza and his men.

Oh, thank God. I push the passenger door open and practically spill out onto the concrete, all naked, bloody, and snot-faced from crying. “Mendoza,” I cry out. “Daniel needs a doctor! He’s been shot!”

He rushes to me, barking orders at his men. Someone hands me a shirt, and I try to get to my feet, but pain stabs me. I collapse on the ground and stare at the red soles of my feet that are gleaming with shards of glass. I can’t stand. “Daniel,” I say as someone tries to help me up. “Get Daniel!”

Then, there are men dragging him out of the van, gesturing another man—hopefully a doctor—forward. Mendoza is draping the shirt over my naked body as I hug one of my glass-embedded feet.

“Come,” Mendoza tells me. “Put the shirt on. I want both you and Daniel in the infirmary.”

I nod and slip my arms into the shirt, hugging it closed. Mendoza picks me up in his arms, and I want to yell for him not to touch me, but I can’t walk, and I want Daniel more than anything. I crane my neck and see that they’ve brought him inside, and that’s where I want to be. In the distance, Hudson is surrounded by dozens of armed men, his hands behind his head. Good.

As soon as we step through the doorway of the compound, I hear an engine start. Startled, I turn at the same time Mendoza does, and we watch the catering van drive out of the compound, despite the number of people in the courtyard.

I look around. Naomi is nowhere to be seen.

Neither is Vasily.

Daniel’s friend has re-stolen Daniel’s sister. Oh no. My heart sinks.

“We need a blood transfusion,” someone yells up ahead, and I forget about everything but Daniel. Clutching at Mendoza’s shoulders, I don’t relax until I’m in the clinic with Daniel.

And then I can do nothing but watch as Mendoza’s doctor goes to work on the man I love.

Daniel

“SERGEANT HAYS , YOU HAVE A Red Cross call.”

I look up from the picnic table where I’ve got a ten and a five. Rubens, one of the direct assault troops in my squad has a face card and a four. Do I hit or stay?

“Wait,” I say. “Did you say Red Cross?”

The lance corporal delivering the news nods his head stiffly. A Red Cross call is an emergency call, a special number that connects families of troops with deployed soldiers no matter where they are. I’ve never had one in the eight years I’ve been in—not even when I was in theatre and my old man had a heart attack. It was a minor one, but I learned about it an email four days after I’d come back from a mission in Beirut assisting the Lebanese in ferreting out a leading member of Al Qaeda. The U.S. military is enjoying using its Middle East staging ground from Afghanistan to launch all kinds of Special Forces missions. “Hit me,” I tell the other recon sniper assigned to my squad. He lays out an eight. “Fuck.”

“Busted,” Rubens crows and drags in the cigarettes we’re using as currency. Three of them break and the tobacco leaves a trail on the scarred and cracked wooden surface. “Sergeant?”

I jerk my head around. Nothing good comes from a Red Cross call, but I go and lift the phone up like it weighs more than a 50 cal machine gun.

“Your sister’s been kidnapped. You need to come home and find her.” My dad’s voice is hoarse, as if he spent the whole night crying or, more likely, shouting at people. I stagger on my feet, looking for a chair and can’t find one. I slide to the ground.

“When?” I ask. I need details, but there’s silence on the other end. Finally, my dad sighs.

“Two days ago.”

“Two fucking days ago and you’re calling me now?” I scream down the line. My heart is pounding so hard and fast now I fear it will jump out of my chest. This is my fault. All my fucking fault. I was the one who encouraged her to take this spring break trip. I had almost bullied her into going, telling her she needed to spend time with people her own age.