Raylan and I are watching for anything in the road, tense in case someone ambushes us from the close-pressing woods on either side. There’s not much we can do to prevent that. We have to keep moving forward.

When we’re about a mile from the pin, I stop the car. It’s 6:41.

“Better get out here,” I say to Raylan. “The pin is a mile that way.” I point northeast.

There’s no cell service out here. Raylan won’t be able to call me, or to follow the map. I lost connection a mile back, and I’m just going off memory now.

“I’ll hoof it,” Raylan promises me. “I might even beat you there, with how rough the road is.”

“I doubt it,” I laugh.

“Just try me.”

He throws his duffle over his back. He’s got his Dragunov rifle in there, and one of my old guns. A couple smoke grenades, rope, a Bowie knife, and some old clothes of mine.

“See you soon, Deuce,” he says.

“See ya, Long Shot.”

We didn’t call Raylan that because he could shoot from a distance, though he certainly can. We called him that because he’s the eternal optimist—always thinking he can get the job done, whether there’s a real chance or not.

That’s why he’s come along with me on this suicide mission. He believes we can grab her and get out alive. I hope he’s right for once.

I watch Raylan disappear into the woods, then I keep driving up the winding road. Eventually it disappears entirely, the trees and bushes crowding in so close and the path becoming so steep that I have to abandon the SUV and continue on foot. I’ve got my own rifle over my shoulder, and a knife in my belt. Extra ammo packs, and a light Kevlar vest under my shirt.

It’s damn cold. The air is wet from the rain, and my feet sink silently in the spongy ground. The only sound is the last droplets dripping down from the trees.

At five minutes to seven, I come to a log cabin. There’s a pump out front. No light shining from the single window. I’m about to approach, when I see an arrow scratched in the dirt, pointing east into the woods. Directions from Du Pont.

I go east, but not directly along the path of the arrow. I skirt around, heading in the same direction by my own path. I’m not going to walk willingly into Du Pont’s trap. Not out in the open.

The sun is rising, tinting the sky orange through the tall pines. I can see the light, but I don’t feel any warmth from it yet. Only jogging through the wood is keeping me warm.

After another half mile, I come to the top of a ridge. Down below, I see an open meadow. The grass is yellowed and dry, thick with morning mist. Sunlight is just starting to extend across the open ground.

At exactly 7:00 am, a shot rings out.

My heart clenches up in my chest. For a second I think Du Pont shot Simone exactly at seven—that he brought me all the way out here just so I could hear it myself, without any chance of saving her.

Then I see what looks like a white bird flying across the field. It’s Simone—running as fast as she can, her long legs whipping back and forth under her skirt.

I want to call out to her, but she’s too far away to hear. And I don’t want to draw attention to her, or to myself. Instead, I look around for any sign of Du Pont. Terrified that any moment I’ll hear another shot, and Simone will drop.

Thinking the same thing, she starts to run in a zig-zag.

“That’s right,” I mutter, under my breath. “Don’t make it easy for him.”

Then, even better, she comes to a thick stand of grass and drops down out of sight.

“Good girl,” I breathe.

I head down the ridge, trying to circle around to where Simone might be going, while watching for any sign of Du Pont.

41

Simone

Christian Du Pont drags me down to the edge of a meadow. I’m still barefoot, now wearing the white cotton dress and nothing else.

I’m freezing. The cold seems to leach up out of the ground into my feet, and then run up my legs. Soon my toes are so numb I can barely feel them. The bottoms of my feet, already scratched from my run down the road, are punctured by twigs, pine needles, and stones. The numbness is almost a blessing.

The sun is starting to come up. I’m glad I won’t be fleeing through the woods in the dark, at least. Though maybe that would have been better for me. The light will make it easier for Du Pont to see me. He’s got his rifle slung over his back, plus several handguns on his person, a huge, wicked-looking knife, and god knows what else.

He’s changed his clothes too—he’s wearing some weird shaggy brown suit now. A onesie that covers him head-to-toe, with a hood hanging down his back.

His skin looks pale and blotchy in the early-morning light. His eyes glitter at me, like two chips of ice.

I have nothing. No weapons. Not even a coat.

“You think this is fair sport?” I say to him. “You’re geared up like GI Joe, and I’m empty-handed?”

“Don’t worry,” Du Pont says, softly. “You have your champion.”

He positions me at the edge of the meadow.

“Alright,” he says. “Go.”

I turn to face him, arms crossed over my chest.

“What if I refuse?”

He pulls one of the handguns out of his belt, cocks it, and points it directly at my chest.

“That would be a very bad idea,” he says, coldly.

“You’ll just shoot me right now?”

“At bare minimum, I could shoot you in the palm,” he says, as casually as you might order a drink at a restaurant. “You can still run with half your hand blown off.”

Reflexively, I clasp my hands together.

“Get going,” he hisses. “Three . . . Two . . . ”

I turn and flee.

Before I’ve taken two steps, I hear the gun explode behind me, and I think that was it, he’s already shot me in the back. Then I realize I’m still running, and he must have fired up in the air instead.

I sprint across the meadow, the dry grass whipping my legs.

A cloud of gnats rises up as I disturb their rest, and a startled bird flies off in the opposite direction. My chest is burning and I can taste blood in my mouth. I’m running hard, the cold morning air burning my lungs.

I can’t see much on either side of me, because of the fog. I have no idea what Du Pont can see. I’m cognizant that any second I might feel a blinding flash of pain, and then nothingness, if he’s already taken aim at my head.

Well . . . I’m not going to make this easy for him. I start darting back and forth, hoping that will make it harder for him to track me. Knowing that I’m probably not fast enough to avoid his scope.

Then I come to a place where the grass is thick and wet and marshy, almost chest-high. I drop down into it and start to crawl, hoping that he can’t see me in here, that he won’t be certain which direction I’ve gone.

I find a wet channel in the grass, almost a stream. I wedge myself down into it, hoping I can crawl along it without shaking the grass.

It’s freezing cold and muddy. I’m getting mud all over my arms and the front of the dress.

That gives me an idea.

This dress is a white banner, drawing attention to me everywhere I go.