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My boot hits sand.

I haul her up the bank, dragging her over roots and soaked grass, past thorny brush that rips at our clothes. Her breathing is shallow, erratic. She’s coughing now—gut-deep, wet.

Shaking.

But alive.

I drop beside her, chest on fire, every inch of me soaked and raw. Adrenaline still courses through my blood, but it’s starting to burn out. I lean over her, bracing myself on one arm.

A flash of lightning rips across the sky. For one brief second, I see him—El-Maati sprawled beside the wrecked airboat, a dark pool blooming beneath his head. He’s not moving. Not breathing.

Behind us, the porch light flares to life, casting a pale yellow glow over the mud and scattered leaves.

Caleb steps into view, a shadow in the porch light, moving like he’s still mid-op—quiet, precise, all muscle and intent. Brooke’s beside him, wrists still tied, but upright and steady.

He’s already cutting her free with the blade in his hand, holding her firm with the other.

Relief slams into me—so fierce it nearly folds me. She’s alive. My sister. The one I dragged into this.

Caleb warned me not to involve her. Told me to leave her out of it. She should’ve been safe in Arizona, not here—bleeding and bruised because I didn’t listen.

I blink hard, jaw clenched, gut twisting with guilt—and gratitude that Hightower got involved when they did.

The glow from the porch spills across the mud, casting just enough light to see Samantha’s face. Her lips are parted like she’s trying to speak but can’t.

I slide a hand beneath her head and lift her gently into my arms. Her hair is plastered to her scalp, skin clammy, soaked to the bone.

“It’s okay,” I murmur. My voice breaks around the words. “They can’t hurt you now.”

Her fingers fist in my shirt, holding on like she’ll drown if she lets go. “I… I can’t swim,” she chokes, voice ragged.

I press my lips to her forehead and close my eyes.

“I know, honey,” I whisper. “I know.”

Samantha

I know I’m fading in and out of consciousness when one minute I’m beside the water and the next I’m in the van again.

A vague sense of warmth surrounds me, but it slips away as I fight to stay awake. My dreams are fevered—nightmarish scenarios of the kind that haven’t haunted me since I was a child, dumped on a stranger's doorstep and left to fend for myself in a world I didn’t understand with people I didn’t like.

I open my eyes, and pain shoots through my abdomen. Someone murmurs in my ear, soothing, kind, but unknown. “You passed out. I think you have bruised ribs,” it says.

I open my eyes enough to find Mick’s arms gently encircling my shoulders as if he wants to hug me but can’t. His face is half covered in greasy streaks of green and black, and his clothing is still damp. His eyes are closed, his chin is down, and his lips are moving as if he’s talking to someone. A smile curls at my lips. He is. He’s talking to God. Praying for me, maybe.

I close my eyes and let my body relax and slip under once more.

Sometime later, vibrations rouse me, and I snap to wakefulness, my body too warm as I wriggle out from under a thick blanket someone has placed over me. I blink, looking around, trying to make out where I am and who is with me.

A plane. I’m on a private plane. I raise a hand and rub the sleep from my eyes. Mick is asleep beside me, snoring lightly. Jake, Silas, and Luke are all absent, but Adena is sitting in a seat, earbuds in her ears and her eyes closed.

While the rest of the plane is relatively quiet, Caleb and Brooke are having a low disagreement directly opposite me. From the way she’s frowning at him and shaking her head, they must have been having it for a while. I try to listen in and catch some of their conversation.

“...said I was sorry,” Brooke mutters.

Caleb doesn’t look at her. “Wasn’t about the apology.”

She crosses her arms. “Then what was it about?”