“I thought you’d given up on me,” she said as he set her down.

“You won’t get rid of me that easily. Ashley—”

She saw his face had clouded, and suddenly she couldn’t breathe. “Where’s David?”

Quickly, Jeremy told her what had transpired since she’d left at dawn. She shook her head, trying to think clearly. “But I just saw Crockett’s racer tied to a dock on the other side of the island. If Balaton has David...” She couldn’t articulate the rest.

“Ashley, Balaton doesn’t pose a threat to your brother.”

“According to what I have in this satchel—”

Jeremy needed no more. “Come on, let’s go.”

They veered off the gravel path into the woods, not caring that there wasn’t a path, just moving east, toward the other side of the island, the boat...David. Ashley began to run. In just minutes, her sneakers were soaked and she was slipping and sliding in the wet leaves. They hooked up to a narrow overgrown path and followed it.

Just then, there came the loud crack of gunfire; then another.

David!

Barky!

Ashley dashed ahead of Jeremy. She had had no sleep, little food, shock after shock after shock. She had nothing left. She was without reserves, utterly drained. But somewhere she found the energy to move even faster, to run, and it was as if she wasn’t touching the ground, but moved several inches above it, hurrying, pressing herself to go faster. The cold air sliced into her lungs and her hamstrings ached, her entire body pushed beyond endurance as she sprinted, faster, faster.

Jeremy stayed close behind her. She could hear the pounding of his footsteps and the steadying breathing of an experienced runner. He wouldn’t leave her. Thank God. It was her only reassurance.

David had uttered every swearword he knew and had counted to a thousand to stop himself from considering the misery and gravity of his situation. What were the consequences of exposure to rain, cold, fog and wind for an individual as weakened—and as stupid—as he? No. He couldn’t think about that now.

The rain had resumed, a full-fledged downpour now, and he sat propped up against a lichen-covered boulder and listened to the tide wash in all around him. He had crept off the dock and gotten this far. In a little while, he hoped to be able to creep under a tree, where he might be more sheltered from the brutal, ceaseless wind. But right now he couldn’t move. Right now, he could only hope to keep his mind off the severe pain in his leg and the anger, the desperation and the bald, inescapable fear that were welling up inside him.

It was a small comfort that he had a fiberglass cast. An ordinary plaster cast would have disintegrated by now, but the fiberglass repelled water. A plus for modern medicine, he thought wryly. But there wasn’t a thing he could do about the water dripping down his leg and seeping inside the cast. The doctor had said to keep his leg dry. He’d been operated on; he had stitches to mind.