Andy was tucked behind a thicket of bushes. I didn’t see a gun in his hand, but he was holding the laser scope from Vern’s rifle in one hand. His other hand was held out, all his fingers splayed.

Once he realized I saw him, he opened and closed his hand several times.

The universal sign for a countdown.

I gave a quick nod.

Andy put the scope away, then held a walkie-talkie to his mouth. He held his other hand back up, all five fingers splayed. He said something into the radio, then dropped one of his fingers.

Four.

He dropped another finger.

Three.

Two.

One.

There were two loud explosions. They sounded like grenades.

Vern.

It had to be.

The sound echoed through the jungle canopy, and a wave of birds flew through the air. Several monkeys in a tree behind us screeched and howled. Camila squeaked and whined from around Gina’s neck.

Ten yards away, Bill swiveled his head back and forth, then barked something at the soldiers. Two of them turned and ran toward the explosions, which came from the jungle opposite our side of the village.

Benecio stayed behind.

I didn’t waste a second. I smashed my hands back against the pole. It took three tries, and then the weakened right cuff snapped off. With the zip-cuffs dangling from my left wrist, I reached down with my right hand and grabbed the knife under my legs. I leaned forward and sawed through the ankle restraints.

Two seconds later, I was free.

I turned to Gina and spent six seconds cutting through her restraints. When I was finished, she jumped up, with Camila around her neck.

Stunned by yet another round of thunderous explosions, it took Bill and Benecio two seconds to notice that Gina and I were free.

Bill’s mouth opened wide. “Shoot them!” he shouted.

Benecio gingerly brought his gun up.

“Run!” I told Gina, pushing her and Camila toward the jungle. “Get out of here!”

She hesitated a half second, then bolted toward the forest.

I marched toward Bill and Benecio. They both backpedaled.

“Shoot him!” Bill cried. “Shoot him!”

If Benecio did shoot, it was going to take every bullet in the magazine to stop me. But he didn’t. He looked at Bill, then turned and took off running.

“Dammit!” Bill shouted.

I twisted the hilt of the knife in my hand and strode forward.

Bill reached behind his back and pulled out a gun. It was Patrick’s Glock. At some point, the soldier who had taken it from Patrick must have given it to Bill.

I didn’t hesitate. I brought the knife up and I tomahawked it at Bill. It hit him just below the sternum, at the top of his protruding belly. Sadly, it hit hilt first, its signature nothing more than a soft bruise.