When I’m maybe five yards out, Finn says, “That’s enough.” I stop and Finn rests a pistol on his knee. “Take off your backpack and bring it to me, slowly.”

If Verne is tracking me with a scope, he’s probably behind me, somewhere in that wall of trees on the other side of the trail. That would offer the best field of view. I take the backpack off my shoulders. “Tane,” I say, “you okay?”

The hoodied figure shifts and lifts its head. It’s Tane, his face pale, eyes blank.

“He’s fine,” Finn says, the pistol still resting on his knee. “Don’t worry about him. Just bring me the backpack. Slowly.”

I walk over, stepping carefully, and lower the backpack to the rock, a yard or so from his feet. From this angle I can see, sitting on the rock behind Finn, the drone. It’s bigger than I thought, with four rotors and a camera built into the body. Next to the drone is a tablet Finn must use to control it.

Finn follows my gaze. “Wish we’d had some of these in Iraq.”

“Oh my God,” I say. “I’m so sick of you talking about Iraq.”

Finn raises his eyebrows. “Did I hit a nerve, Suzie Q?”

“I’m just over it. The whiny rich kid steals a bunch of money and kills another soldier over it and then bitches endlessly about how life is unfair? Cry me a river, you pussy little silver spoon fuck.”

Finn’s face tightens like an angry facelift. I don’t even see the pistol in Finn’s hand move. One second it’s resting on Finn’s knee, the next it’s pointed at my face. But the pistol doesn’t scare me. What scares me is my own laughter. “So that’s what it takes?” I say. “A couple of insults about you being a spoiled little brat? That’s what makes you lose your shit?”

Finn sneers. “Says the damaged little psycho. Do you think the next time you’re committed to a hospital you’ll actually have the guts to slit your own wrists?”

I smile back at him, all teeth. “Not if they give me the good drugs.”

“Hey!” someone shouts. It’s Frankie, hurrying up the slope from the safety road. “Hey, Finn, you pinche baboso!”