“Four-fifteen. We’re about half an hour away from where we picked you up.”

Barring disaster, and accounting for the part we’d have to walk, that meant we’d arrive with less than a quarter-hour to spare.

Lance was sleeping off his latest injection and Jace was snoring lightly from the middle row. “Want me to call my dad?”

He nodded stiffly. I’d hoped he’d warm up a little, given time, but so far he showed no sign of a thaw.

I autodialed my father and gave him an update, promising to call him as soon as we had Kaci. He swore he’d be standing by with a phone to toss out to Beck when the Flight was satisfied with the proof we’d brought.

“Faythe, are you okay?” my dad asked, after the details were worked out.

“Fine.” Technically that was true. There was nothing physically wrong with me. But he could tell there was something we weren’t saying.

I dreaded telling my father almost as badly as I’d dreaded telling Marc.

Jace woke up while I was on the phone, and when I hung up he handed me two bottles of Coke and four protein bars—the makeshift dinner we’d bought at the last pit stop. We ate in silence, and my nerves consumed me as surely as I consumed my meal.

We were almost there. The thunderbirds would either accept our proof or they wouldn’t, and there was nothing we could do about their decision, either way. Kaci would either live or she wouldn’t, and there was nothing we could do about that, either. But I was willing to die trying.

Twenty-five minutes later, Marc turned right onto the narrow gravel road leading to the nest. Three miles along, we met the first obstacle—huge rocks spanning the entire width of the road in a random arrangement I was sure the thunderbirds had personally placed. We had to leave the car there and hoof it the rest of the way.

Lance blinked in the last rays of sunlight when we opened the back hatch, and he began struggling immediately.

“Shut the fuck up,” Marc ordered, and hauled him out with a grip beneath both of the prisoner’s arms.

Lance wobbled at first, and danced like he had to relieve himself, which was no surprise, considering he hadn’t had a bathroom break in nearly twelve hours, since the guys had stood guard while he took aim on the side of a dark road.

“I think he has to pee,” I said, and Lance nodded frantically. Jace glanced away and Marc cursed rapidly in Spanish. We weren’t willing to free the prisoner’s hands, but neither of the guys wanted to help him out of his pants. Apparently they were dribbled on last time.

I rolled my eyes. “Fine. I’ll help him.”

Marc growled. “I got it.” He hauled Lance to the side of the road and Jace and I stared at the ground as Lance did his business. Then we started walking.

The awkward, silent two-mile hike took nearly half an hour, even with us shoving Lance along when he started to drag. He was obviously reluctant to arrive at the site of his pending execution.