The terrain had been flat and sparse. Now he was heading slightly uphill. The extra exertion made his lungs burn. He was forced to slow down. His pace was little more than a fast walk. He felt a moment of panic. At this speed, he would never make it to the finish line in time. He forced himself to move faster. A minute later, he reached the brow of the incline and saw, a couple of hundred metres up ahead, the forest Hector had mentioned. The terrain ran downhill from there. That meant he could increase his speed. But not too much. Woody’s advice still held. He had limited energy, which he had to conserve.

How far had he come? Five kilometres? Ten? He found it impossible to judge. Which meant he had no idea how much further there was to go. He hit the treeline of the forest and immediately realised he had a new obstacle. The ground was bumpy and knotty. He had to take care to keep his footing. He looked straight ahead. The forest was dense but the next flag was just visible, about fifty metres through the trees. Suddenly he felt overcome with exhaustion. Just focus on the flag, he told himself. If he could break the remainder of the exercise into small sections in his head, he had a much better chance of completing it in time.

Focus on the flag.

He gritted his teeth and kept his eyes level with the top of the flag. Distance: thirty metres.

Twenty.

Ten.

He reached it. Scanning ahead, he saw a flash of red: the next flag, half hidden in the trees.

Focus on the flag.

Breathing deeply, treading carefully, he ran towards it. He felt good. Breaking the forced march into little sections like this was doing the job. The flash of red grew closer …

Closer …

He was almost at the flag when it happened. Something caught his right foot. He stumbled and fell heavily. His face slammed hard against the ground. The weight of the full backpack winded him. But it was his left ankle that hurt the most. As he pushed himself up painfully, he realised he must have weakened it more than he thought.

He swore under his breath. How could he have been so stupid as to lose his footing? He looked down at the ground, trying to identify what had tripped him.

He saw it quickly enough.

He was standing between two trees. Running from one to the other, ten centimetres from the ground, was a length of rope. No, Max thought as he bent down to touch it. Not ordinary rope. Paracord.

He felt bile rising in his throat. Someone had tried to trip him.

Tried. And succeeded.

His eyes followed the length of the paracord from one tree to another. He saw a chewing-gum wrapper. It was lying on the ground near the cord. On closer inspection, Max saw that it was Lukas’s brand.