Something squeaks underneath my feet, and tiny paws run over my bare toes. I ignore it, frantically searching for that drainpipe. Rats are nothing to me right now. Somewhere up there, Julian is in mortal danger. I don’t know if he’s by himself or if he brought reinforcements, but the thought of him being hurt or killed is so agonizing that I can’t focus on it now. Not if I want to survive.

My hands touch the wall, but I can’t find an opening. It’s too dark. Panting, I make my way along the wall, sweeping my hands up and down the smooth surface. My stitches ache, but I barely register the pain. I need to find a way out. If they catch me again, I will not survive for long.

Another burst of gunfire, followed by more yells.

I continue searching, my terror and frustration growing with every moment. Julian. Julian is up there. I try not to think about it, but I can’t. There’s nothing I can do to help him; logically, I know that. I’m barefoot and dressed in a hospital gown, without so much as a fork to defend myself with. In the meantime, he’s armed to the teeth and wearing a bulletproof vest.

Of course, logic has nothing to do with the agonizing fear I feel at the thought of losing him.

He will survive, I tell myself as I continue looking for the drainpipe. Julian knows what he’s doing. This is his world, his area of expertise. This is the part of his life he was shielding me from on the island.

My hands touch something hard on the wall near my knees and then sink into the opening.

The drainpipe. I found it.

There is another high-pitched squeak, and something scrambles out of the pipe toward me. I jump back, startled, but then I get on all fours and determinedly crawl inside, steeling myself for more potential rodent encounters.

The drainpipe is large enough that I can be on my hands and knees, and I crawl as fast as I can, ignoring the stale smell of sewage and rust. Thankfully, it’s only a little bit wet in there, and I try not to dwell on what that wetness might be.

Finally, I reach the other opening. Compressing myself into a little ball, I manage to turn around and climb out feet first.

Stepping away from the pipe, I gaze at my surroundings. The sky above me is covered with stars, and the air is thick with the scent of warm earth and jungle vegetation. I can see the warehouse building on the small hill above me, less than fifty yards away.

I stare at it, sick with fear for Julian. There is another burst of gunfire, accompanied by flashes of bright light. The gunfight is still going on—which is a good sign, I tell myself. If Julian was dead—if the terrorists had won—there would be no more shooting. He must’ve come with reinforcements after all.