"Hendrix!" A terrified scream shatters the black oblivion of my dreamless sleep.

Elle.

My eyes fly open, and I spring to my feet. Only it doesn't quite work that way because the ground tilts on its side, and instead of jumping up, I'm crashing sideways.

"Hendrix ¡ayúdame!" Elle shrieks again. A fleshy crack echoes through the air. I struggle to my knees, frantically searching for Elle through dizzying triple vision.

"Elle?" I call. Her answer is a muffled scream. The world stops spinning enough for me to just make out two forms on the ridge above me. One is Elle, and the other is a giant man in military dress. He has a clunky black gun pressed to Elle's temple, his other hand clamps around her mouth.

"Don't shoot!" I shout. The man narrows his eyes, his finger tightens around the trigger, turning my blood to ice in my veins. Elle's doe eyes are wide and glassy with tears. A sharp whimper escapes from between the man's fingers. Her skin shifts in a patchwork myriad, the way it always does when she's scared. Some parts of her I can see, while others have vanished, chameleon-like, into the surrounding landscape.

"Elle, ¡tranquila! You're going to be fine." Maverick appears on the scene, as calm and collected as ever. He's facing the man, his hands in his pocket. "He doesn't speak English," he says, more as an idle observation than anything. Without turning away from the man, Maverick addresses me.

"Trick, tell your sister that everything is going to be okay," he instructs. Okay? I see no way in which this situation turns out okay.

"Where's your telepathy?" I whisper. If ever there was a time for him to start digging in his grab bag of mind tricks, it would be now. While Elle is in mortal danger.

"I'm trying." His voice is still calm and even, but I spot his grimace before he covers it. His eyes are swamped under purple blotches. I fill my lungs with frigid air and lie to my sister.

"Estas bien, Elle, está bien. We're going to get you away from him." The words stick to my throat on their way out. Elle's gaze finds mine and holds it. She breathes like a panicked mouse, her chest heaving rapidly. Her fingers spasm at the man's arm, red lines raise on his skin. "It's okay," I say again. Nausea turns my insides to mush.

The man decides that he's had enough of standing around. He takes a step back, and Elle kicks out wildly. His grip on her constricts and he shouts something at us in another language. Russian, I recognize the guttural flow from years of listening to the Whitecoats. He waves the gun around, pausing every now and then to point it at each one of us. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a glimmer of movement. Someone is sneaking up on the man. Suddenly, Maverick's plan becomes clear to me.

"Elle, calm down," I instruct, and she does. Her feet stop kicking and she stares straight at me. The lack of resistance affords the man an easy way to drag her back. "Escucha, I need you to be brave okay. When I say duck, duck."

An ATV idles at the top of the hill. A woman with hair so pale it's almost white sits on the saddle, facing away from the scene below. She leans on the handlebars, fingers hovering over the gas. The man is nearly to her now. I wish Maverick would get on with whatever he has planned because we're running out of time. Elle's toes drag along the stony ground, her too-wide eyes trained on me, waiting for the signal. The man is at the top and Elle is fighting tears. I glance sideways at Maverick. My vision fades in and out of blurriness. He waits, his eyes dart between the man and the other person. Then he tips his chin in affirmation.

"Duck now," I command the moment he nods.

Elle twists in the man's grip and sinks her little white teeth into the flesh of his arm. The man shouts in surprise but doesn't drop her. At the same time, Chastin, who had slowly but surely been sneaking up to an angle where he could get a clear shot, lunges, his hands out, fingers splayed, and launches a volley of glittering white ice daggers at the man.

With impressive reflex the man whips his gun in an arc, swinging it up and firing. A spray of scarlet blood mists the air. Chastin falls. His mouth frozen open in shock. Behind me, someone screams his name. At the same time, an ice dagger meets its mark and burrows deep in the man's shoulder, and he drops Elle. The pile of stones she snags her footing on gives out. Pebbles skitter and she slips, cracks her head on the unforgiving earth, and goes still. I lurch, read to launch myself onto the soldier. Mav's fingers dig into my shoulder.

He motions to someone out of the corner of my eye. The man sees him too and levels his smoking gun at the person Maverick was signaling. Elle lays at the man's feet. Her skin has stopped shifting. Her purple-stained eyelids are closed, but faint puffs swirl out of her nose in the morning chill. She's still breathing. The man barks out either warnings or orders as he crouches and grabs Elle by one skinny arm. Her head lolls. She's out cold.

"Don't do anything rash," Maverick warns, though he's gone noticeably paler. He's leaving bruises where his white-knuckle grip pins me.

"We don't have time for another plan," I say in response. The man hefts Elle as if she's a sack of flour and tosses her onto his shoulder. She flops, ragdoll limp. Blood mats her curls where he nailed her with the gun. Angry, I rise inch by inch to my feet. The man squints at me, his gun still pointed at a person who stands at the edge of my field of vision. Melting ice and blood mix together and roll in fat drops down the front of his camouflage fatigues.

I take a step forward, silently daring him to do something about it. And he does. The barrel of the gun points at me, his finger squeezes the trigger. A force like a sledgehammer thumps into me, knocking the air from my lungs and sending me sailing down the hill. I tumble and roll over sharp rocks and merciless stone, pebbles skitter in every which direction. I slide to a stop at the foot of the ridge.

My first thought is to get to Elle. My second is actually two thoughts at the same time, one: I cannot breathe, and two: I'm bleeding. I stagger to my feet, gasping for air that won't hit my lungs. The world pitches so violently that I have to lean forward and rest my hands on my knees. Not dead, but it feels like I'm getting there.

The black clears and my breathing sort of returns, which leaves room for me to focus briefly on the fact that I'm bleeding. Not heavily, as far as I can tell, so I get back up and struggle up the hill as fast as I can.

Maverick stands at the top of the slope, facing away from me. When I'm halfway to the top, he pivots and comes down to meet me.

"Where is she?" The words tumble from my mouth before he even makes it to my side. He draws his brows together and shuffles to a stop.

"Let's have a look at you," he murmurs, more to himself than anyone else. He puts a hand on either of my shoulders and turns me from side to side, searching for new injuries. "No bullet, at least. The rocks did a number on you, though."

Surprised, I look down at myself. The blood oozes from a number of minor scrapes and cuts, but there is no bullet hole, no bullet. What hit me, then?

In the background, I see forms pacing. None of them are small enough to be Elle. Where is she? I start forward, determined to check on her, but Maverick steps in front of me, blocking my path.

"Take them." He pushes his open hand towards me. I look down at the two white pills sitting in it.

"Mav, let me see her."

He shakes his hand at me, insistent. I grab the pills and shove them in my mouth. He hands me the bottle and waits for me to tuck it in my pocket before speaking again.

"They took Elle," he says, watching me warily.

"What?"

"They took Elle. She's gone—not dead," he hurries that last part, "just not here."

The air leaves my lungs for the second time today, only this time it doesn't come back. Strange, awful pain settles over my chest. I turn to the nearest rock, which happens to be the one I sat on last night and drive my knee down hard on it. The rock shudders, cracks with a satisfying hollow snap. The extra energy vibrates up my leg and dissipates around my hips, setting off phantom pain from an old injury and rattling the pins there. I stagger, limping and trying not to. It's then that the sound of weeping reaches my ears.

"We'll get her back," Mav promises, "but first..." He trails off, staring at the place where Chastin fell.

I wait for him to trudge back up, then we both make our way over to the others. The woman is on her knees now, Chastin's head in her lap, she's sobbing uncontrollably.

A bloodred rose blooms over his chest. A trickle of blood drips out the corner of his mouth. His eyes, half-open, stare permanently ahead at some unseeable thing. The woman strokes his face, running her fingers through his blond hair. Her chest heaves unevenly as she chokes on her tears.

Chastin's death is a loss that everyone feels. An East Asian guy I don't know the name of is blinking hard, tears form tracks in the soot on his cheeks. King has his arms folded across his chest, his chin tucked as he stares at Chastin. In the light of day, I make out old scars on his face, carved across his forehead in imperfect raised lines. When he frowns, the lines buckle.

Leaning on the boulder, not far away, is Dieter. He watches the others. I note with a slight twinge of regret that his left eyelid is swollen and black. The bruise flowers up across his temple and disappears into his fair hairline.

When the woman's sobbing has reduced to sniffling, Maverick crouches to rest a hand on her shoulder. A whispered communication passes between them. The woman nods, and Maverick stands up and steps back.

The woman folds Chastin's arms neatly across his bloody chest. She sets his head on the ground with care. Then words, soft at first, and in Russian, spill out of her mouth. A prayer of sorts. It is short, and by the end of it the woman is choking up again. This time, the Asian guy helps her to her feet and guides her back. Her hair falls like a curtain around her face, hiding her from the rest of the world. We give her space.

Maverick takes her place. Bending a knee, he brushes his fingers over Chastin's eyelids, shutting them forever.

"Rest in peace, Chastin Wardrop," he says. He hesitates a moment beside the body. Sadness passes over his face, mixed with a darker, more hideous emotion. Then he clenches his jaw and backs away, motioning for the rest of us to do the same.

There is no place in the rock to dig a grave.

Instead, King slides the ball of his foot along the ground in a sweeping motion. There is a deep rumble, then the earth splits open with a hollow crack that swallows Chastin. Another swipe of King's foot and Chastin is buried under a mound of fist-sized rocks. We all stare in silence for a long time, first at the grave, and then at Maverick. He is our leader, and we wait for answers. He stands still. A parade of dark emotions traipses across his face. His silence, I imagine, is more for him to process all that's happened than for him to come to a decision. At last, he speaks, his eyes alight with fury.

"We're going after them," he says. Nobody protests. That solider killed one of our own and stole another.

"Wait," Dieter speaks up, earning himself hard stares from everyone. He wanes under the sudden attention but doesn't take the hint. "We should head in the opposite direction— get as far away from those psychos as possible."

"Those psychos took Elle, and we do not leave one of our own." Maverick's jaw is tight as he explains this. His tone is even, but anyone can see he's not having a great time keeping it that way. I'm having difficulty too, as my anger swells, parts of me are slipping through the cracks, and I struggle to keep them attached.

Dieter argues, "what's the point of going after one person if we're all going to end up dead?"

"We can't abandon her!" I snap. More and more of the controlled part of me slips away. Dieter's attention shifts to me. He crosses his arms over his barrel chest and vaguely looks as though he's reconsidering.

"Dude, I'm sorry about your girlfriend, but it's not worth it," he says after a moment. I'm on him before the last word is out of his mouth. My fingers find his throat, squeeze, lift him. His tiptoes scrabble for traction on the earth.

"She's my sister, and she's worth more than you ever will be," I snarl. Dieter's face goes red-purple, his mouth gapes as he gasps for air, and his eyes roll back in his head. Call me crazy, but I find it hard to care. I know I should put him down, but the part of me that would is sloughing away like it does before a duel.

"Trick." Maverick's hand is on my shoulder.

I glance sideways at him, at the rest of the group. They're all staring at me with varying degrees of 'what the hell' painted on their face. Oh. I drop Dieter. He stumbles, gags, hacks like his lung is coming up. His hands fly to his neck. A flicker of regret wriggles its way into the back of my head as I note bruises darkening there. I shouldn't have done that. I turn on my heels and run my fingers through my hair, trying to pull back into myself. My glasses rest crookedly on the end of my nose, so I push them back up.

Behind me, Dieter takes a steadying breath and mutters, "Bastard."

That's it. I whirl around, my fist already balled, and nail Dieter across the cheek. A bone cracks and he crumples fast. Maverick jumps between the two of us, hands out, ready to stop an all-out battle, but I'm already done. I shake out my hand and stalk off in what I hope is the direction the ATV took.

I'm getting Elle back, now.

 ***

The cold sun shines on everything. I squint against the brightness. Mid-spring in Russia is always like this: too bright and sharp with borderline cold. Every other step my left knee twinges. My joints do that every time the barometric pressure goes down, always beginning with my knee. Part of it is the fibromyalgia, I think, but the knee only started aching after I shattered my legs and the 'coats patched the shards with pins and rods. There's probably more titanium than bone below my hip. My breath no longer swirls in the air, which is a positive, but with each passing minute the pain pills are wearing off.

It's not time for my next dose yet but I pat the pockets of my sweater, searching for the bottle. It's not there. It must have fallen out when I walloped Dieter. The scraps tied around my chest and over my shoulders feel like shackles. The fabric is like sandpaper against my burned skin, even so I get the idea that the pain pills are blocking most of the pain from my burn. That means when the drugs wear off, I'll be in six kinds of hell. I guess that means I'll have to rescue Elle all that much quicker, which is fine by me. The sooner I get her back, the better.

"Trick! Wait up," a familiar voice calls. I ignore it. The terrain is rocky, and foliage is sparse, only a towering oak or pine here and there. In the distance, angled to my left, the trees are much thicker.

"Come on man, you know you can't outrun me."

I sigh and slow down. Maverick jogs up beside me, matching me stride for stride.

"What do you want?" I ask, trying not to sound too bitter. I'm calm enough now to realize that Dieter had a good point. I wouldn't be that surprised if the others followed his reasoning over mine, in fact, I'm not sure I want anyone with me for this. What if more of us die?

"Did you think I was gonna let you run off on your own?" he scoffs.

"I don't need help," I say, though we both know that's a lie.

"You don't know where they took her," he points out.

"And you do?"

"Give me five minutes."

Because this is Maverick— and only because this is Mav— I slow to a stop.

"Shouldn't you be with your group?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest for warmth, only to drop them because the motion stretches the burn in a painful way.

"I am." He nods in the direction we came from. Not far back is the rest of the group. Dieter trails behind them, and I can't help but notice with a measure of both smugness and self-loathing that the entire left side of his face is bruised an ugly gooseberry purple to match his black eye. Lower, my gaze finds blue-ish, finger-shaped welts on the soft flesh of his neck.

Maverick holds a fist out towards me, something in it rattling. "You forgot these."

I grin half-heartedly and take the bottle of pills. They rattle pleasantly in my hand. "Thanks."

"What're friends for."

I pop the lid on the pills and shake one into my hand. I wish I could down one now and kill the pain at its roots, but unfortunately that's not how these stupid things work. Resigning myself to the aches, I dump the pill back inside, slipping the bottle into my sweater pocket. When I turn to get a better look at everyone here, I spy Dieter eyeing the top of the pill bottle. Unsettled, I shove it deeper into my pocket.

"So, directions," I say, turning back to Maverick. He holds up a finger for me to wait. His focus is on King, who's bent over against a birch tree. The other guy, whose name I still don't know, gives his back a solid couple of bumps before moving off to check a nearby stream.

"We'll have them in a moment," Mav assures me offhandedly. "King, how's it going over there?"

"I'm good," King wheezes, straightening up. He pounds his chest with the side of his fist, coughing hard once. "Heart's working."

Not more than a minute later a blur zips into our midst and trips to a halt. A spray of gravel kicks up under the blur's feet. I step back instinctively, but Maverick stays impassive.

"Trick, meet Skyelar."

The blur, now that it's not moving, transforms into a person. A sweaty guy with a narrow build and wind-spiked ginger hair stands before us. Dirty goggles obscure his eyes.

"And while we're doing the name thing, this is Piper." Maverick points to the Asian dude. "Delilah." The only girl in the group. "And I hope you at least remember Bakari and Dieter, since you saw them both yesterday." The names all sound vaguely familiar, which means I've probably met them all before, except for Skyelar.

"Sky, this is Trick." Maverick draws an invisible line connecting me and Sky, confirming my suspicion that we've never met before.

"Fastest kid in the Compound, at your service." Sky pries his goggles off, mock curtseying as he does. His accent is distinctly British. Freckles smatter his olive skin, and his narrow blue eyes are full of mirth. We shake. His hand is slender like the rest of him. I can picture him racing around the dome, clutching a rubber knife.

None other than Dieter himself pipes up. "I don't see how he can help." His voice is nasally. I definitely broke his nose, and possibly his cheekbone too. I should have broken his jaw again, then at least he would be suffering in silence. Maverick claps Sky on the back.

"Speedy here has been trailing our guys since they made their escape."

"Where?" I demand.

Sky holds his hands up.

"Woah, mate, ice it," he says, eyebrows disappearing under ginger hair. I clamp my mouth shut, desperate for answers. Sky points a slender finger in the direction he came from.

"There's a camp fifteen miles due east. I'm not going to lie, there are at least a hundred people there, all military, not too friendly looking. You know, like in movies when they show the after shots of a failed big fight before—"

"Sky," Maverick interrupts, "focus."

"Right, at any rate, you could make it there easy enough, just not before nightfall, and some of the terrain you do not want to be navigating in the dark." Sky drops his hand to his side, finished delivering his news.

"Any good campsites?" Maverick asks.

"I might've seen a few. That's a big might, mind you, it's not easy spying details when you're going that fast."

Maverick nods thoughtfully. "Okay. Here's what's happening. We've already hiked at least three miles, and we're all tired from last night and this morning. So, we'll go as far as we can today, set up a camp, scavenge some food if we can, and get as much shuteye as possible." He looks from face to face as he speaks, gauging how we all look and probably skimming our minds to see if anyone's on the verge of collapse, which King might be, or mutiny, which Dieter definitely is.

"Tomorrow morning we'll hike the rest of the way to the camp, grab Elle and whatever else we can, and get out as fast as possible." He clasps his hands together and rocks back on his heels, "Questions, comments, complaints, concerns?"

In response, Dieter starts to shake his head, only to stop sharp. Probably because his head hurts like hell. He settles for a scoffing noise instead.

"Dieter?" Maverick's thumps back onto flat feet, meeting Dieter with a level gaze.

"Is no one concerned about the fact that this is a suicide mission?" Dieter fumes. Piper lets out a low whistle.

"Cheerful bugger you are, mate," Sky quips. Dieter shoots them both glares that could curdle milk.

"My man, you don't have to come with us." Maverick, forever the peacekeeper, steps in before things can escalate. Dieter shifts his angry gaze to him. They stare each other down, an endeavor that Maverick inevitably wins. "You're free to go whenever you like, just don't come back."

Dieter holds his tongue.

"Uh huh." Maverick turns to address the rest of the group. "Anyone else?"

Nobody is particularly enthusiastic, but they don't voice any concerns either. Delilah's eyes are flinty with wild determination. I doubt a rescue mission is the only thing she has in mind for that military camp.

"Alright, now that's settled, let's go." Maverick claps his hands together. "If you're thirsty, grab some snow, if you're hungry, well so is everybody else."

I stoop to scoop up a handful of snow and pop itin my mouth before picking up a brisk jog. The snow numbs the roof of my mouthand tastes like dirt and pine needles. It's a source of water though. I try notto think about the grit in the snow, or the discomfort that's rising inheatwaves off my burn. Focus, by this time tomorrow, I'll have Elle back.