Foss hadn't given much thought to the journey itself. His focus had been entirely on the mission ahead, not the road to get there. So, he quickly grew tired of lying in some hidden smuggling compartment with Nash and a biker named Sack, surrounded by kilos of drugs, in pitch darkness, and with their hands tied. For hours on end.

After six hours, they were allowed out to piss. Foss's muscles burned as he squeezed himself through the cramped container space, dodging steel pipes and pallets. They'd stopped at a secluded parking lot, surrounded by trees. Two armed men escorted them out one by one to relieve themselves on the side. Foss reminded himself that these men believed he was kidnapped. He let his eyes dart around as if searching for an escape.

"If you try anything, you can shit yourself for the rest of the trip," one of the men warned. He was in his early forties, with a thick beard and a cap pulled so low over his face that his eyes were barely visible.

Foss walked to the edge of the lot. It was awkward having to pee with a gun pointed at his back, but he didn't have much choice. Thankfully, his bladder was on the verge of bursting anyway.

Once Foss was done, his companions followed. When the three of them had proven sufficiently cooperative, they were handed a piece of bread and a bottle of water. Their backpacks had been confiscated, though the water bottle with the hidden tracker was thankfully still clipped to his belt.

Fifteen minutes later, they were shoved back into the hidden compartment. Foss tried to make himself comfortable again, preparing for more hours of Nash's incessant chatter. Sack was silent, which only heightened Nash's nerves. They'd already endured a monologue about sea cucumbers, vampire squids, and ghost fish—Nash's brief obsession with marine life from years ago seemed to have resurfaced.

This time, Nash moved on to sharing his experiences with the worst Twilight fanfictions he'd ever read. It didn't take long for Foss to tune him out entirely, the droning turning into white noise until he drifted into a restless sleep.

Eventually, the truck stopped somewhere along the Mexican coast. There, they were transferred to a fishing boat. The two armed men handed them off without ceremony to the impatient captain, who ushered them onto the deck. Once they were out at sea, their ropes were cut, and they were immediately put to work.

Armed with stiff brushes and buckets of seawater, they scrubbed the deck, clearing away fish guts, blood, and seaweed. It was disgusting work, made worse by the slick surfaces and the constant rocking of the boat. The stench, combined with the motion, left Foss nauseous, and he vomited overboard multiple times.

They were tossed a meager meal when night fell and it became too dark to work. The five-man crew retreated to their cabin, leaving one on watch. In broken English, they were told to sleep on the deck. The captain threw them a tarp and gestured vaguely toward the wheelhouse, where they might find some shelter.

Foss picked up the tarp and dragged it over to the wheelhouse. Amidst the nets and crates of ice, they found a relatively sheltered spot.

"Yeah, this wasn't exactly part of the plan," Nash muttered, wrapping the tarp around his shoulders. "It feels like this fish smell will never leave my nose. Or my hair."

Despite scrubbing his hands thoroughly, Foss still picked scales stuck to his skin. Nash was right—this was rough. The thought that his brother had probably endured this as a young child, without understanding where he was being taken, made it even worse.

"This probably isn't what you signed up for either," Nash said to Sack. "When you joined a motor club."

Sack's blond hair, damp from the sea air, hung in strands down to his shoulders. His beard was slightly fuller than Foss's, and though the night had swallowed the colors, Foss remembered his pale blue eyes from earlier.

Sack stared into the distance, looking more tense than he had in the truck—maybe he wasn't fond of the water. "We do what we have to," he said.

"How long have you been with the club?" Foss asked.

"I got my patch about five years ago. But... I was away for a while."

"In prison? With my dad?"

Sack shook his head, silent for a moment. "No. I was... somewhere else."

"On the island. With my aunt," Foss said, piecing it together. He remembered the articles he'd read while searching for information about Happy. They mentioned not only her abduction but also that of a friend. A Son. The name wasn't given, but judging by Sack's age—Foss guessed only slightly older than himself—it seemed plausible.

"Yeah."

It wasn't exactly a topic you could pry into easily.

"Did you escape?" Nash asked, undeterred. "How'd you do it? I mean—it's good to know what we're all capable of, right? Me? You can't rely on me much. Tig gave me a crash course on shooting the other week, but, uh, I wasn't great at it. I'm more here for moral support. And sometimes, I swear I can get things done with my charm."

"Don't sell yourself short," Foss said, nudging Nash with his knee. "You're good at coming up with quick plans. They're often reckless, but they work. Sometimes."

Nash chuckled. "Sometimes. Sometimes not." He glanced back at Sack, who didn't seem inclined to share more about himself.

"We should try to sleep," Sack said instead. "Long days ahead."

Maybe he was right. But Foss knew he'd be awake for at least another hour—thanks to the hard planks, the rocking of the boat, the cold, and the dampness. There would not only be long days.

They were woken before dawn. A few harsh commands made it clear—they were expected to help cast and haul in the nets.

The coarse ropes left welts on their hands, and once the heavy nets were hauled in, they had to sort and clean the catch.

By the second day, their hands were covered in small cuts. The fish were slippery, and their exhaustion made it hard to keep steady. More than once, they slipped with the filleting knives, narrowly avoiding worse injuries.

There was barely a moment to rest. Every time they thought they could catch their breath, they were ordered to load cleaned fish into ice crates, drag them across the deck, or scrub the planks. It became painfully clear—they weren't passengers. They were free labor. No, slaves was a more accurate term.

After four grueling days, the ship finally docked in a small fishing village. Foss felt indescribably filthy. He probably looked the part too. The other two certainly did.

For a moment, they dared to hope they'd reached Colombia, but the captain's casual remark crushed that hope. They were in Honduras.

From there, they were loaded into a truck, and another long journey began.

The three of them sat in silence as the truck rattled through Nicaragua and Panama. The stench of fish clung to them, their clothes stiff with grime. Even Nash, usually full of quips, had fallen quiet, withdrawn into himself.

Foss's thoughts kept circling back to Alec. How had his brother endured this journey? Had he been completely alone? Or had there been others, someone like Nash to stick by him through the worst of it?

Foss desperately hoped Alec hadn't been alone. But then another thought struck him—what if Alec had found a new life for himself? What if he didn't want to leave? What if having a twin brother wouldn't change his mind?

That's his choice, Foss reminded himself. But at least he'll know the truth. And we'll have done everything we could.

After three endless days, they arrived in Colón, a town on Panama's coast. There, they were taken to a small motorboat that would depart under the cover of darkness to cross the Gulf of Urabá.

"Another day and a half," they were told. Just a day and a half more, and they would reach Colombia.

The crossing was monotonous, unbearably long, and highly uncomfortable. But the weather stayed calm. There were no storms, no encounters with border patrols. And, most importantly, no one had found the tracker hidden in Foss's water bottle.

Everything was still going according to plan.