The journey seemed endless. After crossing into Colombia by motorboat, they were loaded onto a truck that drove them inland. When the roads became less passable, a four-wheel-drive vehicle took over. Then came another boat. A quick overnight stop in a village, and then yet another motorboat. By the time Foss stepped off the vessel again to begin a long hike, he'd lost all sense of time. Branches lashed against his skin, his arms bound behind his back, and more than once, one smacked him in the face, defenseless as he was. Blood trickled down his lip. The stench of rotting fish had mingled with the days-old sweat on his skin. The mosquitoes didn't care; they landed freely on his body, sucking his blood through his clothes. The bites itched maddeningly, and there was no way to scratch.

Ahead of him, Nash tripped over one of the countless tangled roots. One of the six armed men escorting them yanked him roughly to his feet. They carried firearms and wore large backpacks stuffed with smuggled goods.

Foss had a sinking feeling they'd be hiking for days and sleeping on the ground. If they truly were a hundred kilometers from civilization, how would they ever find their way back? Then, suddenly, he spotted huts amid the greenery. They were made of branches, mud, and grass. Through a narrow entrance, he glimpsed hammocks and plastic tarps.

Foss stopped. The longer he looked, the more he saw. Large containers were hidden among the bushes. High in the trees, wooden structures served as lookout posts. A shove to his back urged him onward. They emerged into a small training ground, and his throat tightened when he saw a group of children doing push-ups, sit-ups, and climbing drills. Their faces were focused, their eyes hard in a way that unnerved him. Some of them didn't look older than six.

"Are those the new recruits?"

Foss turned. He hadn't heard the man approach. He was broad-shouldered, in his fifties by Foss' guess, with tree-trunk arms and a military uniform.

When their escorts murmured an affirmation, the man frowned and swept his gaze over the newcomers. Foss fought to keep his nerves in check, holding his gaze steady. If he figures us out now... we'll end up with bullets in our heads, and I'll never meet my brother.

Clearing his throat, he began, "I'm Foss. I'm here to repay the debt—"

The man struck him with the butt of his rifle. Foss' head snapped to the side, and sharp pain radiated through his jaw. "You speak when spoken to. Understood?"

Blood pooled in Foss' mouth. He spat a thick glob onto the ground and nodded obediently. "Understood, sir. Commandant."

"Comandante, yes. Comandante Villca."

His jaw throbbed. Foss kept his gaze on the muddy ground between himself and Villca, waiting for the man to continue.

"I trust it's been made clear what we expect from you: you contribute, or a loved one suffers. The reverse is also true: if one of those loved ones fails us, you bear the consequences. You'll train with the other recruits, though on a modified schedule given your age. You'll receive strength and weapons training, and tactical instruction if you earn our trust. Every soldier must also be able to survive in the wilderness. Soldier Jorge will instruct you in the coming weeks."

The man must have been waiting for some signal because in the blink of an eye, he was beside them. He looked a few years younger than they were but had a hardened, serious expression. He nodded respectfully at his superior. "You can count on me, comandante."

"Good. Show them to the river, then put them to work."

With that, the commander strode off.

Foss exhaled in relief. That was it. They were in. Apparently, they trusted Hana so much that no one was suspicious. Neither Jorge nor the commander had looked at him oddly, and he wondered if he truly resembled his brother. If not, how could they ever get him out? Or worse, what if he wasn't even here? What if we've walked straight into a trap with our eyes wide open? The question of whether Jorge knew someone named Alec burned on his lips. But he held himself back and followed the man to the river, a brown stream that made Foss wonder if he'd ever get clean. On the other hand—could it get any dirtier?

"I get the uniforms and jabón," Jorge said in broken English.

Foss had no idea what the latter part meant. He'd find out soon enough. He didn't care, though; his whole body itched, and at that moment, all he wanted was to get into the water.

Jorge cut the ropes binding their wrists. The skin stung, and Foss gently rubbed over it. Then, he started peeling off his filthy clothes and stepped into the water. A pleasant chill shot through him as he swam a little away from the shore.

"You think there are crocodiles here?" Nash asked, eyeing the water suspiciously.

"Probably. But I bet even they'll avoid us because we stink so bad."

Nash smiled faintly and stepped into the water as well. Silently, as he had for most of the journey, Sack followed. With a few strokes, they moved away from the shore. Not too far into the middle—the current picked up there.

"On the other side, three people are on watch," Sack remarked quietly.

"That must be the camp's boundary." Foss let his gaze sweep the treeline but could only spot one guard. "What do we do now?"

"The trip took longer than we anticipated. The others will create a distraction at dusk in two nights. Before then, we need to find your brother and figure out an escape route. I know we assumed your brother would know the way, but if he doesn't come with us..." Sack looked at him pointedly.

His tone was pragmatic, stripped of any emotion. It was eerie—during the time they'd spent together, Foss had yet to see Sack express any emotion. He was likely someone who kept his head cool at all times and a valuable addition to their small team. Still, Foss wanted to know the people he depended on a little better, and with the wall Sack had built around himself, that felt nearly impossible.

"Oh, look, here comes the hero!" Nash's attention was fixed on the shore behind them.

Foss turned around. Jorge had returned, not only with the uniforms he'd mentioned but also towels and bars of soap. Soap. Man, that really felt like a gift from heaven.

Along with the other two, he swam back to shore, where Nash dubbed the soldier his new favorite person. Foss wrapped his fingers around the white bar and immediately began scrubbing himself. Finally, he felt like he was washing off the scales and fish blood.

Knowing they'd be in trouble if they were caught soaking for half an hour, Foss climbed out of the water as soon as he felt clean enough. Though he dried off with the towel, it was damp from the climate, and he couldn't get himself truly dry. Once he gave up on drying, he put on the olive-green uniform. It came with rain boots and a cap. It was a bit tight, but it would do.

Jorge spoke again. The man spoke English as well as Foss spoke Spanish, so he quickly gave up on listening. He looked at Nash, who had always been better with languages than with the sciences. Foss was the opposite.

"He's taking us to the training field. He wants to assess our strength and endurance."

Foss nodded, even though he was exhausted from the long journey. Hopefully, the guy would take that into account. On the other hand... they wouldn't stay long. While they waited out their time here, they just had to stay under the radar.

He rested his hand on the water bottle. And we have to hope that this tracker still works.

Foss was dead tired. Really dead tired—he could barely stand. First, they'd had to do dozens of push-ups, sit-ups, and similar exercises, then run up a hill with backpacks filled with stones, through the winding thorn bushes.

Now they were wrecked. Darkness had fallen by the time they returned to camp. Around a campfire, they saw the other recruits for the first time, all eating in silence. There was no sign of camaraderie.

With shaking legs, Foss sank down on the edge. Children about seven years old were passing around bowls. In the dark, he couldn't make out what was inside, but it looked like a mix of leaves, roots, and mushrooms. Meanwhile, he scanned his surroundings, searching for a face that resembled his own. Most people near him were teenagers. Across the fire sat the commander, surrounded by other adults.

Could his brother be sitting there? How could he search for him without drawing attention? For some reason, he'd expected this to be easier. The camp was large, almost like a small village. They could live completely past each other here for days.

"Do you think it'll blow our cover if I drop a hint that I know my brother's here?" he asked in a whisper. "They already know I'm here because of my mother."

"I don't know," mumbled Nash. "We don't know anything about that guy. If he's even remotely rebellious, it might be even more reason to keep an eye on him—and us."

Foss suppressed a sigh. There wasn't much casual chatter, so it wasn't easy to ask about him unobtrusively. Hopefully, he'd have more luck tomorrow.

Unfortunately, the next day, they didn't catch even a glimpse of Alec. They were sent with three other recruits to tackle an obstacle course. After that, they were sent into the woods to chop fallen logs into pieces. Every breath Foss took was thick with moisture. He was suffocating, and the heat was unbearable. His too-small uniform left welts on his skin, and his hands were covered in mosquito and other bug bites.

There was a silver lining: Nash had managed to get someone talking. A fourteen-year-old boy who'd been held here against his will for a few months now. He was from a village on the edge of the jungle, where children were abducted more than once.

"I can ask him about your brother," Nash said as they picked at another miserable dinner. The boy sat nearby, and Foss glanced at him briefly. He only spoke Spanish.

Foss hesitated. He knew they were running out of time. They had to try something.

"Alright," he said eventually. "Go ahead and ask."

As Nash moved toward the boy, Foss's nerves kicked in. The mush in his bowl seemed even harder to choke down. He forced himself not to strain to overhear the conversation—it wasn't like he'd understand much of it anyway. Instead, he focused on the kids around him. Were their parents going through the same agony his mother had? Or had they already lost their parents, leaving this as the only "family" they had now?

He forced himself to keep eating. They'd need every bit of strength for what lay ahead.

About ten minutes later, Nash came back. "Bad news," he said with a sigh. "The boy knows a soldier named Alec. Apparently, he was sent on a mission to a nearby village not long ago. Chances are slim he'll be back before tomorrow night."

"Damn it." Foss clenched the hollowed-out shell serving as his bowl. "So what now?"

"I don't know." Nash sighed again. "We should've agreed on a signal to delay the raid. Smoke signals or something."

Foss snorted. He couldn't picture Happy or his mother deciphering smoke signals. Communication just wasn't possible—not when they were stuck in an unfamiliar area. It wasn't like they could leave a note at some obvious landmark.

"Then I'll need to get a message to him," Foss said, thinking aloud. Easier said than done. He hadn't seen any paper around here. Maybe there was some in the command tent? But there was no way he'd get in there unnoticed.

"Javier could deliver a message," Nash suggested, nodding toward the boy. "Especially if we promise to get him out too. He wants to leave."

Foss swallowed another bite of the tasteless mush, still feeling uneasy. He just didn't think the boy would be as convincing as he could be himself. "I think it's better if I stay. Sack and you can escape and explain the situation. Then we can work out something clearer—a signal, maybe, or some kind of sign to show I've spoken to Alec and that he's willing to leave with us."

And if he got caught in the meantime, at least the other two would be safe.

In the end, they all agreed. If the Sons caused a distraction tomorrow, Foss would stay behind to wait for his brother.