In a very odd way, it was almost as though being buried underground had helped train her for this. Every part of her body ached, but she ignored it. She was too tired to cry. She thought about hiding out here, finding a covered spot and just staying put in the hopes that someone would come and rescue her.

But that wouldn’t work.

For one thing, she needed sustenance. She had been dehydrated before all this started. Now it was getting worse. For another, the three men after her kept crisscrossing the woods, keeping her on the move. One of the men had been so close to her at one point that she could overhear Juicehead say, “If she’s out that far, she’ll die before she ever gets back.”

It was a clue. Don’t keep running in that direction away from the farm. There was nothing for her out that way. So what to do?

She had no choice. She had to get back to the farmhouse.

So for the last . . . she had no idea how long; time had become irrelevant—Dana kept on the move, moving a yard or two at a time. She stayed low. She didn’t have a compass, but she thought she still knew the general direction. She had run out here in pretty much a straight line. The return was more a zigzag.

The woods were thick, making her rely more on sound sometimes than sight, but finally, up ahead, she thought that she saw a clearing.

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

Dana commando-crawled toward it, moving with everything she had, which wasn’t all that much. It wouldn’t do—commando crawling was simply too exhausting. She risked getting to her feet, her head reeling from the blood rush, but every time her foot touched down on the dirt, a fresh jolt of agony rushed up her leg. She got back down and tried all fours.

It was slower going.

Five, maybe ten minutes later, she broke through the last line of trees and reached the farmhouse clearing.

So now what?

She had somehow managed to come back to exactly the place she had entered the woods. Up ahead of her was the back of that barn. To the right stood the farmhouse. She had to move. Staying where she was left her too exposed.

She made a dash for the barn.

With death so close behind her, Dana figured that she’d be able to push past the pain in her foot. But that wasn’t working. The daggers turned her sprint turn into a spastic one-legged hop. Her joints ached. Her muscles tightened.

Still, if she stopped, she would die. A simple equation when you thought of it that way.

She half fell against the side of the barn, pressing her body tight against the wall as though that might make her invisible.

So far, she was in the clear.

Okay, good. No one had spotted her yet. That was the key. Next step?

Get help.

How?

She thought about running down the drive. That had to lead to an exit, right? But she had no idea how far it was, and worse, it was wide open. She would be spotted and picked off easily.

Still, it was an option.

Dana craned her neck, trying to see to the end of the road. It was too far away.

So now what?

She had two choices. One, run down the road. Take your chances that way. Two, hide someplace. Hope someone comes to rescue her or maybe she could sneak out under nightfall.

She couldn’t think straight. Hiding till nightfall seemed somewhat feasible, but she couldn’t count on anything approaching an immediate rescue. Her tired, confused brain added up the pros and cons and reached a conclusion: Making a run for it was the best of a lot of bad options. No, she had no idea how far it was to the road. No, she didn’t know how close any other people or traffic were.

But she couldn’t just stay here and wait for Juicehead to come back.

She had gone only about ten yards toward the road when the front door of the farmhouse opened. The computer guy with the knit cap, tinted glasses, and wild shirt stepped onto the porch. Dana hopped to the left and dove headfirst into the barn. She scrambled on all fours toward the metal tool table. The rope—the one Juicehead had planned to tie her with—was still on the floor.

She waited to see if the computer guy came into the barn. He didn’t. Time passed. She had to risk it. This “hiding” spot was too exposed. She slowly crawled out from under the table. Tools were hung on the wall in front of her. There were several saws, a wooden mallet, a sander.

And an axe.

Dana tried to stand up. Whoa, the head rush again. She started to black out, forcing her to take a knee.

Slow down. Steady.

Running down that road wasn’t feeling like much of an option anymore.

Deep breaths.

She had to move. Juicehead and his friends would be coming back soon. Dana struggled to her feet and reached for the axe. She pulled it off the wall. It was heavier than she thought, almost knocking her back to the floor. She regained her balance and gripped the axe with two hands.

It felt good.

So now what?

She took a peek out the barn door. The computer guy was smoking a cigarette near the drive.

Running was definitely out.

So what was option two again? Hiding, right?

She took a look behind her. There was no decent place in the barn to hide. Her best bet, she realized, was to get to the farmhouse. She looked toward the back. The kitchen, she knew, was there.

Kitchen. Food.

Just the thought of that—of getting food in her belly—made her dizzy.

But more than that, there was a computer in the farmhouse. A phone too.

A way to get help.

The guy with the knit hat still had his back to her. There wouldn’t be a better chance. Keeping one eye on him, Dana crept toward the kitchen door of the farmhouse. She was completely exposed now, tiptoeing at a spot about halfway between the barn and the back of the house, when the guy with the knit hat dropped the butt of his cigarette onto the ground, stomped on it, and turned toward her.

Dana lowered her head and sprinted with all she had to the back of the house.

• • •

Titus waited in the car near the corner of Columbus Avenue. He didn’t like being back in the city, even though the ritzy Upper West Side had about as much to do with his old life as a vagrant has to do with a hedge fund manager. It was almost as if something were drawing him back to the life Titus had neatly put behind him.

He didn’t want to be here.

Clem Sison crossed the street and slid back into the driver’s seat. “Donovan’s not home.”

Clem had gone into Kat Donovan’s building with a “package” that needed her signature. The doorman had informed him that she wasn’t home right now. Clem thanked him and said that he’d return.

Titus didn’t like staying away from the farm any longer than necessary. He considered heading back and leaving Clem behind to make the grab, but Clem wouldn’t be able to handle this alone. He was muscle, good with a gun and taking orders and not much else.