The moon barely lit the dirt path ahead, but I didn’t dare slow down. My lungs burned, my legs felt like lead, but stopping meant death—or worse. The O’Driscolls were close. Too close. Their voices rang out behind me, snarling my name like wolves on a wounded deer.

“C’mon, boy! Colm just wants a word!” one of them hollered, laughter in his voice.

But he knew better. He had seen what Colm did to traitors. He wouldn’t just kill Kieran—he’d make an example out of him.

A bullet whizzed past his head, snapping a branch clean off a tree. Kieran veered off the path, stumbling through thick underbrush, his heart hammering. Branwen was shot out from under him miles back. But there is no time to mourn. Just had to run. Keep runnin’, Kieran.

The Van der Linde camp was close now. If he could just make it to them—Dutch, Arthur, somebody—they wouldn’t let these bastards take him. Kieran wasn’t sure they trusted him yet, but they sure as hell weren’t the O’Driscolls. Kieran had to believe that meant something.

He broke through the tree line, and there it was—their camp, glowing with firelight in the distance. Just a little farther. Kieran's lips parted, ready to scream for help—

Pain exploded in his side. A force slammed into him, tackling the ex-O'driscoll to the ground. He hit the dirt hard, gasping as rough hands grabbed his arms. He thrashed, kicking, biting—anything—but more of them swarmed the poor stable-hand.

“Gotcha, you little snake,” one of them spat, twisting Kieran's arm behind my back until he yelped in pain.

Kieran lifted my head, coughing up dirt, and saw the camp just beyond reach. He could see figures moving, maybe even heard voices. So close.

A burlap sack yanked over his head, and the world turned black.