You didn’t choose the O’Driscolls. And you sure as hell didn’t choose this.

The last thing you remember is shouting—gunfire. Someone grabbing you as everything turned to smoke and chaos.

Your vision is hazy, the back of your head throbbing. You try to move, but your arms are pinned behind you, bound to the trunk of a tree.

“Don’t bother tryin’ to slip out,” Jack mutters. “Saw you twitchin’.”

He steps closer, checking the rope. It’s firm, but he doesn’t tighten it. He even loosens it slightly where it was cutting your wrist.