Chapter 3

Days bled into one another in that stinking metal box. Twice a day, the door would crack open and a plate of greasy food would be shoved inside by a silent, grim-faced woman. She was older, with tired eyes and bruises on her arms that she tried to hide.

I learned her name was "Mama" Fuller. She was the compound' s cook, a captive just like us.

Wendy spent most of the time crying or blaming me. The air between us was thick with her resentment and my own simmering rage.

On the fourth day, I knew I had to try something. When Mama Fuller brought our food, I caught her eye.

"Please," I whispered, my voice cracking. "You have to help me."

She just shook her head, her eyes wide with fear, and started to back away.

"Wait," I said, pulling something from the hidden pocket of my jeans. It was a spark plug. Not just any spark plug. It was a custom piece I' d machined myself, with my initials-M.J.-faintly engraved on the ceramic insulator. A maker' s mark.

I had left one just like it in Deacon' s engine. He' d found it later and, as Slim had told me back then, kept it as a good luck charm.

"Give this to Deacon," I begged, pressing it into her hand. "Tell him the mechanic from Nevada needs him. Please. He' ll know what it means."

Mama Fuller stared at the spark plug, her hand trembling. She looked from it to my face, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of something other than fear in her eyes. Pity. Maybe even resolve. She quickly hid the spark plug in her apron pocket and scurried away without a word.

It was a long shot, a fragile thread of hope. But it was all I had.

The rest of the day was agonizing. Every sound outside the container made my heart leap. Was it Deacon? Had she done it?

That evening, the container door was thrown open, but it wasn' t Deacon standing there. It was Ryan. And he was holding the spark plug.

He dragged Mama Fuller in behind him, her face pale with terror.

"What' s this?" Ryan asked, his voice deceptively calm as he dangled the spark plug in front of her face.

"It' s nothing," Mama Fuller stammered. "Just an old trinket. From my husband."

Ryan smiled, a slow, predatory grin. "You' re a bad liar, Mama."

He was about to say more, but Wendy, who had been cowering in the corner, suddenly spoke up.

"It' s from her!" she shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at me. "She gave it to the old woman! She told her to take it to Deacon!"

Ryan' s eyes shifted to me. The calm vanished, replaced by a cold fury. He pulled a pistol from his waistband and, without a word, shot Mama Fuller in the leg.

The old woman screamed and collapsed, clutching her bleeding thigh.

Ryan tossed the pistol onto the floor between me and Wendy.

"My father has a rule about not harming women," he said, his voice dripping with venom. "But traitors and liabilities are another story. Only one of you is walking out of here. To earn it, you have to finish the job on the old cook."

I stared at him in horror, then at the gun. I wouldn' t do it. I couldn' t.

But Wendy could.

With a desperate cry, she scrambled for the pistol.