Page 107 of The Hunter's Empire

"You're surprisingly good at this." I admit as I stand. "I expected you to last about five minutes before trying to negotiate with the island."

He looks over at me, one brow lifting. "Is that your way of complimenting me?"

"It wasn't a compliment."

A faint smile tugs at his mouth. "I'll take it anyway."

I roll my eyes. "Of course you will."

By the time we make our way back toward the beach, the tide has left behind more than seaweed and driftwood. Pieces of luggage, sections of the aircraft, scattered emergency supplies that includes blankets, and even a handful of knives and other equipment torn free during the crash have washed ashore during the night, spreading across the sand in a trail that stretches farther than I can see.

Neither of us wastes time.

We search everything that looks remotely useful, setting aside unopened bottles of water, a small first-aid kit, emergency blankets, a flare gun with two flares, and anything else that might help us survive another night.

While I sort through the supplies, Nico disappears into the jungle. He returns a short while later carrying several coconuts and a handful of tropical fruit.

I glance at what he's carrying. "You know those are edible?"

A faint smile crosses his face. "I do."

I narrow my eyes. "You're disturbingly competent."

"Hm."

He cracks open a coconut against a rock and hands it to me.

For the first time since the crash, it almost feels as though we've been given a chance to breathe.

The meal is simple, but after everything we've been through, it feels like a feast. We eat in silence on a stretch of rock overlooking the ocean, enjoying a few precious moments where neither of us thinks about the jet, the people hunting us, or the island that has become our prison. But the illusion doesn't last.

Nico's head snaps toward the tree line before I hear anything. His expression changes so abruptly that my stomach drops.

Before I can ask what's wrong, his hand closes around my wrist.

"Down." He says, his voice barely louder than a breath.

He pulls me behind a cluster of boulders just as several figures emerge from the jungle.

I hold my breath.

There are at least eight of them that I can see, all dressed in tactical gear and carrying assault rifles. They move with purpose rather than panic, sweeping the area in coordinated formations instead of wandering aimlessly. This isn't a rescue party searching for survivors.

It's a hunt.

One of the men kneels near the shoreline, studying footprints in the sand before gesturing toward the jungle. The others immediately change direction.

"They're tracking us." I whisper.

Nico doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. The hard set of his jaw tells me everything.

We wait until the last man disappears into the trees before either of us moves again.

"We can't stay here." He says quietly.

I nod.

For the next several hours, the island becomes a maze of constant movement. Every decision has to be deliberate, every step carefully placed. We avoid open ground whenever possible, weaving through dense vegetation and rocky terrain while Nico periodically stops to listen for voices or movement ahead.