Lena pulled the key card from her pocket—Mercer’s own key card, taken from the dead man in the jungle—and tossed it onto the desk. “The radio frequency for the supply boat. The one that comes every three months from Puntarenas.”

Lena froze. The rustling stopped. Five seconds. Ten. Then a dozen small heads poked out of the undergrowth, eyes like black beads, mouths full of needle teeth. They chirped at her—a sound like a nest of baby birds, but sharper. Hungrier.

The tyrannosaur blinked. And then, slowly, it turned and vanished into the jungle.

She wasn’t alone on the island.

The woman’s eyes widened. “You’re Martin’s daughter.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the photograph. The little compy. The smile. The miracle.