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  Paranoia was new to her. Sam was right. It was time to leave the country. Packing would be easy, she thought, distracted as she brought the sandwich and tea to the sofa. She had one clean outfit. Her gaze on the blank TV, she ate without tasting, feeling her loneliness, her isolation. Sam’s image popped in her mind and she knew he must think she was nuts. Well, more than he already did. She should have told him. He could fix this. She hated being saved, but today, she’d make an exception. She finished off the club sandwich and with her tea, pushed off the sofa. The room swayed. The cup slid from her hand, spilled, and rolled on the floor.

  Viva’s legs went numb and the sensation climbed rapidly up her body. Oh, damn, she thought, and never felt her legs give out beneath her.

  MI6 Surveillance Post

  Bangkok

  Nigel Beecham tapped keys and the encrypted file began its deciphering program. He turned away, pouring another scotch. It would take a bit, he thought, and was in the middle of a sip when the door opened.

  Abernathy rushed in. “I have pictures. Take a look.” He handed them over.

  Abernathy was an eager pup, full of the 007 of MI6, and hadn’t fully realized that time and patience were the key to good intel. He’d swear he was American sometimes, the way he wanted to rush into things like a posse on the trail of a desperado. Patience would bring in more than one man. Killing off cells would only sprout new ones. It was a fight he was tired of making.

  He sifted through the photos.

  “Seen these guys before?”

  Nigel recognized Sebastian, Niran’s shop, and the other, Wyatt. “Can’t say as I do.” He handed them back. “Why tail them?”

  “They were in Mali’s place, seen with Dahl, and beat the stuffing out of a couple of Dahl’s boys.”

  “So?”

  “And my snitch says he’s looking to buy into whatever weapon is up for sale. He’s been in the same places as the Chechen’s men. Need more?”

  “Again I say, so? That leads nowhere; we must first learn why Brigaders are here.” His pious tone irritated Abernathy.

  “To buy weapons, dammit. It’s what they do. Why are you giving me roadblocks, Beecham? Too tired to work for a living?” He gestured to the glass of scotch.

  “I could drink a case and still be sharper than you, Abernathy. And what’s the weapon? Home base hasn’t given us specs, anything. We’re chasing blind without more.”

  “Then I’ll get more.”

  Beecham sat, sipped, and saluted with the glass. “Carry on, then.”

  Abernathy glared, then dropped in front of a computer. “I’ll find out who they are.”

  “If you had a clean photo. A camera phone? With all the equipment we have.” The office was amass with surveillance gear. His back to him, Abernathy’s shoulders tensed. “You chat with Niran?” Nigel asked.

  “He wasn’t forthcoming. Not with anything we didn’t already know.”

  I’m betting he was to Wyatt and Fontenot, Nigel thought, and decided to keep tabs on his old pal.

  The sun had fallen hours before, blanketing the isolated airstrip in inky black. The buzz of flies and the odor of rotting trash cloyed the humid air, mixing with the exotic fragrance of flowers. Near the field that served as a flight deck, garbage cans were tipped over, debris spread over the ground and reeking in the heat.

  It made the building look abandoned.

  The armed guards said otherwise. That and the steel doors with hard locks and a five-inch thick bar.

  Carefully, Sam moved up behind the guard and tapped him. The man turned. Sam slammed his fist down on his gun hand, and with the momentum of his body, drove three fingers into his throat, crushing his larynx. The man choked, the weapon tumbling from his grip. Instantly, Sam locked his arms around the guard’s neck, pushing his head to the side and down. He pressed till he stopped struggling, then lowered him to the ground, and relieved him of a nice assortment of small weapons. He secured and gagged him.

  “Clear,” Sam said in barely a whisper.

  His gaze swept the darkness, zeroing in on Sebastian as he knelt near the doors. Sebastian put up two fingers, then continued setting low percussion charges. A restaurateur now, the man made the best crawfish stew this side of the Mason-Dixon, and set a close-quarters detonation so precise you’d lift your fork and be blown to hell while your plate stayed right where it was. An art, Sam thought, moving past Sebastian to the rear of the building.

  “Drac?”

  “All clear in the west,” Max replied.

  Sam edged around the rear of the building, peered, then jerked back. “Be advised, Drac. A guard, your six.”

  Max was in the front near the hangar doors. “I can take him.”

  “Negative. Eye the west, I’m on it.” Sam rolled around the edge, aiming his MP5. The guard dragged on a joint, inhaling and holding it. Sam approached, waiting till he blew it out. The guard turned, scrambled to aim. Sam threw, the small knife imbedding in his throat. He slowly crumbled to the ground, gurgling.

  “Be advised, one ghosted.” Sam pulled the body into the forest, then flattened to the wall.

  “Charges set,” Sebastian said.

  “Blow it.”

  The sound was soft, like a hissing snake, then a quick, short pop. Sebastian ran to the door, catching the metal bar before it hit the ground, then pushed on the door. It was out of its frame and falling. Sam darted to help and they lowered it to the ground.

  “All yours, buddy. We have twelve minutes till shift change.” Sebastian set his counter, and backed up to guard the perimeter as Sam went inside.

  He snapped on the light attached to his rifle and scanned the hangar. The jet was an old Gulfstream, circa fifteen years ago from the look of it. Sam ignored the jet for now and canvassed the perimeter of the hangar, stopping at a door and nudging it open. He shone his light at all four corners, then backed out and went to the desks in the far left. Lowering his rifle, he pulled out papers, old liquor bottles, and in the bottom drawer found film rolls. With digital cameras so cheap, and the ability to delete anything incriminating, why use film? He pocketed them, clicked on his penlight, and kept searching. He’d liked to have hacked into the files via computer, but it was impossible. Dahl hadn’t lied, they weren’t on any mainframe computer systems, not one they could hack into. It kept them out of the loop, smart, but slow. And that meant paperwork.

  “Outlaw, anything?”

  “No manifest, but fuel charges, flight out from here to Sri Lanka. Two days before the meet.”

  “Rohki was already in country then,” Max said. “For weeks.”

  “Dahl didn’t know for sure if he was on this jet. We know he was expected and probably not the only passenger.”

  Sam rifled, his penlight between his teeth and sliding over the papers as he read. Food? Bills for food and delivery, no address, only a trail of numbers and letters. Pocketing it, Sam searched for more, pulling everything out and laying it on the desk.

  He found another fuel bill, dated for a flight three days from now. Quickly he calculated the pounds of fuel to the distance. It would get them all the way to the Middle East. Shit. They’re making another run. Or was it for their escape?

  “Drac, get in here, disable the jet.”

  Behind him, Max and Sebastian slid around the door frame. Max went to the jet, climbing inside. “This thing’s an antique.”

  “Just make sure it doesn’t lift off.”

  “Dahl’s story checks out,” Max said. “Locks on the cockpit door.”

  “He’s still going down.”

  “I hear you.”

  Sebastian moved around the hangars, inspecting the only other room. “Someone’s been held prisoner,” Sebastian said. “There are ropes under the tables.”

  Sam turned, knocking papers to the floor. “Only ropes?”

  “Yeah, and be advised,” Sebastian said, “if these guys are duty bound, ten minutes to shift change.”

  “Guys,” Max said cautiously. “You aren’t goi
ng to believe what’s in here.”

  Sam pressed the earpiece tighter and glanced over his shoulder. “Try me.”

  “Shackles.”

  Sam frowned and met Sebastian’s gaze. “Come again?”

  “Leg irons lining the walls of this thing. It’s like a damn flying prison.”

  Sam signaled Sebastian to keep watch before he hurried to the jet. The smell hit him first, heavy and foul.

  “Back here.”

  He overtook the seating area, then brushed back the curtain.

  On one knee, Max held an iron brace and looked up. “And there’s blood everywhere. Someone didn’t make it out alive.” He pointed to the rear.

  Sandwiched into a spot where it didn’t fit was a bare mattress heavily stained with blood. “Jesus, they cut their throat.” The blood was black and congealed in the center top. His stomach clenched as his gaze moved down the interior of the aircraft. The irons were old, as if taken from Alcatraz, meant to be heavy and painful. Punishing.

  “What kind of monsters need leg irons?” Sam asked. “You could knock someone out with drugs for hours and not hurt them.”

  “I’m thinking human trafficking.”

  “Slavery? Christ.” His gaze moved over the mess again. It was rank with the smell of feces and blood. They did this to break their spirits, he thought, then pulled out a small, round film case. “I bet they took pictures.”

  “I heard they approach the women with job offers, the kids they just steal.”

  From his position outside, Sebastian chimed in. “Beecham said it’s the biggest crime here, worse than drugs.”

  “Search it, and put this thing out of commission—permanently.”

  “That won’t stop them from getting another jet.”

  “At least this one won’t be leaving the ground.” And might delay any escape.

  Checking his watch, Sam left the aircraft, returning to the desk, gathering anything viable, then picked up the fallen folders. He was going to return it all, but after seeing the jet, he didn’t give a damn. Let them come for me, he thought, and tossed the last file on the desk. Papers slid out, and he turned back, frowning. Shining his light, he opened the file and fanned the sheets. Photos.

  He flipped through them. They were shots of young women, and boys, school age. One was a little girl about twelve in a uniform, walking down a dirt road, swinging a book satchel. The faces were circled, several shots of the same person during their lives; shopping with family, talking with friends, leaving school and waving. Beautiful children, and young women. All marked for kidnapping. A sickness welled in him.

  How many of them were already taken?

  Sam gathered them, then searched the floor for the rest. He lifted a stack, his movements slowing as his eyesight tried to register with his brain.

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  It was a picture of Viva standing at the loft of the cabana. At dawn. The morning he was there. Three days ago.

  And her face was circled.

  Viva heard muffled crying first, then felt the pain in her head. She struggled to open her eyes, move her fingers. Yet several moments passed without success. She forced herself to relax, to not panic, though her blood felt sluggish, her heartbeat slow and pounding in her ears.

  Everything was wrong.

  No smell of the sweet flowers that filled her room, no soft carpet beneath her. She’d fallen, that much she figured. The last thing she recalled was her legs feeling numb. She didn’t know how much time had passed before she could open her eyes. The first thing she saw was the ceiling, a grid of thin metal, missing tiles, cracked or water stained.

  Clearly, you’re not in Kansas, Dorothy.

  Her gaze flicked down to her body, and she was relieved to see she still wore the robe. How much of it was covering her, she didn’t want to know. She couldn’t feel the fabric on her skin. Viva turned her head, but her neck muscles were sluggish, trapping her in slow motion. She glimpsed a young girl crouched in the corner. She couldn’t be more than ten years old, her clothing torn at the shoulder, her hair wild and half in a barrette.

  She strained to see more, but even her eye balls hurt. From her position, flat on her back, she couldn’t see anyone else, but she heard them. Feet shuffling, a cough, the scrape of chairs. The air was stifling hot.

  Then she heard the rattle of chains.

  “Unfriendlies, east side,” Sebastian said, and it galvanized Sam. “Time to split.”

  Sam stuffed the photos inside his flak jacket, then swung his MP5 forward. “Drac, come on.”

  “I’m done, I’m out.” Max darted across the hangar, shoving wires and components in his leg pockets.

  Back to the wall, Sam was on the opposite side of the doorway from Sebastian.

  “Left side, near the road,” Sebastian said. “Green car.”

  “I can smell exhaust,” Max said, then they heard car doors slam.

  “To the right, then rear, and outta here.”

  Sebastian and Max nodded.

  Sam peered, then pointed to his eyes, and held up four fingers. They’d go radio silent from here, their black ops clothing blending them with the darkness. Sam slipped around the edge of the doorway, and went right, darting into the trees, then turned back to cover his teammates. Sebastian moved past, Max coming up fast to his left.

  The guards were visible, armed, and walking to the door blown off its hinges. They stopped short, some wild gestures, then a pair darted inside, the other scanning the area. One pointed to footprints, then they headed toward their positions.

  “Time to fly.” Sebastian touched Sam’s shoulder. He backed up quickly, then turned, racing toward the truck. A few yards shy, he slid to one knee as Sebastian ran to his position, tapping his shoulder again as he passed to the van tucked in the forest.

  Gunfire sliced through the trees, chunking into the ground. Sam didn’t return fire; they were off the mark. “Max!”

  “I’m on it,” he said, threw open the side door and vaulted inside. Sam moved backward, the van’s silhouette barely visible.

  “Sam, get in!” Sebastian called.

  “They’re coming.” He unloaded half a clip, heard the screams, then backed into the van. “Go, go!” He rode shotgun for a block, then slid the door closed, and sighed against the wall. “Head to the Four Seasons.”

  Max frowned into the rearview mirror. “You need to see her now? It’s one in the morning.” Max dragged a cloth over his face, wiping off the black face paint.

  “Someone’s after her.” He pulled the photos out of his flak jacket and handed them to Sebastian.

  He flipped through them, then lifted his gaze to Sam. “Oh, hell, your redhead.”

  Sam nodded, breaking down his gear to light and quick. He packed his pockets with ammo.

  “And the others?”

  “Max was right, human trafficking. Look at those girls, they’re babies, for crissake.” The inside of the jet flashed in his mind, the gruesome cruelty of it.

  Max reached a hand back and Sebastian put a picture in his palm. He glanced as he drove. “Why Viva? She hasn’t been in Bangkok that long. Forty-eight hours maybe. How’d they find her?”

  “Who knows? But we have to stop this.” And he didn’t have much time.

  “I hate to be the bearer of lousy intel, but Beech said it’s rare they ever find them after they’re taken.”

  Sam took the picture back. “She isn’t gone yet.”

  “We have a job to do,” Sebastian reminded him.

  “And we will,” Sam snapped, and slapped papers he’d taken from the desk in Sebastian’s hand. “They’re not sticking around. They have fuel orders that will take that jet as far as Iran.”

  Viva came first.

  Viva opened her eyes and saw a man standing near her feet. He wore a suit, his arms folded over his chest, but it was his eyes that had her, pawing over her body. She lowered her gaze. The robe was open. Humiliation swept through her, leaving a bad taste in her mouth. He inspected her, glance
d to the side, then nodded and turned away. He said something to another and she turned her head. Money exchanged hands and then a small man came to her, covering her and kneeling.

  “Help me,” she croaked, her throat dry. “Please.”

  The man didn’t look at her, didn’t stop in his task. Her gaze lowered to his hands as he injected her with drugs. She didn’t feel the needle, her skin without sensation, her body paralyzed. Tears blurred her vision and fell. Where’s a high-powered rifle when you really need it, she thought, before she sank into oblivion.

  Sam was out of the van before Max brought it to a stop, running to the doors facing the pond, and entered the bungalow. Only two lights were on, one in the bedroom, one over the entrance that led to the side yard toward the hotel.

  He stilled when he saw the tray of tea and touched the pot. Cold. He moved to the bedroom, turned sharply when he heard noise. Sebastian and Max were inside. They didn’t have to voice it. Sam knew. He was too late.

  He went into the bathroom. The clothes she’d worn in the jungle were in a pile next to her boots. He picked up a belt, and frowned at the width of it and realized it was a money belt. Inside were her passport, US driver’s license, and money; a considerable amount in bhat and American currency, some British pounds.

  Max and Sebastian stepped into the bedroom. “She can afford a place like this?”

  “I don’t know. She has the cash and she’s a world traveler. The woman’s been in more countries than all of us combined.” He handed Sebastian her passport while Max searched the drawers, the closets, and under the bed.

  “She’s got one set of clean clothes, some makeup, and a small flight bag, empty. There’s nothing else here except that.” He gestured to the waist belt.

  Sam put everything back inside and stuffed it in his leg pocket. “Call the desk, see if she’s checked out.”

  “Why would she with her cash here?”