Declan opened his eyes to the glow of a bare, dim bulb hanging from the ceiling. The edges of the room were darkened, but he could tell he was in a basement, windowless and grim, and with an old musty smell. Sort of like the cellar at his old childhood farmhouse in Missouri, but centuries old. He strained his eyes through the soft light, not finding anyone, scanning the mud walls and not finding any exits. Then he turned his head as far as he could to the side, twisting until a sharp pain exploded up his spine and into his brain stem. He barely managed to stifle a groan as the muscles in his neck protested and he saw white stars in his vision. He froze. Something had gone seriously wrong with his neck. His head, too, aching more and more as he awakened fully to the realization that he’d been savagely beaten and taken and tied up in this room. He adjusted his position slightly, this time eliciting a gasp of pain as his ribs protested. He felt battered and bruised, like a punching bag. It came back to him in a rush. The confrontation with that group of men who’d somehow managed to track their escape—

Sophia. Where was she? He forced himself to shift again, to peer into the darker areas of the room. He wasn’t alone. After painfully turning his neck to look over his shoulder, he saw the bruised and unconscious face of Sophia. She was tied up in a chair behind his, her lip bloody, eye blackened. Fury prompted a rush of heat through his body. Fucking cowards, beating a woman. His pulse throbbed in his neck, his heart pounding with anger. He strained against his bindings. His sore and stiff fingers clutched into fists, desperate to smash something. Preferably one or more of their captors’ faces. Bloodlust.

What was it about her that evoked such a response?

Despite the markings, the horrific result of her beating, Sophia’s beauty shone through the darkness of both the basement and the situation.

Who was she, really?

Declan heard voices, coming from up above. Their Afghani captors were discussing “the American woman,” how news of her disappearance had reached global media outlets. They spoke of her like she was more than just a random opportunistic kidnapping. These men knew her whole story, at least much more than Declan had known from Jackson and from his brief and incredibly stressful conversations with her.

Now they were talking about her father, a member of the diplomatic envoy. But she came to the dinner as his representative. Why were they interested in her? Had they known what she’d really been doing there?

He heard other voices now, closer voices. Two guards stationed right outside the door of their room. Their cell. And then an even closer voice. The soft whispy murmurings of Sophia as she stirred awake.

The quiet swearing came shortly after, the poor girl likely realizing that she’d been kidnapped for the second time in the same day. Or night. Or whatever time it was. Declan just knew that he was tired.

And definitely tired of translating Farsi.

He forced words out of his swollen lips. “Be strong, Sophia. Stay strong—”

“Where are we?” she said. “What is this?” She was whispering, Declan almost happy not to be facing her. He was also tired of seeing the pain marked on her face. For now, it would be easier to keep her just as a voice. Safe, over his shoulder. His job, at the very least, was to keep that voice calm and quiet.

But how could he possibly do that without any answers to her questions? Or his own questions?

“Declan . . . where are we? What do they—” she whimpered, low in her throat.

He heard her catch her breath, followed by a low moan of pain.

She spoke again. “Declan, do you know what they’re saying?” The guards began to speak again, this time their conversation turning to some interpersonal gossip that had nothing to do with their current predicament. Good. Keep their mind on something else.

“I don’t know what they’re saying now,” Declan said. He studied the interior of the basement but didn’t see a way out. Not yet anyway. He had to keep her calm, a challenge in itself, but under these circumstances . . . “They were talking about moving us to a new location. Something more permanent.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” she said, “permanent. Permanent scares me.”

“As it should, but I like the idea of us moving out of here.”

“Yeah,” she said weakly.

“The transition,” Declan said. “It might give us an opportunity to get loose. Maybe our only opportunity.”

“Well, what do we do?”

“Whatever we can.”

“What’s that mean?” She took a breath.

“We take what they give us,” Declan said, reminding himself that she was a civilian, despite the action and guts he’d seen from her. “I just need you to stay on your toes, and to follow my lead when I lead it.”

“Okay.”

“Things will happen fast, and I need you to commit with me.” He had no idea at the moment what the hell he was going to do, but he knew he would do something. He refused to just lie there and let those guys kill him without a fight. Or her.

“I guess I’ve got no other choice.”

“Keep an eye open,” Declan said. “Sleep lightly. How are you, by the way? Do you think you’re concussed?”

“I would say yes, considering the fact that I slept pretty heavy.”

Declan told her how heavy he slept, too. He had no idea how they’d gotten there. Or wherever “there” even was.

“How about the rest of you?” she said. “They beat you up pretty good. Nothing broken, right?”

“Not that I can tell. I mean, every part of me hurts, but not enough to stop me from doing anything about it.” He paused. “You?” She said nothing for a moment, but he heard rustling. Trying to get loose? He continued, “At least I don’t think so. They tied me up so tight it’s hard to tell.”

“Like what?” she said. “What can we do?”

“Just like I said, it’ll present itself to us.” A sigh came from behind him. Declan said, “It’ll present itself to me, then I’ll let you know.”

Another sigh? Was she yawning now?

“Unless you have some idea of your own,” he said.

“I’m just obviously a little frustrated right now.”

“I’m sorry I can’t give you any solid answers, but . . .”

“I’m just so . . .”

Declan finally couldn’t hold it back, his own frustration. “What did you expect was going to happen to you? You really thought you could come alone here with zero military training, zero language skills . . .”

“I have—”

“Middle Eastern art,” he said, interrupting her. “You can curate a good collection in New York. But how about the art of war?”

“How about you just use your experience and get us out of here?”

“You come over here acting like a spy . . . Jesus Christ.”

He knew it would happen. Tied up like this, so intimately entwined, but separated by everything except for words. At some point, he would have to get real with her. He’d have to tell Sophia how simply asinine the whole thing was.

What else could he tell her?

They had nothing but time to figure that out. But how much time? Minutes or days? Declan was about to begin the process when Sophia beat him to it. She mumbled something like, “It’s like I told you . . . about the general.”

“Makes no sense, Sophia. Why you? No training, no experience? He just tapped you on the shoulder and thought it might be a good idea?” She said nothing. “Do you know General Ironside?”

“Not personally.”

“You should never have gotten mixed up in something like this. Not only was it incredibly stupid, but I’m appalled that the general even considered it—”

“What,” she said, “You never heard of a curator working for a US military general?”

“No. I haven’t. Frankly, I think it’s one of the worst ideas ever.” He paused, then said, “Don’t take that as criticism of you, either. Wait. It is. You should have known better. Maybe he snowed you, maybe not, but—”

“Maybe it’s my fault that I’ve accepted it,” she said, sniffling a little, maybe at some blood in her nose.

“It’s definitely pretty far astray from standard operating procedures. So, what was it? Why you? Do you have some special talent I’m unaware of?”

“Maybe I’m just a sap,” she said. “Maybe that’s it.”

“You seem too smart for that.”

“Too smart, then.”

“Well,” he said, “give me a chance to decide. What exactly did Ironside have you do?”

“I went in as an art expert. And I am, too. My dad’s an envoy, and we implied that he was sick and couldn’t attend the reception. I went in his place. It was supposed to be a simple task. And it was, really, getting inside the house. It was the planting bugs part that got me a little nervous. But I did it anyways. I did it. I thought I did it secretly.”

“You knew how to do that? Did you have any training or anything?”

“Training for what? I just stuck them in good hiding spots and hoped for the best.”

“Hoped to not wake up in some basement,” Declan said. “So I’m guessing this Abbas dude is pretty dirty. Dirty dealings, more than art. Ironside trying to listen in to get some evidence?”

“Yeah,” she said, and left it at that.

“Well, he’s got some evidence now.”

“I don’t know what he has,” Sophia said.

“He has news of you kidnapped. Looks like news spread far and wide, too.”

“Oh, God.” Her voice melted into an anguished whimper. “God, my mom . . .”

Declan knew better than to say a word.

“What did the news say about it?”

“What?” Declan said.

“The news reports.”

“I heard it from our guards. Apparently, they get cable here.”

“I wonder what else they get.”

He chuckled somehow and said, “Hopefully not a drone strike. I’ll settle for one once we leave.”

“I’ll settle for just fucking leaving.”

The door suddenly opened and Sophia got her wish.

Four men came in, two for each of them. Their legs were untied and then they were yanked up to their feet and propelled out of the room. Sophia gasped in pain and protested. The sharp sound of a slap resulted. She swore and was slapped again for her insolence.

Declan kept his mouth shut, watching every move, studying every one of the captors, looking for a weakness, a chance to escape. None presented itself. The guards walked them out of the basement and out into an alleyway that was dark, quiet, and deserted.

A nondescript white van waited nearby, back doors wide open. The two of them were literally flung inside, Declan first, then Sophia. She landed half on top of him, then the doors slammed shut. He heard a sniffle and turned to whisper to her, wanting to ease her fears though his own mind was running in overdrive.

“We’ll get out of this, Sophia,” he swore. “One way or another, we’ll get out of this.”

She said nothing in reply.