Locked in the hold of the trawler, Olivia sat in a corner, her wrists bound. It stank like rotten fish. Worse, her ribs ached like a son-of-a-bitch. She’d heard the order commanding the men not to mar her face though, after her hands had been tied, the bastards didn’t have any qualms about throwing a few jabs to the ribs. It hurt to take a deep breath, but she hadn’t felt any pops. With luck, she was just bruised.

The light was so dim, she couldn’t see the discoloration even if she tried to look. Without her watch or phone, she had no idea how long she’d been there, but she’d slept a little. The sliver of light shining from under the door had grown brighter, so it was probably daylight. The hold was empty aside from a pee bucket.

Nice of them to be so accommodating.

The door opened and Olivia held up her hands to block the blinding light.

“You’re British?” demanded the dark figure in English as if she were the scourge of the earth.

As expected, they’d taken her bag with her fake passport and tossed her track phone overboard. She’d left her ICE phone with Logan. “Yes.”

The man swore in Arabic, moving inside. He was a hulk with a big gut.

“Yes, that’s right,” Olivia sniped. “And the British government will be breathing down your necks so fast, you’ll wish you’d never seen my face.”

“I doubt that.” He sauntered inside and tossed a plate in front of her—a slice of white bread and something that looked like Spam. “No one knows where you are.”

“I told my friends I was going to Nice for dinner.”

“You’re a liar. That’s what I would expect from filthy infidels. You didn’t know you were going to Nice until the Englishman got on the motorway.” The man snorted. “Your friends still think you’re in Lyon. And to ensure you’re untraceable, we’ve rubbed out the scumbag who betrayed you.”

Another jabbing pain stabbed Olivia’s ribs. Her head swam. She’d heard the shots. Logan had taken a dive off the pier. Had he been hit? But what about all the shots fired after they’d marshalled her onto the boat?

They killed him?

God no. He had to be okay.

Or had ISIS set a trap?

Shit.

Olivia forced herself to breathe. No matter how much this animal’s words stung, she couldn’t allow him to think she cared. “You mean David Mason? Good riddance. He’s the asshole who got me into this mess—said he was taking me to his yacht.” She sniffed. “But this piece of rubbish looks like it’s ready for the scrap heap.”

The man drew back his foot. Olivia tightened her elbows around her ribs to bock the blow.

“Yakov,” a deep voice said from the passageway, speaking Arabic in a northern dialect. “Leave her alone. We get more money if we deliver them healthy.”

“Unclean infidel, unfit to drink my piss.” But Yakov stopped himself, pulled a water bottle from his back pocket and tossed it at her feet. “Where you’re going, you’ll need your strength.”

She reached for the water. “Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

She held up her wrists. “Can you at least take these off? They’re rubbing my skin raw.”

“Then stop fighting them.” Yakov turned and slammed the door.

She lurched forward and pounded her fists on the timbers. “I am a British Subject and you will not get away with this, you filthy pirates!” Yes, yelling was futile, but she needed to make them think she was scared. To be honest, she was riled. And there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it wallowing in the bowels of a rickety old fishing boat chugging through the middle of the Mediterranean.

After sliding her back down the wall, Olivia cracked open the cap of the bottle with her teeth and guzzled the water. Squeezing her eyes shut, she pictured the scene at the pier in her mind. The man with the deep voice had fired at Logan as he dove into the water. After that, she couldn’t see anything. Even if it hadn’t been raining, there was another boat blocking her view. She replayed the scene again. Yes. Logan started moving before the gun fired.

But had he survived all the bullets after she’d been taken below decks? Surely, he hadn’t tried to board—not with all the crew’s firepower.

But that still didn’t mean he hadn’t been hit. Someone had shouted “leave him”. Did that mean leave the corpse, leave him be, or leave him for someone else to kill?

She bashed her fist against the wall.

He’s not dead.

No. Freaking. Way.

***

The trawler’s motors growled in low gear as the boat rocked from side to side. Olivia had heard a similar sound on Kadir’s yacht many times before. They were docking, and it was about time. She’d been in the hold for two days at least. Her legs were cramped, she had a migraine and she was starving. Sure, they’d given her bread and Spam, but the portions were hardly enough to keep a Chihuahua alive.

The door opened and Yakov threw in a bundle of black cloth. “Put this on.”

She shook it out and a piece dropped to the floor. “It’s too bloody dark. I can’t even tell front from back.”

“I’ll wait.” He moved so a ray of light streamed in from the corridor.

Standing, she regarded the garments. An abaya and a burka. “Are we going somewhere?”

“You are.” He held up a knife.

She shrank away with a gasp.

He snorted. “To cut your cuffs.”

She let him slice the plastic, then rubbed her wrists. “Where?”

“Up north. Past Aleppo.”

Her stomach squeezed. They were taking her deep into ISIS controlled territory. “What’s there?”

Yakov’s expression turned angry. “Shut up and put those on. You’re not fit for a dog’s eyes in that dress. The van’s waiting.”

She pulled the abaya over her head, covering her filthy sundress. “You’re not making me ride a camel?”

“You think you’re smart, don’t you?”

“If I were smart, I wouldn’t be in this situation.” She held up the mesh veil of the burka. “Any chance I can get something to eat before I’m smothered by this?”

“No.” Yakov pointed his AK47 at her chest. His finger wasn’t anywhere near the trigger. “Don’t make me use this.”

For a split second, Olivia contemplated how easy it would be to disarm the bastard. Even his body language was relaxed. Now that her hands were free, with a step to the side, she could take charge of the gun’s muzzle, upend it and slam the butt into his jaw. With luck, his teeth would shatter, he’d swallow his tongue, and he’d be dead in about twenty seconds without a shot fired. But then she’d have the rest of the crew to battle, and that wouldn’t help her locate the hostages. Swallowing her pride, she pulled the burka over her head and peered through the mesh.

It was no surprise they were taking her into the heart of ISIS controlled territory. Still, satellite images and assets on the ground hadn’t brought back any intel on the location of the harem. It could have been anywhere, though the Middle East was a sure bet. Syria was likely but so had been Iraq. Regardless, the further inland they took her, the tougher the rescue op would be. Losses were more likely, too.

At least her kidnappers had been smart enough to dress her for the journey. If she showed up remotely close to Aleppo with blonde hair and wearing a sundress, she’d be dead within an hour—and that’s only because the apes would take their time torturing her.

“Hands,” Yakov commanded.

Olivia obediently held out her wrists while he attached a new set of zip cuffs. “Where are we now?”

“Shut up.”

“You say that too much. Your English could use some polish.”

With an unpleasant growl, he grabbed her elbow and yanked her into the corridor. “The problem with the infidel’s women is they are disrespectful.”

Olivia started down the narrow hall and headed for the stairs, but the jerk tightened his grip, tugged her into his chest and pressed his lips near her ear. “If it were up to me, I’d slit your throat and laugh while the life drains from your body.”

A spike of hot ire shot up her spine. Snapping her elbow from his grasp, she faced him, the burka hiding the hatred in her eyes. “I’ll remember you said that.”

“See? You think you’re superior, but you are weak compared to me.”

“Perhaps one day soon you’ll discover how weak I am.” Before he could place another finger on her, she marched through the corridor.

“You’re not as afraid as the others.”

She stopped. “Others? How many others?”

“Shut it.” He pushed her in the shoulder. “Keep going.”

Up top, a half-dozen thugs waited for her, their shadowy faces looking like they’d like nothing better than to put a bullet in her skull. It was nightfall again, and the trawler was lit only by a single lantern.

Yakov grabbed her arm. “If you proceed to the van nice and easy I just might let you live.” He started for the gangway. “And if you utter a sound, I’ll hit you so hard you won’t be able to breathe.”

Charming.

No matter how much she seethed inside, she exercised control by focusing on her heart, her steady breathing, and her own internal strength. Years of training had taught her to block her fear. That’s right, after Kahlil she hadn’t lost her knack. She just needed to be thrown into the midst of extreme danger. This was where she was sharpest. This was where she belonged. When her life hung on a precipice, she could face evil in the eye and take on the world.

She’d been there before, though not with her wrists bound. Yakov led the way to the pier. Olivia obediently followed, noting the knife at his hip and the AK47 swinging from his shoulder harness and hanging across his chest. Two thugs similarly armed followed behind. Ahead, a uniformed guard outfitted with an M16A4 assault rifle suspended from a shoulder sling waited with his hand resting on the gun’s handle. The insignia on his uniform indicated he was a customs agent. It took about two minutes to bribe him. Then Yakov directed Olivia into the back of a van. At least she had a seat—the most comfort she’d experienced since her abduction.

As they drove through the war-torn streets of Latakia, past burnt out cars and crumbling buildings that used to be people’s homes, the clock on the dash read 10 p.m. Not far out of town, the city lights faded, and the van’s headlights were all that illuminated the road ahead. At 11:48 p.m., they turned onto a dirt road. Ten minutes later, they stopped at a check point guarded by men armed with AK47s and had their faces covered. They spoke Arabic, the driver telling the men he was bringing in another virgin. All eyes shifted to Olivia while she stared at them through the shroud of her burka.

Your biggest nightmare has arrived.

One of the guards made a call. “Another’s coming your way.”

After they drove around a hill, an encampment came into sight, dimly lit by a pair of opposing streetlights. From her seat in the back of the van, from the mishmash of corrugated iron and plaster it looked like they were approaching a derelict compound. But after the van continued through a narrow tunnel, an oasis appeared as they rolled to a stop in an enormous courtyard, complete with a fountain in the center. It sure looked like an al-Umari smoke screen—derelict facade, hiding great wealth inside. Olivia had no doubt the roofs of the buildings were covered with anti-aircraft material to camouflage the compound from spy satellites and planes, otherwise this place wouldn’t have been missed.

But the thugs didn’t take her in through the front door of the mansion looming in the shadows at the rear of the compound. Two armed guards and a woman with a withered face cloaked by a black chador met them at a side gate and glared hatefully while Yakov nudged Olivia ahead with the point of his AK47.

Olivia glanced at him over her shoulder. “Aren’t you coming?” she asked in English.

He just laughed.

The woman pointed her rifle down a poorly lit path covered by anti-aircraft netting. Obviously, they assumed Olivia couldn’t speak the language, which was how she wanted it for now. The less they knew about her the better—and all they had to go on were the fake documents they’d already confiscated.

Led along a fence topped with razor wire, she said nothing and followed until the guards stopped outside the door of a two-story building clad with metal siding. It reminded her of an auto repair garage or a neglected factory—peeling paint, cracked glass in the window.

Inside the door, they were met by two armed women. No one said a word. The withered-faced woman number one, appearing to be the bitch in charge, used the point of her AK47 to force Olivia into a shower room with no stalls or curtains, just broken shower heads. She pointed to a bench and said, “take off your clothes” into a phone. An app translated the Arabic into English.

That’s when Olivia noticed the pressure washer hooked up to a faucet on the wall. This could get ugly fast.

“Hey, I’m good with having a shower.” Olivia held up her hands. “No problem.” After two days in the smelly hold of the fishing trawler, she’d gladly lather up, even with female terror-rabs from hell watching. She removed the burka, and the boss-woman shouted, waving the gun, telling her to stop.

Olivia again raised her hands, holding up the burka.

Squinting, the boss-woman moved in and pinched Olivia’s chin, then turned her face from side to side none too gently.

A weight in Olivia’s stomach dropped to her toes. Did she look too old? Logan had thought Dr. R’s injections had made her look like a mannequin.

Shit!

“You’re the prettiest one yet,” the woman said.

Olivia pretended not to understand, and shifted her gaze between the two guard-women who stood on opposite walls, their rifles at the ready as if a seventeen-year-old girl was capable of anarchy…which she was, though twelve years older.

Shoving Olivia backward, the woman indicated for her to continue to disrobe.

“What is your name?” Olivia asked, removing the abaya.

When the woman didn’t respond, Olivia asked the question in French.

“Jadaa,” she replied that her name was grandmother.

Olivia snorted. “I sincerely doubt that.”

The woman made an angry face, gesturing to Olivia’s sundress. “Take everything off!” she shouted into the translation app.

Olivia pulled off the dress, finding a fist-sized bruise over her ribcage. But she kept her mouth shut and, once she’d stripped, the woman grasped her by the shoulders and backed her into the stall.

One of the guards flipped the switch on the pressure washer.

Jadaa picked up the nozzle.

“How high do you have that thing turned up?” Olivia’s stomach squeezed into a hard lump.

The stream hit her like a continuous blast of a paintball gun. Paintball hurt, but it was bam and done. This jet was a cleansing off a layer of skin with freezing cold water. Jadaa moved the wand like a fire hose, side to side, up and down. Olivia’s tender ribs hurt while she crossed her arms, spinning away from the sting.

“Stop!” she shouted, moving her hands up to protect her eyes.

But Jadaa just walked closer.

Her skin raw, Olivia dropped to her knees and curled into a ball. “I’m clean. Stop. Please!” She squeezed her eyes shut, the world spinning. Rage shot through her limbs. If only she could grab the nozzle, she’d rip it from the woman’s hands and use Jadaa as a human shield while she turned the jet onto the guards. Her hands shaking from the desperate need to take charge, Olivia forced her mind to one thing.

Revenge.

She was too close to al-Umari to expose her cover.

At last she was inside the murderer’s operation and she had to stay alive. A little skin abrasion she could endure if it meant success at long last.

Her mind controlled her pain.

She would brave this humiliation and torture to invoke her own justice. Her time was nigh.

After Jadaa turned off the pressure washer, she tossed Olivia a towel. The woman’s eyes were filled with hate.

“She isn’t crying,” said one of the guards.

“No.” Jadaa crossed her arms and regarded Olivia intently. “There is something different about this one. She’s a fighter.”

Olivia was given an abaya and hijab to wear. Nothing for her feet, no knickers, no bra. Once she was dressed, Jadaa and the female guards took her further into the building and climbed a flight of stairs. Everything was dim. Paint chipped from plaster walls. Jadaa used a key to unlock a door and gestured for Olivia to enter.

Though it was dark and difficult to see to the back wall, the long room was filled with countless bedrolls, each containing a sleeping girl.

Holy Moses, the rescue mission just exploded into an exodus.