Alexander and the sniper, who had arrived with the rest of Tom’s team, left the dark green Land Rover at the prearranged spot in the desert. The sniper called himself Kill Bill. He was twenty-two at most, with white-blond hair. Kill Bill didn’t say much, but Tom had told Alexander he was one of the top ten shots in the world, so nothing else mattered.

After they left the car, they crept, under the cover of darkness, the last five hundred or so meters to the hillocks from which they would watch the village.

If they spotted Isobel, Tom and the rest of the team would attack within forty-eight hours. That was the minimum amount of time they needed to prepare and coordinate the attack.

Alexander and Kill Bill lay down behind the hill. They pulled the camouflage tent over themselves, took out powerful night-vision binoculars, located the village, and began their wait. As the frostbitten night turned into orange-tinged dawn, Alexander reported the little he had seen to Tom over the radio.

When the sun came up, movement began down in the village. The dogs came to life, smoke started to rise from one of the huts, and people came out. Alexander counted. Again and again. Women. Children. Young men. Old people.

Tom and his team were about thirteen miles away. All the information was relayed to them, and Alexander assumed they were building models in the sand and going through various scenarios as they waited. In that sense, he thought, it was like poker. The more you knew about your opponents, the better.

“But we can’t attack a village unless we know for certain she’s being held there,” Tom said grimly.

Alexander had to agree. Reluctantly.

“How is Marius?”

“The kid? He’s no trouble.”

Alexander wanted to ask more, but Tom disappeared, so he took the cigarette Kill Bill held out to him instead, lit it, and inhaled the smoke.

The day passed, the sun bore down, and the insects crept over them. They drank warm water, which tasted like chemicals but which rinsed the sand from their teeth at least.

Alexander listened to the conversations going on in his headphones. They were conducted in brief, strongly accented commando English with the occasional French phrase.

Two village soldiers, dressed in khaki and carrying automatic weapons, suddenly appeared in his sights. They went toward the hut farthest away from Alexander’s vantage point. He followed them with his binoculars. They opened the door and disappeared into the low mud building. He waited. This was the first time there had been any activity there. The door opened again and the two men came back out. They were carrying or dragging something between them.

“Is it her?” asked Kill Bill. He was looking through his gun sights. Alexander wanted to tell him to put down his weapon, to avoid hitting whoever it might be, but right then he saw her. Red hair. A long kaftan, like the rest of the villagers, indescribably dirty. She hung between them, her feet trailing in the dirt.

“It’s her,” he confirmed. “Is she alive?” Just then, he saw her cough, get to her feet. One of the men shook her, and then all three disappeared into another hut. Hardly able to hold his voice steady, Alexander reported it over the radio.

“Woman sighted. Likely being kept in the northernmost hut.”

Ten minutes later, the men came out again with Isobel between them. They opened the door to the farthest hut, went in, and then came back out without her.

For the rest of the day, Alexander stared at the building in which Isobel was being kept. No one came or went. Did she have food? Water? He had known it would be tough, but this wasn’t tough—it was unbearable. Was she dying in there right now?

“You should get a couple hours’ sleep,” the sniper said, unaffected by the situation.

Alexander nodded.

“Everything good?” He heard Tom’s voice over the radio.

“No news,” he answered, trying to keep his frustration from his voice. He had to trust Tom, knew they had only one chance and that everything had to go right when they took it. But this waiting was the worst thing he had ever experienced.

“We need another day out here,” Tom said. “You’ve gotta keep it together. Eat. Sleep. When we get going, you and Kill Bill are our eyes up there. We’ll go in under darkness. Bill will give us covering fire if we need it. You have to guide us. I need to know you can handle it.”

“I can handle it.”

He had done it time and time again during his military service. Kept watch for days under the most extreme conditions. Back then it had been an adventure, a chance to feel like he was really good at something. Now it was suddenly life and death.

When Alexander woke, it was dark. The sniper waited until Alexander had his binoculars ready, then pulled his hood over his head and immediately fell asleep.

“We’ll go in when it’s darkest.” Tom’s voice on the radio was completely calm, as though he was reading the back of a bottle of dishwashing liquid. “With night vision. Night combat, particularly in inhabited areas, is tricky as hell; we have to assume there’ll be civilian injuries. It’s not going to be like in a film, no dangling from helicopters, no exploding doors. We go in, open some serious fire, get her out. If it all goes to plan, she’s out in under a minute. Then she’s into the helicopter and away.”

Tom’s voice sounded completely clear. Did he ever sleep?

“Does it normally go as planned?”

The radio hissed.

“Never. There’s no manual for hostage rescues. But we have backup plans. Two cars waiting. A stretcher ready. Everyone knows what they have to do. This is what we’ve been training for.”

“How will you get into the hut?”

“You haven’t seen anything that suggests it’s mined, so we’ll go in by the door. But we need to know how much she weighs.”

Alexander thought about her curvy body. Isobel was tall, for a woman, but she had looked so thin. “One hundred sixty-five, maybe one hundred sixty pounds. Why?”

“We’ll prepare an injection. We might have to give her something for the pain, and we don’t want to kill her with too much morphine. Tomorrow night’s the night. In less than twenty hours.”

The radio fell silent. Alexander fumbled for his cell phone. Glanced at the timer, which counted how long she had been gone. It was rushing toward two hundred hours.