A dull noise transformed into a low-pitched ringing that cut through Jake’s ears, making the veins at his temples throb.

“Someone tried to come into the room a few minutes ago who wasn’t approved. We have Jake isolated for a reason.”

“The nurse is new. She came to the wrong floor. She doesn’t know anything.”

Jake needed to open his eyes, to see what in the hell was going on.

“That had better be the case.”

“He’s my patient—I have his best interest in mind. Don’t worry.”

Jake tried to open his eyes yet again, but it was like trying to solve a crossword puzzle first thing in the morning before having a cup of coffee. Not going to happen.

Not for him, at least.

“How long until he’s awake?” The voice was familiar—low and deep, with a hint of Brooklyn.

“Should be anytime. Everyone responds differently to the drugs.”

Jake finally forced his eyes open, his fingers twitching at his sides.

His vision was a little blurry at first. It took him a few attempts to adjust his gaze.

“Shit. He’s moving. He’s waking up.”

Slowly, he began to see more clearly. The last voice he heard came from a guy in a suit. “Jake. Jesus Christ. You okay?” His cold fingers touched Jake’s forearm, and Jake couldn’t help but retract himself from the stranger’s touch. The movement created a sharp stab in his side.

“What’s wrong with me?” Jake winced as he adjusted to the bright fluorescent lights. “My back. My leg.” His hand lingered at his side and then shot up to his forehead, where a fresh pain radiated.

The doctor was at his side, jabbing at a few buttons on the monitor by the bed. “I’m Doctor Richards, Mr. Summers. You were in an accident,” he answered, his voice accented—British.

“Can you get me something for this pain?” Jake asked.

“There’s been a steady drip of morphine pumping through your IV, but now that you’re awake, it looks like you’ll need something stronger.” The doctor tapped at a few keys on the computer that was mounted on a rolling cart near the bed.

“A lot stronger,” Jake grumbled.

“But first, I need you to look at me for a second.” The doctor focused a bright light in his eyes that made him blink.

“How’s your vision? Can you see okay?” The doctor held up a few thick fingers. “How many?”

“Three. And I can see fine,” he rasped.

“After the accident, we put you into a medically induced coma. We worried about swelling of the brain, hemorrhaging . . .”

Shit. “Am I okay?”

“Yes. All of the scans were clean. You didn’t even break anything from the fall.”

“The fall?” What kind of accident was I in?

“There was an explosion,” the doctor answered.

“What? How . . . where the hell am I?” Jake eyed the guy in the suit, who had stepped back to stand next to the doctor. “Who . . . who are you?”

“What do you mean, who am I?” The man’s hand went to his chest, and the strip of lighter flesh circling his ring finger caught Jake’s eye. The man was recently divorced, maybe. “It’s me.”

Wow, that’s helpful. Jolts of pain blanketed Jake’s body and tore through him, traveling up both his shoulders and down his arms. “I feel fucking horrible,” he growled out as the pain in his back was like knives pricking his skin. And his head—Jesus—it was as if dozens of bells were ringing while someone clapped cymbals on both sides of his skull. “I don’t know you,” Jake said to the man and studied the bandages on his biceps.

“It appears that you were also hurt before the explosion. Tortured,” the doctor said slowly, ignoring the man in the suit. The doctor’s voice was like the slow drip of the IV—providing a slight relief, but not enough.

Tortured? Jake looked over as a blonde woman in pale green scrubs entered the room.

“That’s Lisa. She’s on the list.” The doctor directed his comment to the man in the suit.

Lisa, the nurse, touched a few buttons on the machine by his bed, and then held the needle in her hand. She flicked her index finger, and a bit of water squirted from the tip. “This will make you feel much better.” Her smooth British voice was soft and comforting, but Jake figured the drugs looping through the tubes and into his IV were the true source of the butterflies that fluttered through him.

He leaned his head back and relaxed as the last bit of pain drifted free from his body.

“Why doesn’t he remember me? Is there something wrong with him?” the guy asked the doctor. “I thought you said his scans were clean.”

Was there something wrong with his memory?

Jake’s mind started to compete with the medicine, trying to stir up information, but he was searching in a dark room for the light and having no luck. “What’s going on? I remember who I am, but shit . . .” Jake’s words were slower and more drawn out as the medicine kicked in.

“He might have some temporary memory loss. Amnesia. Maybe PTSD. Between the blast, the fall, and whatever happened to him before . . .” the doctor answered.

That wasn’t too comforting.

“Besides, after looking over his prior medical records, he’s had his fair share of injuries. A series of blows to the head over time can do a lot more damage than just to his memory. I’ve already called for a neural consult. But, in my opinion, he’s come out lucky after what he’s been through.”

Lucky? He was in a hospital after surviving an explosion. That hardly sounded like luck.

“You sure his memory issues aren’t a result of the damn coma you put him into for the last few days?” The stranger by his bed cocked his head and glared at the doctor.

The doctor stared at Jake for a moment, his eyes scanning him, calculating.

“No. That wouldn’t have any impact in his case.”

The man shook his head at the doctor as if he weren’t so certain. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Jake squeezed his eyes shut, trying to rummage through the facts and images in his mind, but it was hard to focus with drugs flowing through his veins.

His hands fisted at his sides as he dragged up the first image that popped into his head—him throwing a football down a field. Jerseys scurrying, colliding. Bright night lights shining down as he was tackled to the ground.

“Football is all I remember. Nothing after college.” Jake forced his eyes open. “But hell, I feel a lot older than a college kid.” Although maybe that was because his whole body hurt.

The man scratched his square jaw and turned his back to Jake for a moment. “Can we have a moment alone? It’s classified.”

Classified? Really? Jake caught sight of a bulge at the center of the man’s back beneath his blazer. Was the guy packing heat?

“Of course.” The doctor nodded at the man and Jake. “I’ll be outside if you need me. But don’t be long—I need to run a lot more tests.”

Knowing that classified information was serious, Jake tried to sit up. But his legs and arms were too heavy to lift.

The man pulled up a seat as the doctor left and the chair legs screeched against the floor, grating on his ears. The man pinched the bridge of his nose and focused on Jake. Dark bags were beneath his eyes, adding emphasis to the wrinkles that spread outward from their corners. He was probably in his fifties, and Jake gathered him to be a smoker, judging by the tinge of yellow on his teeth and the thick rasp to his voice. “Jake, I’m Special Agent Trent Shaw from the FBI field office in D.C.” A knot formed in the man’s tanned throat as he swallowed a lump. He touched his jaw, caressing a fresh nick on his chin, and then said, “You’re FBI, too.”

Jake didn’t know what to say. He needed a minute to process the news. Hell, he needed a lot more than a minute.

“Jake?” Trent snapped his thick fingers.

I guess that explains my weird desire to note little details about everyone.

“Where am I? Somewhere in England, I assume.”

“You’re in London.”

“The last thing I remember is scoring a touchdown in college—and now I’m in London?”

Trent’s big Adam’s apple moved in his throat again. “You haven’t been to college in a dozen years, Jake. I don’t know why you’re suppressing the last decade or so, but it’s a matter of national security that you remember, and fast.”

Just fucking great.

Trent Shaw’s close-set, green eyes shifted to the monitors before looking back at Jake.

“How the hell did you guys find me?” Jake blinked a few times. Maybe that information wasn’t relevant right now, but despite his current state, he was curious.

Trent coughed a little. “When the British found you at the scene of the explosion, you were slightly coherent, and they managed to get your name. They called the U.S. and . . . well, we were both shocked and relieved to hear it was you.” He paused for a moment. “Before the explosion, you were on an OP and had gone missing. You were MIA for over a week.” Trent stood. “Jesus, Jake, I never thought I’d see you again. And, damn, when I got to London they’d already put you in a coma.”

The drugs were trying to pull Jake back to sleep. His eyelids grew heavy, and it was getting harder to keep them open.

“I need to talk with the doctor to learn more about your condition. Why don’t you get some rest, and we’ll talk again after you wake?”

Jake looked past Trent and at the open door. “Looks like that won’t be happening.”

Trent turned to follow Jake’s gaze.

“He’s awake?” the man standing in the doorframe asked.

That was all Jake needed—another man in a suit.

“Why are you here? We made a deal. No police or agents while he’s at the hospital.” Trent gripped his temples with his thumb and middle finger and irritation settled between the two men, thicker than the London fog.

Jake shifted his attention to the British guy standing before them. He was tall, lean, and had butter blonde hair that was slicked back. Behind his red-framed glasses were a pair of shale gray eyes.

“You’re on her Majesty’s soil. We invited you to London, even though we could have waited until we learned more about Agent Summers. This is our jurisdiction, not yours.”

Trent’s jaw tightened. “You better have called us as soon as you knew you had an American casualty.”

“If we’re going to find out who was behind the explosion, we need to work together. Not dodging London PD’s phone calls, and mine as well. I’m running out of patience, Shaw. We followed your requests about Agent Summers—we have him isolated in a very busy hospital, which is not an easy feat . . . but you have to give us something.”

Trent unbuttoned his suit jacket and crossed his arms. He stood firm in front of Jake’s bedside, almost blocking Jake from view. “And I told you we’d talk once—”

“—he’s awake.” The man waved his hand at Jake.

“He just woke up,” Trent said through gritted teeth.

Jake looked back and forth between the two, his mind drifting in and out of a hazy drug-induced stupor.

“And if it were your city that this happened in, how would you feel?” The British guy took a few steps closer to Trent, to Jake’s bed. “A bomb detonated in London, and your guy here is the only witness. We need answers. Now.” The man was practically in Trent’s face, and the two were squaring off. “Are you hiding something?”

“Until my government grants us the authority to hand over classified intel to Her Majesty’s Secret Service, my hands are tied.” Trent tipped his shoulders up, and Jake could tell the Brit was near ready to blow a fuse. His cheeks reddened, and his mouth was tight.

The man walked around to the other side of the bed when Trent didn’t back down. “I’m Justin King. I’m SS. And I need you to tell me what happened.”

“SS?” Jake mumbled, unfamiliar.

“Secret Service, or you might know us as MI5. We go by both over here.”

“But James Bond was MI6,” Jake said in a low voice.

The man blinked twice and released an exaggerated sigh. “MI5 is domestic. SIS,” the Brit began, and then cleared his throat, “or MI6 . . . deals with international threats.”

“Well, whoever you are, I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to help.” Jake showed him his palms. “I can quote a few lines from some action movies, though. That shit comes to mind easily enough. But I still have no clue how I landed in this hospital.”

“What is he talking about?” The agent looked over at Trent.

“He has memory loss,” Trent answered.

The British agent peeked over at the window behind the bed, where snowflakes began to drift in the air as a breeze swirled the powder. “And you’re sure that’s the truth?” His voice was colder now. Bitter—matching the chill of the January air.

“And I’d lie because . . .?” Jake touched his forehead and shuddered as the pain in his head went from zero to sixty. Wasn’t he on pain medicine? Why was this happening?

“We have no record of his entry to the country. Why was he here?”

“Like I said, I’m unable to share any information with you until I’m given clearance to do so.”

The Brit removed his glasses, cleaned them with his silk tie, and placed them back on his nose. “We’re fortunate no one died. I’m just trying to figure out what an FBI agent was doing in an abandoned factory wearing a bloody suicide vest. And considering he magically appeared in our damn country right before the explosion—”

Jake’s ears perked at the new information. “Suicide vest?”

The Brit sighed with frustration as if he hadn’t meant to let that information slip. “We recovered what looks like materials from a vest. There wasn’t too much C4, so you’re lucky—”

What was it with everyone thinking he was so damn lucky? “So I wasn’t just at the site of an explosion—someone was trying to kill me?”

Then chills shot up his spine. Or was I trying to kill myself?

“Can you both get the hell out of my room? I need time to think.”

“Maybe you’ll remember something,” the British agent said under his breath before turning away. “We’ll be in touch soon.”

Jake shut his eyes and gripped the sides of the bed, holding onto the sheets as a memory cranked through his mind at hyper speed. It was a blur of images and sounds that he could hardly tell apart . . .

A whip smacked against his skin. He released a moan, and his shoulders shrank from the pain as the leather ripped at his flesh.

His hands were bound above his head.

He was on his knees. Barefoot and in jeans only.

The whip ate at his back as it lashed him.

Blood.

His blood.

Dripping from his face down onto the concrete floor as he hung his head low.

Jake’s eyes flashed open, willing the memory away. It was unbearable. His body shook, and he started to sweat as a rumbling in his stomach, a feeling of nausea, swept over him. “What in the hell happened to me?”