Gómez drove to Pérez’s compound in an open-topped jeep. Quinn bumped along in the passenger seat, holding onto the bar and wishing for a seat belt. She didn’t speak to Gómez or bother asking him why she was here. He’d never tell her.

The first few times she’d been “asked” to the compound, she’d tried talking to Gómez. He was high up in Pérez’s organization, but as she discovered, not so high that he knew anything of value. He was just another asshole she had to put up with.

Greenery encased either side of the road as they sped by. The Colombian jungle was thick with heat, bugs, mahogany, and Quindio wax palm trees—a dense barrier to the hidden coca fields that grew in the foothills of the Andes Mountains of this fertile region.

Gómez turned down the private road that led to the compound and Pérez’s mansion, and they passed through the armed gate set in the eight-foot stone wall. Manicured lawns swept away from the wall where the jungle crowded over. The huge white stone house had pillars in the front and a full-length second-floor balcony where an armed guard strolled. The first floor also had a wraparound porch. More guards watched their arrival from the roof. Behind the house, the pool and tennis courts were just visible. Quinn had never seen anyone play tennis since she’d become a regular “guest.”

Gómez pulled up to the front of the house and turned off the jeep. He didn’t say anything but walked up the steps to the wide double doors, not caring if she followed. She grabbed her medical kit and trailed him, scanning the area around her.

She couldn’t spot the slender path she’d cut through the thick undergrowth in her first weeks here, but she spotted the tree by the wall that she used when she surveyed the compound. She knew the guard’s schedule and what to expect when she entered the house, but that didn’t stop a cold chill from washing over her skin.

The inside of the house was just as lavish as the outside. Gleaming marble floors, a glittering chandelier, and an eight-foot-tall gilded mirror greeted them in the foyer. Along with a skinny man in stained cargo pants and a tank top, wielding an AR-15 assault rifle.

She ignored the guard and followed Gómez down the hall, automatically checking for cameras as she went. Like always, there were none. Pérez believed in having real bodies guard him, but she’d been trained to evaluate security measures in case she needed to bypass them.

Gómez opened a narrow white door just off the kitchen and revealed a staircase leading down. He trotted down the steps without a backward glance. Great. Basements always meant fewer exits and worse lighting, and the stairs, open on one side gave no cover to the person descending.

Gómez grinned at her from the bottom step as if he knew she hated coming down. She usually worked in the kitchen at the back of the house, where she tended to Pérez’s men or servants. She’d also been upstairs twice to tend to Pérez, though she now knew to insist he come downstairs. She never wanted to be in his bedroom again.

Quinn refused to ask who she was there to see. It would only give Gómez pleasure to deny her knowledge.

She hit the bottom steps. The room before her was large, open, and bare. Gray walls had perfunctory shelves running along them. They weren’t for storing canned goods, though. These shelves held guns, ammo, and drug-making supplies. A card table was set up in the middle of the cement floor. Four men lounged around it, gambling. The acrid scent of their cigarettes filled the basement. They all looked her over with cold eyes. She held their gazes and lifted her chin, though a nasty feeling swirled in her gut. This couldn’t be good.

A woman screamed, and Quinn’s gaze shot to a door in the far wall. No one else reacted. Except Gómez. He chuckled.

She imagined killing him by digging her thumbs into his eyes.

He rapped once on the door and then swung it open when someone barked at him to come in. Gómez waved her in, but didn’t follow.

Inside, a tall, lean man in his late thirties smiled congenially at her. Pérez had the strong jawline and the dark good looks of a movie star. “Ah, Dr. McKenzie,” he said. “So good of you to come.” His voice was smooth and cultured when he spoke. It was no wonder the people in the area loved him and yet feared him, like a child with an abusive father.

He stood in the middle of a cement-walled room, a single bare bulb lighting it. Like a bad cliché, blood dripped from the knife in his hand. Quinn’s gaze couldn’t help but go to the individual tied to a chair.

The woman’s head hung low over her chest, her breathing ragged. She wore only a pair of underwear. Based on the amount of bruising on her stomach and limbs, she’d been beaten hard over a number of days. Apparently that wasn’t enough because she now bled from dozens of cuts on her arms, stomach, breasts, and legs.

“What are you doing?” Quinn breathed.

Pérez laughed indulgently. “I’m punishing a traitor, doctor. This woman has information, and I need it.”

Quinn stared at him. Her mind raced with possibilities of who this woman was and how Quinn could help her.

Quinn spoke evenly. “What do you want me to do? I don’t torture people.”

Pérez walked closer to her, his gaze completely fixed on her. “I should like that,” he said in a low, soft voice. “My Diabla Rojo torturing someone.” He ran a finger down the side of her face, and she let him see her shudder. It made him smile. “Maybe I could teach you to like it.”

She stepped back. “Why am I here?” At the same time, she cataloged everything she could see. This room was basically a cement box with only one entrance. It would be next to impossible to get the woman out with all of the guards in the next room.

Quinn would have to come back.

“The woman is having problems breathing. I need her to stay alive until I get my answers.”

Quinn moved to the prisoner and knelt next to her chair, setting her bag on the floor. She gently touched the woman’s chin to lift her head, but the woman jerked away. Quinn controlled her gasp, but barely.

The woman’s nose was out of joint, and blood oozed from it, crusting most of her lower face. One eye was swollen shut, and her jaw might be broken as well, given the lump on one side and the bruising there. She must be in terrible pain.

“What did she do?” Quinn whispered.

“She’s an undercover agent,” Pérez said. “Or at least that’s what I was told. I need her to tell me with who before I kill her.”

Quinn whipped around to face him. “But what if she’s not an agent? What if she’s innocent?”

“No one’s innocent,” Pérez growled, his voice as cold as his eyes. “Someone stole information from me. And it was either her, or she knows who did. I need her to keep breathing, Doctor. Fix her or join her.” He strode from the room.

“You’d better do what he says,” the woman whispered in English. She had no accent that Quinn could place. “You don’t want to be in my place.”

Quinn wanted to reassure her somehow, but it would only be empty words. “I’m going to examine you the best I can. This might hurt.”

The woman gave a choking laugh that bubbled in her chest. Possible punctured lung. Quinn bit her lip, pulled out her penlight, and started with the woman’s head. She waved the light in front of the one eye the woman could open to check her pupil. “What’s your name?” she asked quietly, conscious of the guards in the next room.

“They call me Natalie,” she whispered back.

They called her that, but that didn’t mean it was her name. Was this woman really an undercover agent? Who would she be with? Quinn hadn’t been informed of another agent in the area.

Quinn felt along the woman’s nose, and then gingerly along her jawline. “Your nose is broken, and I suspect your jaw is cracked.”

“Sure as shite feels like it.”

Quinn glanced at her sharply. “Times like these I could use a good cuppa.”

“And some crisps.” The woman’s words were barely a whisper.

Natalie was signaling that she was British. Could it be possible that she was a British agent of some sort? SIS or the SRR wouldn’t send in another agent without telling Quinn. Would they? Could Quinn chance a code word?

“I’m going to check your ribs. I think one might have punctured a lung. Can you sit up for me?”

Natalie groaned as she straightened. It was hard to see anything beyond the blood covering her skin from all the cuts. But Quinn had seen worse. She lightly felt along the ribs while contemplating what to ask next.

When her fingers touched a bulge on the woman’s side, both of them sucked in their breaths. Dark-purple bruising centered on that area. The bulge was medium-sized and easily overlooked when combined with all the other bruises and blood. But it was probably the cause of Natalie’s ragged breathing. Quinn worried the broken rib had punctured Natalie’s lung. If so, she would need a chest tube to drain air and fluid, but Quinn didn’t have the right equipment here for that.

On top of all the other torture and pain she faced, this injury would feel as though someone slowly stacked weight on her chest, making it increasingly difficult to draw air in. Most people panicked with that feeling.

Natalie’s eyes showed no signs of panic, but rather resignation. She knew she was going to die in this hellhole.

After another moment, Quinn decided to take a chance. “It’s a gray day in London.” She spoke a covert emergency code word taught to all high-level agents for use in recognizing each other.

The woman’s eyes widened, and a flare of hope entered them. She wet her lips and glanced at the disinterested guards beyond the door. “Too bad. I’d like to hear the bluebirds sing.”

The answering phrase almost stopped Quinn’s heart. She forced herself to breathe normally. She didn’t know exactly what agency the tortured woman worked for, but Natalie was an undercover citizen of the UK. Quinn had to try to help this woman.

But how?

“Kill me,” Natalie whispered.

Quinn jerked. Kill her?

The analytical side of her stepped up. Killing the other agent was the smartest thing for everyone. End her before she could give away the Crown’s secrets or have to endure any more torture. Because she would break under torture. Everyone did, eventually. It was amazing the woman had lasted as long as she did.

Even if Quinn fought and managed to take out the guards in the basement, they wouldn’t make it far with all of the rebel soldiers based here. And Natalie couldn’t handle a trek through the jungle. The woman needed surgery. Any attempt at rescue would probably kill her, just as slowly and as torturously as Pérez was doing.

The medic in her railed at the idea of killing Natalie, even if it was a mercy and the right thing to do. Quinn shoved that part of her down and away.

But how would she do it?

Poison seemed to be the easiest way, but Quinn didn’t have any with her. She hadn’t been expecting this when she’d been brought out here.

“Please,” Natalie said, her voice still so soft.

Fuck.

“What’s your professional opinion, Dr. McKenzie?” Pérez’s voice made her jump. He stood right behind her.

Had he heard them talking?

It didn’t matter. Her heart beat hard, but Quinn steadied herself. Time to go back into character. “She won’t live long if you keep beating her,” she said.

“Why can’t she breathe?”

She stood slowly. “One of her ribs has punctured a lung.”

“How long will she live?”

Quinn paused. Should she tell the truth? What were the benefits to Natalie if Quinn said she would die soon? Would they kill Natalie quicker? Up her torture?

“Don’t lie to me, Doctor.” Pérez’s voice took on the silky tones of a predator, one used to victims hiding from him.

“I wasn’t going to,” she said evenly. “I don’t know the answer. There are so many variables. Why don’t I take her back to my clinic? I can patch her up…”

He laughed. “You’re so predictable, my Diabla Rojo. But there are other ways to torture besides pain. Especially for a woman.” His lascivious smile sent the hairs on the back of her neck running.

Oh God.

“Gómez will see you out.” He turned away, dismissing her.

A guard grabbed Quinn’s arm, and she automatically moved to strike him when she saw Natalie’s wide eyes. A warning. Quinn used her hand to bat at the guard’s arm, rather than twisting his hand and using a jujitsu move that would break his wrist.

“I need my bag, you asshole,” she said in Spanish. She couldn’t blow her cover, but the desire to fight and kill raged in her.

She had to be smart.

The guard growled a curse word at her and grabbed her medical kit, shoving it into her chest.

Pérez stood in front of the agent. “We need to get you cleaned up for what I have planned next.” He ran a hand down one side of her face. “I dislike getting blood on me.”

Natalie glared hatred. Pérez turned to Gómez. “Get me a bucket of water to throw on her. I need her clean.” He smiled. “Make it salt water.”

That would be agony with all the cuts. Quinn stepped toward Natalie, but the guard yanked her back, even as Natalie gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of her head.

Quinn dug her nails hard into her palms. The little bit of pain kept her focused. She had to leave Natalie. There was nothing she could do. Steel bands tightened around her chest squeezing her air out. She dug her nails in harder and let the guard pull her out of that room, leaving behind a battered agent to face her torturer alone. Quinn managed a last look back.

Natalie watched her, hope in her eyes. And Quinn nodded.

Natalie’s shoulders slumped with relief even as Quinn wondered how she was going to manage to get back into that room to kill her.

* * *

When the red-haired woman left the target’s house, Marc put the binoculars to his eyes. A guard pushed her toward the jeep, waving a hand at her, even as the woman looked back at the house. With regret?

“Have we identified the redhead yet?” he said into his comms. He sat high in the branches of a tree, thankful that whoever was in charge of security here was a complete idiot and hadn’t cut back any of the foliage near the wall surrounding the property. Each member of the four-man team covered a section of the wall. Marc had the front, Rhys had the back, while Cat and Zach had the sides.

Cat’s voice came on the line. “Dr. Quinn McKenzie. She’s from Doctors Without Borders.”

“And she’s treating this asshole?” Rhys asked.

“Maybe she likes assholes,” Marc sniped.

“We might be able to use her,” Cat said.

“I wouldn’t trust her,” Marc said.

“You don’t trust anybody,” Zach replied.

The jeep drove out of the gates, and the doctor clutched at the overhead bar when it went over a bump. Did she care at all about who she was helping? It didn’t matter. She was too much of a risk for them to use.

They’d gotten in-country the previous day and had quickly made their way to the target location and set up surveillance.

“Valkyrie, what’s the plan if we can’t confirm the hostage location?” Marc asked.

“The intel is good according to Blackhawk.” Cat referred to Col. Blackwell, their operations officer. The man wouldn’t let a team of his go on a mission without verifying all intel. “We’ll go in tonight to confirm. If she’s here, we get her out.”

Marc studied the sumptuous furniture and elegant paintings of the second-floor rooms through the open windows. “There’s no way she’s being held on the upper floor. It’s too pristine. Any windows closed that anyone can see?”

“Negative,” the team all confirmed one by one.

“Thoughts, Spooky?” Cat asked.

“This guy is a showman. He’d put the agent somewhere that appealed to his warped sense of aesthetic.”

“You mean like the basement,” Cat said.

“Exactly.” Marc grimaced. He hated basements.