Olivia awoke with a start after someone slapped the bottom of her foot. Two women dressed in niqabs faced her. She didn’t recognize them. “You will be bathed,” the nearest one said.

She sat up and rubbed her eyes, until the memory of the pressure washing made her cross her arms tightly. “I’m capable of bathing myself.”

Acting deaf, they ushered her down the corridor where the sunlight streamed through the windows. Though she wasn’t sure of the time, the sun had traversed to the western sky. They led her into a room with a walk-in bath—modern and elegant—completely different from the pressure-washing room. Inside, it was steaming and warm. The floors were tiled with mosaics and colorful silks hung from the ceiling, looking far more like a harem than the prison where the girls were being held.

When one of the women gestured toward the water, Olivia held back. Rubbing her thighs together, she turned in place as the knife’s sheath grazed over the inside of her leg. There it was, a tiny room with a toilet to give her some privacy. “Got to use the loo first.”

The women said nothing.

Once behind a closed door, Olivia removed the knife and hid it inside the toilet tank. She exited and moved to the basin to wash her hands and splash water on her face. Something was off with this pair and she needed to find out what.

“Bath,” one of the women said with impatience in her voice, thrusting her finger to the luxurious tub.

“Gladly. After experiencing the hospitality of your pit.”

One of the women had a prune face and the other had eyebrows so thick, she looked like a good candidate for electrolysis. Uni-brow poured some bath salts into the water. It smelled like jasmine and sizzled before it sank beneath the surface. If Olivia wasn’t suspicious of their motives, she’d enjoy a bit of pampering. Instead, she reluctantly disrobed and climbed down the steps until the warm water swirled around her shoulders. Regardless of her trepidation, it felt good, almost relaxing. She could stay in there all day, except she knew what was coming. Jadaa had even warned her.

The women—her jailors pampered her by gently pouring water over her head and then added more jasmine-scented bath salts. Another massaged in shampoo with soothing swirls of her fingers. Olivia rinsed out the suds and they applied conditioner. Yes, a harem like this, she could have tolerated.

But not now. Not after Gabby. Not after the pit. And especially not after what Jadaa had said about all the girls being pegged to be used as virginal rewards.

Olivia wasn’t a fool. She had no doubt they were priming her for a date with some mega schmuck, and maybe al-Umari himself. Would Logan liberate the compound before she was forced to submit to a monster?

Her hands trembled beneath the water. It wasn’t easy being the bait anymore, especially since she’d met the SEAL-turned-spy. The thought of any other man touching her made Olivia’s toes curl.

Uni-brow held up a towel and wrapped it around Olivia as she climbed out of the bath. “Why the royal treatment?” she asked.

“No talking,” the woman barked, sounding far more like an evil extremist.

Prune-face spread a towel over a massage table. “Lie on your back.”

Olivia hesitated.

“Do it or I’ll call in the guard,” Uni-brow threatened.

Olivia complied, keeping the towel wrapped around her body.

“Arms up.” Prune-face held out a pair of zip cuffs.

“That’s not necessary.”

Uni-brow pulled a Beretta from the holster she wore around her waist and cocked it, pointing the muzzle at Olivia’s temple. “Arms up.”

At gunpoint, they cuffed her wrists and tied them above her head. Olivia could take that, but when Prune-face spread her legs and tied her ankles, she had to clench her teeth to keep from screaming.

“You must be shaved.”

“I can shave my bloody self.”

“You are an infidel. You do not understand our customs.” Uni-brow sheathed her pistol and snatched the towel away from Olivia’s body.

“You’d be surprised what I understand.” She jerked and twisted against the bindings, only to make them cut deeper into her wrists.

Prune-face flicked open a razor—the old-fashioned type with a long, single blade. “We must shave everything below your neck.”

Olivia clenched her teeth and bucked in vain. Yes, she was aware Muslim custom was to keep one’s body hair trimmed as a measure of personal hygiene, but shave her pubes? Khalil had never asked her do so, though that man’s display of religion was only for show.

Her anger ratcheted higher with every stroke of the razorblade. She closed her eyes and held her breath. After the woman shaved the front of her pubes, she shifted the blade and maneuvered it between her legs.

If that bitch cuts me, she’ll be dead before we walk out of this room.

But Prune-face proved efficient and finished quickly.

Once the shaving nightmare stopped, Olivia inhaled deeply. “Who will I be meeting tonight?”

The two women exchanged knowing smiles, then Prune-face rubbed her hands in delight. “You will be honored.”

Honored to radicalized ISIS women could mean a myriad of bad things. “And this honorable man is to be rewarded as well?”

“Rewarded for jihad.”

“Where was the battle?”

Uni-brow stamped her foot. “It is not your place to ask questions.” She snatched a towel from a pile on the bench. “Quickly, we must continue.”

But they didn’t untie her.

By continue, the women dried Olivia’s hair—though in no particular style. Prune-face brushed it back while Uni-brow waved the dryer to and fro. Then came the makeup. Not just a light foundation and lip gloss. They caked it on thick, using dark blush and red lipstick and black kohl pencil.

When finally they released her, she rubbed her wrists as she stood and looked in the mirror. Good Lord. The worst of it was the Persian eyes. “I look like a goblin.”

“You are beautiful.”

“If this man wanted someone who looked like this, why aren’t one of you playing the part?”

Prune-face cuffed her on the side of the head. “You are disrespectful. If you wag your tongue like that when in the presence of the caliph, he will beat you.”

The caliph? Olivia’s stomach squelched. “Do you mean Fahd al-Umari?”

“You are not to utter that name.”

Would she come face to face with the man responsible for her parents’ death? For innumerous deaths in the thirteen years since? The man responsible for the kidnapping of all the European women held hostage in the compound? A shot of adrenaline burst through Olivia’s every nerve ending. She would finally get her chance to face the evilest creature who walked the earth. A man who sanctioned beheadings, and stonings, and the circumcision of young girls?

Olivia hid behind a blank expression. She couldn’t let anything out of the bag. Not now. She’d fooled everyone thus far. Tonight, she was to meet al-Umari—or, at the very least, one of his inner circle. And if Logan kept his promise, the NATO forces would attack as well.

Dear Lord, let it be so.

All her dreams could be realized this very night. The girls would be saved and, if they took down al-Umari, they’d deal a crushing blow to ISIS.

Prune-face held up a navy blue, silk burka. “You must put this on.”

Olivia could only shake her head in disbelief. They’d put more makeup on her than she’d worn in a year and now they wanted to cover her up?

She didn’t care.

Once dressed, she used the loo one more time to reaffix the knife Logan had given her.

But Prune-face followed—insisted that Olivia keep the door open. The woman watched with a smirk, making it impossible to retrieve the weapon. It was of little consequence. The devil would not get away this time.

***

Olivia heard the convoy long before the military vehicles reached the compound. And when the engines stopped, doors slammed and men laughed, discharging their weapons.

The hostages must be terrified.

Garth would have seen them coming from the satellite feed. Would he abort the operation? This surely threw a spanner in the works. Had ICE deployed enough men? Would there be air support?

What if Logan advanced and was outgunned?

Olivia’s early determination turned to dread. Her pits stung with perspiration. The women didn’t allow her to eat again as they stayed with her in the bedroom where she’d first been taken, waiting for something—waiting until the caliph decided he was ready for his reward.

When a knock came at the door, the two women made Olivia stand, then barked orders:

“Do not be nervous.”

“And do whatever the caliph asks.”

“Do not speak to him.”

“After he removes your burka, do not look him in the eye.”

Oh, I’ll look him in the eye all right.

They escorted her upstairs and into a room of opulence. Trimmed in royal blue and gold, the grandeur rivaled the throne room at Saint James’ Palace. It was a bedchamber of old, fit for a king. The four-poster bed was draped in silk and covered with pillows. There was a marble fireplace, a settee with matching chairs and the list went on.

Other than lavish wealth emanating from every corner, al-Umari hadn’t made an appearance as of yet, nor had any of the higher-ups in his cabinet.

But Prune-face and Uni-brow seemed to know what to do. After telling Olivia to sit in a padded chair with wooden armrests and legs, Uni-brow again held her Beretta to Olivia’s head while the other woman used more zip ties to bind Olivia’s wrists to the armrests.

She jolted when Prune-face bent down to secure her right ankle to the chair leg and kicked the woman to her ass.

“Stop!” Uni-brow jammed the pistol into Olivia’s temple.

Every muscle in her body tensed as she met Prune-face’s gaze. Olivia gripped the chair, breathing in a steady rhythm to calm the rage boiling under the surface of her skin. After the woman zip-tied the right ankle, Olivia fought to press her knees together, but the chair legs were too wide. Though wearing a full burka, she hated being exposed—pubes shaved, no knickers, and spread eagle.

After they left her alone in the dark, Olivia looked to the window, but the heavy drapes blocked the light. If there was any daylight left. She’d lost track of time. Olivia twisted her wrists against the plastic ties cutting into her skin. Her flesh seared with the burn. She made her hand as small as possible by moving her thumb to her pinky, then pulled harder but the bindings were too tight. Flexing her wrist, she tugged backward and felt a little give. Frantically, she wrenched her hand side to side, trying to make it even smaller while her skin grated.

Just a bit more.

She froze when the door opened and the light flicked on. Shrouded by the netting on her burka, her sight adjusted quickly as Olivia watched the man she hated to the core saunter inside.

Her skin buzzed with anticipation.

Finally, after years of waiting, the reclusive murderer of innocents stood not but paces away. He smelled of tobacco and dressed in the black robes of a caliph. But this man was an imposter. He was not holy. The air surrounding Olivia grew heavy with his evil presence, his sick sneer, his leering gaze.

He removed his turban and cast it to the sideboard before he faced her with a revolting chuckle. The man was uglier than a turkey vulture. Pock-marked cheeks above an unkempt, graying beard, an enormous hooked nose, and balding to boot. Not the kind of balding that’s neat and tidy, but he had a patch of thinning and mottled hair at the top of his scalp.

At long last Olivia was face-to-face with the man who had driven the van that had killed her parents. Heralded by his misguided followers as a hero, he’d come a long way since then, wreaking havoc at every opportunity. And his insanity had infected an entire population. What kind of fanatics celebrated the executions of civilians and missionaries?

He took off his pistol belt and released the collar of his robes. “They tell me you are the most beautiful of all my new brides.”

“Brides?” Her heartbeat rushed as she watched him from behind her shroud. The man was a freak. “All for you?”

“All for the glory of the chosen.”

“What do their wives think of your new harem?”

“Wives are told only what they need to know. Peace is served better that way.”

Olivia almost laughed out loud, amazed that the word peace was in al-Umari’s vocabulary.

He sauntered forward. “Jadaa says you’re English. Where did you learn to speak Arabic?”

“Pakistan.”

“You lived there?”

“For two years, yes.”

“Why?”

“A study exchange program,” she lied. Assholes only should to be told what they need to know.

“Did you like it there?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I’m not fond of watching my parents die. “Too much violence.”

He frowned. “Ah, but the world doesn’t take notice until a man is incited to radical action. Just like the killing of the Russian ambassador in Turkey. My disciple’s act of heroism instantly hit world news and social media. Puritanical Islamists rejoiced to the heavens.”

“Puritanical?” Olivia snorted. “Don’t you mean radical?”

He cocked his head and regarded her as if looking at a lump of clay on a potter’s wheel. “Same, same.”

The man was insane. And there Olivia sat, unable to lash out and make him pay for all the misery he’d inflicted on others. But she wanted to keep him talking, she wanted answers. Her heartbeat sped as the right zip tie gave a bit more. “Why create a harem of European blonde women who are mostly Christian?”

“What better way to reward my followers? Western women believe themselves superior, but when we break them, they realize they are no better than the cockroaches beneath our feet. Breaking western women makes my men grow more powerful, more confident.”

Olivia’s hand began to cramp with her relentless twisting. “Do you intend to break me?”

The man unsheathed a knife. “I will break you.”

“And that will make you feel more powerful?” She bore the cramp and tugged harder against the loosened binding. “With my hands and feet tied? You do not believe yourself to be strong enough to subdue me unless I am restrained?”

Rage filled his eyes as he lashed out with a brutal backhand. “You have been cursed with a wicked tongue. Jadaa told me taming you would be a challenge.” He threw his head back and laughed. “But I enjoy a spirited woman. They provide so much more sport.”

Stars darted through Olivia’s vision, but the pain served to shoot pulsing strength through her blood.

Raised voices came from outside the window. A rifle fired not once but twice. Al-Umari gave the noise a cursory glance before he returned his attention to her. Chuckling, he turned the knife between his fingers. “Do you realize I hold your life in my hands?”

She said nothing.

“Ah, fear has a way of making women silent.” Lunging in, he tore the burka from her head. Then he gasped. His pupils dilated as he raked his gaze down her body like a lecher.

Both of Olivia’s wrists strained against the zip ties. She thought she’d be able to take anything this bastard could dish out, but having him gloat while his eyes feasted upon her triggered an animalistic instinct to fight.

Her mind snapped as he cut away her abaya with a psychotic grin beneath his whiskers. Tugging away the silk, he exposed her body until she was prone and vulnerable. “Women are all the same. They think they are strong until they realize they are completely defenseless and utterly inferior to men.”

Olivia forced her knees inward, the zip ties biting further into her ankles. “You are not stronger than me,” she hissed.

“You think not?” The blade of his knife flickered as he lowered it to her cheek, then brushed her lips with the flat side of the cold steel weapon. “I like a woman with courage, no matter how misplaced her confidence.”

She drew in a stuttering breath as the razor-sharp blade trailed from her cheek down her neck and paused directly over her carotid.

Keep going you sick fuck.

And continue on al-Umari did. His pleasure manifested in the roundness of his eyes and the quickening of his breathing while he circled the blade around each of her areolas. Tremors fired across her skin. Perspiration beaded her forehead. Shaking and gritting her teeth, Olivia focused on maintaining control. She stared at a picture of an elephant on the wall, desperately seeking a meditative state.

Al-Umari hiked up his robe with his free hand while his knife wobbled in his hand.

Olivia’s skin pebbled with the possibility of being cut. The women told her not to look him in the eye, and she hated that she couldn’t bring herself to do so now—not when he wielded a blade that could take her life with one swift flick of his wrist.

He exposed his penis and stroked himself.

Dear God, if only she could seize the knife from his grasp and sever his flaccid manhood.

She jolted, making the chair buck as he pushed his blade between her legs. And she hissed with the sting of the grazing cut while a line of red spread across her inner thigh. A sadistic moan rolled from al-Umari’s throat as he continued to masturbate.

Olivia’s stomach roiled, willing the bastard to bend down so she could head butt his fat skull.

A crash sounded from outside with blasts of gunfire. Urgent voices rose. The whirr of helicopter blades drummed a distant cadence.

Olivia’s heart practically thumped out of her chest. Logan?

Dropping his hem, Al-Umari looked to the window.

Olivia turned her attention to her right arm. Giving a colossal tug, skin scraped as, finally, she freed her hand. Before the brute returned his gaze, she grabbed al-Umari’s knife hand and bent his wrist backward. As his fingers released, she slid her palm over the hilt and took charge of the blade. Slashing at him, she cut through his robes.

Al-Umari swung with his left. Ducking under his fist, she eyed her target and aimed for his neck, but he arched away, stumbling backward.

With three quick flicks, Olivia freed her limbs and launched herself out of the chair, landing in a crouch. Still moving away, al-Umari pulled a Beretta from inside his robe. Olivia didn’t allow him time to aim. She threw the knife, sinking the blade into his shoulder. The pistol fired and cracked the window. Attacking with a roundhouse, Olivia kicked the weapon from al-Umari’s hand as World War Three erupted outside.

The self-proclaimed caliph struck with his left fist.

Olivia spun away, then went on the offensive, attacking with a barrage of vicious kicks. Bone and sinew crunched as she viciously issued hissing strikes.

“Guards!” he shouted, bleeding from the nose as he lunged in and swung a backhand and nailed her across the jaw.

But Olivia didn’t flinch. She countered with a jumping round kick aimed at his head. He sidestepped away. Olivia’s ankle twisted as she landed but, with a stutter step, she raised her fists, ready for another bout.

The door swung open.

Al-Umari pointed. “Kill her!”

Olivia dove for cover behind the bed as the gunman shifted his AK47 in her direction and opened fire, spewing bullets that ripped through the wall.

Survival skills took over as she crawled under the bed, her fingers frantically searching the floor for al-Umari’s Beretta. As she moved, light caught the shiny black pistol, five feet from the edge of the bed.

Could she risk it?

“We’re under attack, sir,” the guard said. “You must leave now.”

Al-Umari’s robes rustled as he snatched the Beretta from the floor. “I’ll murder this bitch first.”

Footsteps started for the edge of the bed, hastening to where Olivia had ducked under. She rolled to the far side. The footsteps stopped.

The guard laughed. “She’s cowering under there.”

Rapid fire blasted in the passageway.

“Now sir!” the guard yelled.

The bed skirt rose. The pistol aimed. Olivia curled into a tight ball and clapped her hands over her head as the Beretta discharged. Her heart practically exploded.

Waiting to die, her every muscle clenched as, outside, gunfire boomed over the thundering whirr of helicopters.