“Anton. Come.”

A muscular, bearded Greek stepped up to the open doorway from where he’d been positioned at the top of the stairs. “Sir?”

“The product being held alone in VIP stateroom number four. Bring it to me.”

The younger man masked a smile. “Right away, sir.”

Now the seventy-two-year-old reached into a drawer and retrieved a fistful of silk scarves of different colors. He tossed them around on the bed and on the floor haphazardly, then picked a few back up and placed them more methodically around the room.

Jaco Verdoorn had told Kostopoulos that Riesling wanted him to take one of the women from below into his bed. He did this with regularity—it was the only reason he traveled personally with the merchandise to market—but tonight was the first time he’d been asked to defile one of the special-handling items.

Kostas was reluctant at first; he knew the Director himself would be on the yacht in just hours, and he did not want to do anything to bring on the powerful man’s ire. But when Verdoorn explained they’d been having trouble with Maja, and the psychologist on board felt she’d get through to her more easily if she managed to form a bond with her after helping her cope with true trauma, then the Greek saw this as his one opportunity to sample the wares going directly to the man in charge of the entire Consortium himself.

And even though the past several days had been some of the most difficult in the Balkan pipeline with the attacks by the American assassin known as the Gray Man, now that he was out on the water, away from the Balkans, Kostopoulos felt a reversal of fortunes coming his way. As he waited in his master stateroom for the most beautiful and desirable woman in this or perhaps any other shipment to come up and fulfill all his prurient desires, he found himself amazed that he’d managed to get so fucking lucky in life.

* * *

• • •

I stretch my hamstrings and then my IT bands behind the bar. The cold of the water, even with my wetsuit on, tightens my muscles and lessens my ability for explosive movement, but the stretching helps me counter this somewhat.

And it’s not like I have much else to do. I’ve been back here for a half hour now; the tender motored off ten minutes ago, and even though it is a thousand yards or so to the marina in Rovinj, I can’t be sure the rigid-hulled rubber inflatable boat won’t return soon.

I tell myself I’ve got to get on with it.

But as I prepare to move, I see yet another figure in the saloon. This time it’s a muscular, bald-headed man with a beard, wearing a polo and a Brügger and Thomet submachine gun over his shoulder, descending the circular stairs. He arrives on the main deck and immediately continues down to the lower deck.

Something tells me to wait, and I do, but only for a minute. Then I see a woman ascend from below, followed by the bearded man, who holds a hand on her shoulder from behind.

As she continues up the stairs, I focus on her carefully, curious as to why this one, who is being treated like a captive, is being escorted alone.

I get a good look at her face as she steps onto the main deck before turning on the staircase to go up to the upper decks.

Oh my God.

It’s Roxana.

Talyssa’s sister is very much alive.

My heart begins pounding now. I count my blessings she isn’t being held with the others, and I realize there just may be a chance I can get her out of here. It will probably mean killing at least one guard and maybe more and then a fast getaway, but considering what these assholes are up to, I see that as a feature of this plan, not a glitch.

They climb to the upper deck, disappearing from my view. I want to follow them now, but the sound of a walkie-talkie nearby holds me in my hiding place tucked behind the little bar.

* * *

• • •

Roxana had been told to dress for dinner earlier in the evening, and fine clothes were brought to her by the staff. She dressed in white slacks and a sleeveless black top, expecting that she and Dr. Claudia would be having another session.

She was led from her cabin, past a pair of armed guards in the foyer, up the stairs, and all the way to the upper deck. Here she could see an open door to the bridge, and an open door to a large stateroom.

The guard directed her aft towards the stateroom, and then he all but pushed her inside before closing the door.

Here an older man, wearing a red robe and leaning against a chair in a sitting area just a couple steps away from her, smiled and beckoned her to come closer.

His tan, hairy chest was exposed, and Roxana thought she might be sick.

“Good evening,” he said in English.

She looked around and saw several silk scarves lying around the room. On the bed, on the floor in front of it, on the two chairs. She did not know what they were for, and she did not know why she was here.

“Who are you?” she asked warily.

The man said, “Call me Kostas.” He reached out to shake her hand, and when she reluctantly offered hers, he grabbed her roughly by her wrist and yanked her off-balance. As she screamed in surprise, he shoved her down onto the bed with a confidence in his eyes that told her this was nothing new for him.

When she found herself on her back, the man said, “I find it’s best for everyone if we get right to it, don’t you?”

Her heart felt like it would tear out of her chest now. “No!”

Roxana began to hyperventilate, but through the fear she felt rage.

The older man said, “I hear you are quite a brat, but I will take responsibility for teaching you how to behave going forward.” With that he reached and grabbed one of her legs, yanked it to the end of the bed, and began wrapping a silk scarf around her bare ankle. She saw him tie the other end of the scarf to the low bedpost, and she fought to pull her leg away.

The older man was surprisingly strong, and she could not break free.

Right before he cinched the knot tight, however, Roxana used her other leg to kick him in the side of the head.

The man in the red robe tumbled sideways to the floor, halfway to the lavatory, and Roxana scooted backwards along the bed until she had her back pressed against the headboard.

“Stay away!”

The man who called himself Kostas climbed back to his feet slowly; she could tell he was stunned and embarrassed but not especially injured. His silver hair hung over his eyes, so he shook off the impact to his head, then smoothed it back into place.

“You,” he said with a grin. “The rumors are right about you. You are one disobedient little bitch.”

He moved forward confidently, but when she kicked out at him again, he took a step back to rethink his plan. He stepped over to a small writing desk in the corner of the room, then reached into a drawer and pulled out a large knife. It was in a sheath, but he waved it in the air in front of him. “Now. You don’t want to fight with me, dear. Nothing good will come of it.”