Her leg, her back, her chest, and even her hand throbbed and burned. Worst of all, she didn’t have an anchor to keep the psychic overload from frying her brain. She was wide open to assault, and that was more frightening than all the physical wounds in the world. She felt rather than heard movement near her and kept her eyes closed, her breathing even. There was no sound of footsteps, but she had the impression of someone large and very powerful leaning over her.

She wanted to hold her breath, self-preservation rising sharply, but then he would know she was awake. She drew in her breath and took him into her lungs. He smelled of death and blood and spice and outdoors. He smelled dangerous and like everything she didn’t want—everything she feared. But her heart accelerated and her womb clenched and her stomach did a frightening little flip. Her eyes flew open, in spite of all her resolve. In spite of the danger. In spite of her years of training and discipline. Her gaze collided with his.

His eyes were the most frightening she’d ever seen. Cold steel. A glacier, so frozen she felt as if the cold burned her skin everywhere his gaze touched. There was no mercy. No compassion. A killer’s eyes. Hard and watchful and utterly without emotion. They appeared gray, but were light enough to be silver. His lashes were jet black like his hair. His face should have been beautiful—it was constructed with care and attention to detail and bone structure—but several shiny, rigid scars crisscrossed his skin, running from under both eyes to his jaw and across his cheeks and up into his forehead. One scar dissected his lips, nearly cutting them in half. The scars ran down his neck and disappeared into his shirt, creating an unrelenting mask, a Frankenstein effect. The cuts were precise and cold and had obviously been inflicted with great care.

“Have you looked your fill, or do you need a little more time?”

His voice made her toes want to curl. Her reaction to him was disturbing and not at all that of a soldier—she was reacting entirely as a woman, and she hadn’t even known that was possible. She couldn’t tear her gaze from his, and before she could stop herself, the pads of her fingers traced one rigid scar down the length of his cheek. She braced herself for the psychic backlash—the onslaught of his thoughts and emotions, the shards of glass tearing into her skull that always accompanied touch, or even close proximity to others—but she could only feel the heat of his skin and the hard ridges that had been sliced into it.

He caught her wrist, the sound of flesh slapping flesh loud. His grip was vise-like, but for all that, surprisingly gentle. “What are you doing?”

She swallowed the lump in her throat threatening to choke her. What was she doing? This man was her enemy. More importantly, he was a man, and she detested men and everything they stood for. She could respect and admire soldiers, but not relate to them at all when they were off duty. Men were brutes without loyalty, in spite of the camaraderie among the soldiers. She was not going to feel compassion for an enemy, especially one who obviously couldn’t feel sympathy for others. He was probably the interrogator, a sadist bent on hurting others the way he’d been hurt.

She should have pulled her arm away, but she felt helpless to do anything but soothe him. His mask was just that, a layer over the strange masculine beauty of his face. He seemed so alone. So cut off and distant. “Does it still hurt?” Her thumb slid in a small caress over his arm where the ridges continued. Her voice was unnaturally husky and she had no idea what she was doing—only that when she touched him, the pain in her body receded and everything feminine inside her reached out to this one man.

He blinked. His only reaction. There was no change of expression. No smile. Nothing but that one small downward drift of his lashes. She thought he might have swallowed, but he turned his head slightly, his peculiar light eyes drifting over her face, seeing inside of her, seeing how vulnerable she felt, more woman than soldier, half-ashamed, half-mesmerized.

He hadn’t pulled his arm away from her, she realized. It was like touching a tiger, a wild, exhilarating experience. She coaxed his cooperation with that small caress, the pad of her thumb brushing gently back and forth over those terrible, relentless scars, keeping him from whirling around and perhaps killing her with one stroke, or bolting into the underbrush, forever lost before she could uncover his secrets and know the man behind the mask. He trembled, the smallest of reactions, but she felt it, rather like a great untamed predator shuddering beneath a first touch.

He turned his hand over, wrapping his fingers around hers, effectively stilling her efforts. Again, she was struck by the gentleness of his touch. She hadn’t known gentleness in her life. She’d never touched another human being the way she had him. She looked down at their joined hands and saw the scars running up his arm and into his sleeve. The moment seemed somehow surreal and distant from her. Her life had been filled with training and exercise, a narrow tunnel of expertise and little else other than duty. His life seemed exotic and mysterious. There was a wealth of knowledge behind those cold eyes. There was something hot and dangerous burning beneath the glacier of ice that called to her.

His thumb slid over the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. A single stroke. Feather-light. She felt her womb spasm. His touch was electric. The smooth silk of her skin in contrast to the violent scars of his. She wasn’t without flaws, but that small touch made her feel flawless and beautiful when she’d never felt that way. She wasn’t whole or complete, but he made her feel it when nothing else ever had.

Where the pad of his thumb passed over her skin, tiny flames licked and spread until she felt the burn rushing up to her breasts and down lower to the junction between her legs. One touch. That was all it took and she was utterly aware of him as a man and herself as a woman. She pulled her hand away, stricken at the break in contact, but afraid of giving too much of herself away.

Her gaze remained locked with his as if he held her there mercilessly, in the bright spotlight. She tried not to flinch, tried not to moisten suddenly dry lips. She’d been interrogated a hundred times—more, even—and she’d never felt so nervous.

“Why did you want to kill the senator?” His voice was mild, not accusing, the inflection almost gentle.

The question shocked her. She stared at him wide-eyed, frowning a little, trying to assimilate why he would ask such a thing. “You were there to kill the senator. We were protecting him.”

“If you were there to protect him, why did your entire team leave him behind when we acquired you?”

She bit down on her lip. She didn’t know how he could be genetically enhanced without being part of their unit, a special unit of the military designed for covert operations, but she’d never seen him before. And he was enhanced. She could feel the strength and power in him even without physical contact.

“I can’t answer that,” she said truthfully.

“You weren’t there to assassinate the senator?”

“No, of course not. We were his protection team.”

“A protection team doesn’t pull out and leave the client when one of their team goes down or is captured. Your unit did just that.”

“I can’t answer for my unit.”

“Why did you think we were there to kill the senator?”

Without his touch, pain was closing in again. Her leg hurt bad enough to bring tears burning behind her eyes. She risked a look at it. The leg was swollen, but it had been worked on. Her clothes had been cut off, which meant no hidden weapons. She wore only a long T-shirt. “Am I going to lose the leg?”

“No. Nico worked on you before the doc got here. You’ll be fine. Your hand is broken too. You didn’t give me much of a choice. Why would you try to kill yourself if you were there to protect the senator?”

“I can’t answer that.”

No flicker of impatience crossed his face. He didn’t blink, watching her intently with glacier-cold eyes. She wasn’t afraid of him in the way she knew she should be.

“Let me help you sit up. We’ve given you fluids, but you should try to drink on your own. You lost a lot of blood.” Before she could protest, he slipped his arm underneath her back and helped her to sit, arranging pillows behind her.

She breathed him in and felt an instant electric current run between them. She swore little sparks danced over her skin. His gentleness disarmed her. He was a straight-up killer. She’d been a soldier all of her life and she recognized a lethal predator when she saw one, but when he touched her, there was no sign of aggression or the need to brutalize or dominate. He simply helped her, when he could have stood back and watched her struggle.

“Ken?” The voice came from the other room and her captor half-turned to face the doorway. “Briony says to bring her sister home and she sends her love.”

She looked past the man standing by the bed and her heart nearly stopped. The face of the man standing in the doorway was everything Ken’s should have been. Strong. Handsome. Classically beautiful. It was the face she imagined on an avenging angel—the bone structure, the lines and masculine perfection. The stranger had the same eyes, the same mouth. She had avoided looking too much at Ken’s mouth because she might have fixated on it. The scar that marred the soft fullness of his lips ran from the top lip to the bottom and down his chin in a straight line, and had the same precise symmetry that the other scars had.

The man in the doorway stopped. “I didn’t realize she was awake.”

Ken turned back to her, his arm still cradling her body, as he picked up a glass of water. “Can you manage with one hand?”

She could shoot a gun or throw a knife with one hand. She certainly could drink water, but having Ken close to her was intoxicating. She’d never been intoxicated before either. She allowed him to hold the glass to her lips. His hands were rock steady. She was trembling. Whatever was affecting her certainly wasn’t doing the same to him.

Mari hesitated, staring at the clear liquid with a sudden thought that she was a prisoner and they wanted information. As if reading her mind, Ken brought the glass to his lips and took a long drink. She watched the glass slide against his mouth, the way his throat worked as he swallowed, and she couldn’t help noticing those same horrific scars on his neck and, lower still, reaching under the shirt. Where else did they go?

She let him put the glass to her lips, astonished at how good water could taste. She hadn’t realized she was so thirsty. All the while she drank, she had to force her mind from straying to Ken. She tasted him on the glass, felt him through the thin material of the T-shirt—or maybe it was his T-shirt. Maybe that was why she felt him imprinted deep in her bones.

She held the glass to her forehead, fighting for air. With every breath she drew into her lungs, a sharp pain stabbed through her chest.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” Ken said, taking the glass and setting it on a table beside the bed. “If you hadn’t been wearing two vests, you’d be dead right now.”

Cami had insisted she wear two vests. She’d have to remember to thank her friend for that. She touched the painful spot. “Was it you?”

“I was aiming for your eye. You moved as I pulled the trigger.”

“I figured you would fire as soon as you knew where I was. I kept rolling, but you hit me with both shots.”

“I didn’t kill you,” he pointed out, his voice mild. “And that’s a rare thing.”

She blinked up at him, seeing the beauty of his face when he wanted her to see his mask. She knew he hid behind that mask of complete indifference. He hid himself away where no one could get to him—and why it mattered, she had no idea. She had obligations and she had to escape as quickly as possible. She just knew she didn’t want to add to this man’s scars.

“Lucky me. I didn’t kill you, and that might be even rarer.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her, the one without a scar slashing white through the black hairs. “Actually, it was Jack you nearly hit. Do you need a painkiller?”

Mari shook her head. “You’ve given me something. I’m already floating. How bad is the leg?”

“Let’s just say, you’re going to have to put off your escape plans for a little while.”

Was he reading her mind? It was possible. She was a strong telepath; maybe he was too. Maybe touching her allowed him entrance to her mind. Panic swirled in her belly, her stomach churning. Dr. Whitney had experimented on the soldiers with the idea of creating a unique black ops team capable of slipping in and out of situations, and handling any problem that might crop up, including interrogation. With the right psychic ability, just touching another might be all that was necessary to extract the information wanted.

“I’m not.”

“Not what?”

“I’m not reading your mind.”

She blinked up at him. “If you’re not, how did you know what I was thinking?”

“You don’t have a poker face and I know your sister very well.” His gaze locked on hers—held hers. “She has a lot of the same expressions.”

The punch took her breath away, robbed her of every bit of air left in her lungs. How did he know she had a sister? Who was he? She felt sick, bile rising so fast she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. Had she talked when she was unconscious? She would not be used to capture her sister. Never. “My sister?” Even as she echoed his words, she remembered Jack calling out to his brother. Briony says to bring her sister home. Briony was not a common name. How did they know? She hadn’t even told Cami about Briony. She kept her memories of Briony close, afraid Whitney might take them away.

She stayed very still, making herself smaller in the bed. She might be at their mercy right this moment, but they would underestimate her, especially with the way she was acting around Ken. There would be one moment when they would grow complacent, when they would forget she was a trained soldier, and she would be able to escape.

She reached out telepathically, calling on the other members of her unit, hoping someone was in range. Sometimes, when they were all connected, they could reach far, miles even, but most of the time they had to be fairly close.

Ken pressed several fingers to his temples, rubbing them as if they ached. “Stop it. When you’re reaching out to your friends, it sounds like bees buzzing in my head. Not only is it distracting, but it can be painful.”

She flushed, unable to keep the color from rising in her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” She glanced at Jack. He was watching his brother, his expression wary—why, she couldn’t tell. “I was checking in.”

“I’ll bet you were,” Jack said. “Ken, why don’t you take a break and I’ll have a little chat with our guest?”

The tension in the room shot up perceptibly. Ken turned slowly, hands out away from his sides. There was nothing overtly threatening in his manner, but Marigold’s heart began to pound in alarm. She reached out without thinking, her fingers sliding down Ken’s arm. She felt his muscles rippling beneath the thin material of his shirt and then the pads of her fingers slid over warm skin and settled there. She could feel his scars against her smooth palm. Once again heightened awareness of him as a man and her as a woman shot through her.

Ken stopped moving, leaving her fingers wrapped halfway around his wrist, but he didn’t turn around. He faced his brother, and Mari glanced at the window, trying to see his expression. In the glass, his scars didn’t show and she could see the same masculine beauty that was carved so exquisitely in his brother’s face. Her heart gave off a curious melting sensation. She had a strange desire to frame that face with her hands, to kiss every single scar and tell him none of them mattered. But she knew they did. Something deadly lay beneath that surface of destruction, and somehow it was tied up in each of those terrible slices made into his flesh and bone.

Jack spread his hands out in front of him, held his right palm up. “It was just a suggestion.”

“I can handle things here, no problem,” Ken said.

Jack shrugged and stepped out of the room.

“What was that?” Mari asked.

Ken turned back to her, his face as expressionless as ever. “You don’t know?”

Did she? Mari was so confused with her reaction to him, with her behavior and the fact that she wasn’t in terrible pain as long as she was close to him that she couldn’t seem to think with a clear head. He had admitted he’d given her painkillers; maybe they were making her thinking fuzzy, because nothing was making sense.

Unless . . . It couldn’t be. She would know, wouldn’t she? Her mouth went dry at the thought that Whitney had somehow paired her with this man. Her fingers tightened around his wrist. “Come closer to me.” Whitney had many, many experiments, and his worst was combining couples—his breeding program. It was why she had convinced the others in her unit to allow her to join them one more time so she could personally speak to the senator.

Violet knew her. Violet would vouch for her. Speaking to the senator and asking—begging—him to intervene was the only way she and the other women could continue to do their duty as soldiers. And if she didn’t get back to the compound fast, too many people were going to get hurt.

“You know,” he said, his voice soft.

She closed her eyes and looked away from him. She’d been trained as a soldier almost since the day she was born, and she was proud of her abilities. But suddenly, Whitney had pulled the women off the units and brought them to a new location, a new training center, and they’d become virtual prisoners. Whitney had paired some of the men with the women using some kind of scent compatibility. It was more complicated than that, but she had seen the results and they weren’t very nice. The men were obsessed, whether or not the women responded to them. And it didn’t seem to matter to most of them one way or the other. She and the other women had conspired to get one of them out of the compound to approach Senator Freeman and Violet in the hopes that he would shut down Whitney’s operation and return them to their units.

Mari had never been attracted to any of the men she knew and respected, yet she was fascinated by a total stranger, her enemy, a man who would have killed her. She was not just attracted; the feeling was all-encompassing. She wanted to soothe away his hurts. She needed to find a way to take away the stark loneliness she saw in him.

Somehow Whitney had paired her with this man. He didn’t act as if he reciprocated, and Mari was ashamed of herself. She detested the men in the breeding program for their lack of discipline and control, and yet she was acting nearly as bad. This was a horrible situation and one that wasn’t going to be easily overcome.

What did she want anyway? To sleep with him, just as the men did with her? Did she think he was going to fall madly in love with her? There was no such thing. Love was an illusion. According to Whitney, it was their duty to sleep with their partner in order to have a child. So far, she had resisted, and she’d been punished numerous times, but the idea of intimacy with Brett, of all men—a vicious brute of a man who enjoyed inflicting punishments—was a little too much for her stubborn streak.

Ken hadn’t pulled away from her, and she let him go, the heat of his skin burning into her palm. He refused to look away. She could feel his gaze on her, and she shook her head.

“You know Whitney,” he said.

“So do you. Why don’t we know each other?” Her lashes lifted, and she silently prayed she was wrong, that he wasn’t going to have any effect on her. His eyes met hers, and her stomach did that stupid flip she was beginning to hate. The tingle of awareness spread, becoming a rush of heat that made her breasts tighten. She wanted to cry. It was wrong to manipulate anyone sexually—even soldiers raised on duty and discipline.

“Whitney has several experiments going. We’re just beginning to understand how many. He adopted female babies from foreign countries and experimented on them. Regardless of his security clearance, no one was going to authorize that, so he kept the girls hidden using various means. Briony was adopted out to a family, but he kept tabs on her, insisting on mapping out her education and training as well as sending his private doctor to monitor her health. I met her a few weeks ago.”

She tried not to react. It could be a trick—a setup. Another test. Whitney often tested them, and if they failed, the consequences were dire. She said nothing, just stared up at his face. The mask gave nothing away. She was good at reading people, but not him. Even touching him gave her no information, only a strange, soothing peace. And she shouldn’t feel peaceful; she should feel alert. Could it be a new kind of interrogation drug? She almost wished it were. She feared it was the beginning of an addiction to a man, and that was simply not acceptable.

“You’re identical twins, obviously. She looks just like you.”

Mari turned her face away from him, knowing she couldn’t hide her expression. She had longed for information on her sister for years. Now, here it was, if she could believe it. Dropped straight into her lap, and how big of a coincidence was that? She bit her lip to keep from a sarcastic reply. It had to be a setup. There was no way she could casually meet this man and have him know her long-lost sister. But even if he was lying, she was so starved for news of Briony she wanted him to keep talking, and that was just plain pathetic.

“Are you listening?”

Of course she was listening. “I like fairy tales.”

“I can stop then. I wouldn’t want to bore you.” He stepped away from her, back toward the shadows, away from the light. It was the first restless move she’d seen him make, when he was so in control. The movement reminded her of a great caged tiger, pacing with impatience and frustration. He needed to be outside, in the mountains, away from civilization. He was too wild, too much of a predator to be caged in a house.

“I was enjoying the story.” Had she revealed too much, or had she managed to sound as if that was all it was to her—a fairy tale? She wanted him back, wanted him closer. As soon as he retreated, pain engulfed her. “You’re an anchor,” she said.

Without an anchor to draw psychic backlash, she was always wide open to assault. Much like someone born with autism, she no longer had the necessary filters to keep her brain from being under constant attack by all the stimulation around her. He was controlling that for her, she realized.

“Yes. So is Jack.”

Jack. The beautiful one. The one who had Ken’s face. How did it feel to stand beside his brother every day, to look into the face he should have had? It had to hurt. No matter how stoic he was, no matter how much he loved his brother, he had to look at that face and hurt.

Mari studied him as he leaned one hip lazily against the far wall, there in the shadows. She was certain it was a place he was far more comfortable. Did he realize the scars weren’t as obvious as in the glare of light? That when darkness touched him, his face was nearly as handsome as Jack’s? She doubted it. He favored the shadows simply because he could disappear into them.

“And Jack knows this Briony you claim is my sister?”

He sighed. “We’re going to play games?”

“You’re a soldier, probably black ops. How much are you willing to give up? Not even your name, rank, and serial number. You don’t exist in the military, do you?”

“I know your name. It’s Marigold. Your sister told me. She suffers tremendous pain when she tries to remember you, because Whitney manipulated her memories. She’s been frantic to find you. Whitney had her adopted parents killed when they refused to allow her to go to Colombia. You know why he was so determined she go there?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “He wanted her to run into Jack. He wanted her to meet him so he could continue his latest experiment. He wants their child.”

Her heart slammed hard in her chest and the bile rose again. This time she couldn’t stop it. “I’m going to be sick.”

He was there in an instant, handing her a small pan. It was humiliating to lie in bed throwing her guts up under his piercing gaze. She wanted to scream at him to go away and leave her so she could rage at the unfairness—at the betrayal. She had sacrificed everything to keep Briony safe. Everything. She had endured her sterile life, living without a home or family, never seeing the outside of the compound unless she was running a mission, the punishing training, the discipline and experiments—all of it. She endured it without protest so Briony could have a life somewhere. That was the bargain she’d made as a child, with the devil. He’d promised her that if she cooperated, Briony could live a dream life. She could have the fairy tale. Love. Laughter. Family. Briony was supposed to have it all.

Ken handed her a wet cloth to wipe her mouth. She didn’t meet those glittering eyes. She couldn’t. If he was telling the truth—and she suddenly suspected he was—her entire life had been a lie, and if Ken saw her face right then, he would know.

Whitney cared nothing for the soldiers he housed in his compounds. She had watched him as he made his observations on them all, his cold snake eyes excited and fanatical when he got his results, and angry and malevolent when he didn’t. They weren’t real to him—not people—only test subjects.

“Did they meet in Colombia?” Her voice was a whisper, a strangled sound that was too close to tears. Tears were a weakness—one soldiers didn’t indulge in. How often had she heard that as a child? Soldiers didn’t play. Soldiers were about duty and hardship and skill.

“No. Her parents refused to allow her to go and he had them murdered. She walked in right after and found them.” His voice was gentle, as if he knew he was hurting her with the telling. “She has brothers, but like you she needs an anchor. Living in close proximity without one was hell on her at times. Particularly as a child, before she was strong enough to build some small protections.”

Mari nodded. She knew what it was like to be bombarded with too much emotion, and a child living in a household with parents and brothers would have headaches and blackouts, maybe even brain bleeds. “He did it on purpose to see how tough she would be, didn’t he? I was in a controlled, sterile environment and she was put out in a chaotic, busy household. He wanted to compare how we handled it.”

“That’s what we believe.”

“And he wanted her to have your brother’s baby because he’s genetically enhanced, isn’t he?”

Ken nodded. “Yes. We think he wanted you pregnant at the same time.”

Again there was no inflection in his voice, no change in expression, his glacier-cold eyes completely unfathomable, yet she winced, sensing extreme danger. It was odd that he never stirred, not even the ripple of a muscle, but the aura of danger, the tension in the room, seemed to build at times so that she could barely breathe, waiting for disaster. She had been around genetically altered soldiers for most of her life—was one herself—and some, like Brett, were cruel; others were men she respected, but all of them were dangerous. She just sensed something more in Ken. She couldn’t put her finger exactly on what it was—but she knew she never wanted to go into combat against him again. She’d been lucky.

“Mari?” The way he said her name shook her. A caress. A stroke of velvet. He created intimacy when there was none. He always sounded so gentle. Men weren’t gentle. Soldiers weren’t gentle. Men like Ken, predators, hunters, they weren’t gentle. How could he make her feel so vulnerable with just his voice?

“What do you want me to say? Yes, you’re right?” She should have kept her mouth shut. Anyone would have heard the stress, the anger, the repressed fear and hurt. Her life had been hell since Whitney had decided to pair the genetically altered women with soldiers. He didn’t care if the women wanted the men; in fact he seemed to delight in seeing how far the men were willing to go to get the cooperation of the women. Everything was meticulously detailed and reported. And men like Brett didn’t like failure.

“He tried to force cooperation from the women?”

She suppressed a small hysterical laugh. That was a gentle way of saying it. “Whitney wouldn’t put it that way. He creates a situation and sits back and observes. He isn’t messy enough to force us. He leaves that to the men.” She pressed her lips together and turned away from him. How could she be giving up information? Personal, vital, information. She had to be drugged.

“Whitney is a first-class bastard.” Ken moved, a rippling of muscle, a gliding of silent steps across the room until he was once more beside her and she could breathe him into her lungs. His palm was cool on her forehead as he brushed back strands of her hair. “He faked his own death and has gone underground. Someone high up is helping him. After Jack met Briony—”

“How? This all seems too big of a coincidence for me to swallow. You just happened to be the shooter when we were supposed to protect the senator. You miss when you’ve probably never missed in your life.”

“I didn’t miss.”

“You missed.”

A ghost of a smile pulled at his mouth. His even white teeth flashed. The effect was breathtaking. Her stomach somersaulted. Even her broken fingers tingled—fingers he had crushed. She remembered the swift attack, so fast he seemed a blur of movement. Even as she’d tried to fulfill her promises to the other women, she had admired his efficiency.

“Tell me,” she urged.

“It started with Senator Freeman. He was flying over the Congo, over rebel territory, and his plane went down. Mysteriously, General Ekabela, who was renowned for torturing prisoners, didn’t touch the senator, the pilot, or anyone traveling on that plane. At the very least, the pilot should have been killed.” He waited a moment, letting the implications of that sink in. “Jack was supposed to lead a rescue mission and pull the senator out. The orders came down, but Jack was still in Colombia. He’d run into a snag there, so I took his place.”

“You led a team into rebel territory to get the senator and his people out, but things didn’t go well.” Her gaze drifted over the terrible scars.

“They were waiting for us. We were ambushed and I was cut off from my unit. They were definitely after me, singling me out and sending in so many soldiers I didn’t have a chance. My men got the prisoners out and I was captured.”

Again, she was struck by the complete lack of inflection in his voice. He showed no emotion, when she felt the emotion like a raging volcano churning beneath the tranquil surface. She couldn’t imagine what the pain had been like—or the fear.

“How long did he have you?”

“An eternity. I knew Jack would come for me. Later I found out three rescue attempts had been made, but the rebels moved me constantly from camp to camp. By the time Jack found me, I was in pretty bad shape. I don’t remember anything but seeing his face. There wasn’t a whole lot of me left.”

“Ekabela had you cut like that?”

“Sliced into little pieces and then he skinned my back. Peeled it right off, like those deer on the senator’s porch.”

“So you had every reason to want Senator Freeman dead.” She made the statement quietly, watching his face for a reaction.

“I still want him dead.”