Two well-armed rifle squads of European Federation Enforcers Corps troops had been dispatched to reinforce security at the prison, and two sergeants stood at the gate, unflinching in the morning rain.

But as Dennison exited her armored SUV, their expressions shifted, eyes playing over her face and drifting down to her legs, despite the trench coat.

She was used to the ogling but never tolerated it. Her glare sent their gazes straight ahead, and she offered them a crisp and official-sounding, “Good morning.”

“Morning, ma’am,” they said in unison with thick accents.

Dennison was escorted into the building by a trio of heavily armed Joint Strike Force military police, along with a pair of her own personal security guards dressed in civilian clothes.

After passing through four separate checkpoints, they reached the small, ten-by-ten interrogation room.

The JSF had already sent in a team of six of their best interrogators, and they had already spent more than ten hours questioning Colonel Pavel Doletskaya.

Joint Strike Force doctrine gave the interrogators twenty-one approaches to “convince” prisoners of war to divulge critical intelligence. The approaches were designed to exploit the prisoner’s personal history, morality, sense of duty, love of country, relationships with comrades, and even his sense of futility. Carefully applied in the correct combinations, the approaches were said to work on nearly everyone.

But during the flight over, Dennison had learned that Doletskaya had given up nothing. He made no attempt to invent information or misdirect the interrogators. He simply refused to cooperate and demanded that the consequences of such refusal be carried out immediately.

“Hello, Major,” came a voice from behind her.

The lead interrogator, Charles Shakura, proffered his large hand and introduced himself. He was an impressive-looking black man despite his tattered business attire and the dull haze in his eyes.

“Nothing new since we last spoke?”

He shook his head and sighed in disgust. “I haven’t been given authority to use enhanced measures.”

“We’ll go there, but only if it’s absolutely necessary. I want to speak to him now.” She headed toward the door, while Shakura motioned to one of the guards to unlock it.

Dennison stepped into the room, closed the door behind her.

The colonel sat at the head of a small, steel table bolted to the floor and kept his head lowered.

He had a graying crew cut, and from what she could tell from beneath his straight jacket, a barrel chest and thick arms. His face was flushed, the white stubble of a beard tracing his mouth. He was, in most respects, a beautiful man, a predator with his wings clipped.

“Colonel, look at me.”

Slowly, his head rose, and his semi-vacant eyes began to focus, grow brighter. He spoke with a Russian accent, but his English was excellent: “Major Dennison, the most famous executive officer of the Joint Strike Force. And one of the youngest. You are more beautiful than all of the photos and videos I’ve studied. They do you no justice. How old are you? Twenty-nine?”

“What’s going on up in the Amundsen Gulf?”

“You are thirty-four. I know how old you are. And such a beautiful young woman given such a terrible job.”

Dennison spoke through her teeth. “What’s going on up there?”

“Nothing.”

“What is Operation 2659? Who is Snegurochka?”

“Major, if you came to ask me those painfully obvious questions, you’ve wasted your time. Don’t you want to know more about your adversary? Doesn’t it fascinate you that I am here, in the flesh? I’ve studied you for a very long time. I know everything. Your father was an Air Force pilot. You went to Virginia Military Institute, graduated the class of 2005.”

“Two thousand four,” she corrected.

He smiled. “Of course. And then you went to the United States Naval Academy, got your B.S. in systems engineering, graduated summa cum laude. Very impressive. You’ve been in U.S. Naval intelligence and logistics and went on to serve in the U.S. Naval Special Warfare Command. I even know you were handpicked by General Scott Mitchell to join the JSF. Your favorite ice cream flavor is rocky road. And you watch that romantic comedy with . . . I don’t remember the actor’s name. You watch that over and over. Too many times.”

Her face twisted into a deep frown. “I didn’t know I had a Russian stalker.”

“Stalker? Of course not. Details are my god. Know your enemy, keep him close, study him, learn his weaknesses, exploit them, then bring him down—if you want to call that stalking. I call it hunting.”

“You’re planning another attack. And you’re going to tell us all about it.”

“Please, Major. We know where this will go and how it will end. Fly home. Forget all about me.”

She narrowed her gaze. “I’m going to get authorization to use enhanced methods to interrogate you. Do you know what that means?”

“This is where you promise to torture me, but it never comes because there are too many bleeding hearts in your government. If we had captured you, I would have already strip-searched you—and taken my time with that. And then we would stick a long needle in your arm. Do you know what SP-18 is?”

“I thought it was seventeen.”

“This is the new serum, more potent; but like the old, it’s tasteless, odorless, and has no side effects. Best of all, you would never remember our heart-to-heart talk. We use it on our own agents all the time, to ensure their loyalty. We would have what we want from you in one hour. I have been here a long time, twelve, fourteen hours? I do not know. They took my watch. And you have nothing after all that time, nothing except a team of dead soldiers, spies who deserved to die.”

Dennison’s chest grew tight, her breath shallow. She stood and came around the table, leaned over, and got into the colonel’s face. “Those men gave their lives to bring you back here. Oh, you’re going to talk. But first, I suspect, you’re going to bleed. A lot.”

“Like I said, you are a beautiful woman with a terrible job.” He laughed again, under his breath.

Her fist connected with his nose, driving his head back, and she thought, My God, I just punched him, but there was no taking it back.

The door swung open and the guards rushed in, followed by Shakura. “Major, please, we have strict orders not—”

“I issued those orders,” she said, rubbing her knuckles.

Doletskaya faced her, blood streaming over his mouth. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For allowing me to bleed for my Motherland.”

She cursed at him.

He smiled, blood filling the cracks of his teeth. “Major Dennison, you are apparently the only man here.”

She regarded Shakura. “Clean him up. He’s off to Cuba.”

“I’m sorry, Major,” said the colonel.

She frowned.

“I’m sorry we don’t have more time to talk.” The guards took the colonel by the arms and forced him to his feet. “I wanted to express my condolences about your mother,” he added quickly.

“My mother?”

“The cancer. And yes, I wanted to tell you that you should talk to your sister, that she is still your sister despite your political differences. And I wanted to tell you that it’s okay to cry, late at night, like you do sometimes when you eat all the ice cream. The rocky road. It’s okay.”

She balled her hands into fists, glowered at him, flicked her glance to Shakura. “Get this . . . freak . . . out of here.”

Doletskaya winked. “Dosvidaniya, Major.”

Chills ripped across her shoulders as they shoved him out of the room, blood dripping from his chin.

She trembled violently now, began to lose her breath.

“Major?” called Shakura. “Are you all right?”

She closed her eyes.

Bared her teeth.

And inside, she screamed.