I love you.
I love you too, you reckless, infuriating woman.
Then they're hauling me through the door, and I lose sight of him.
They take me to a small storage room on the ground floor—no windows, one door, shelves lined with linens and cleaning supplies. The smell of detergent and bleach makes my eyes water. They bind my wrists behind my back with zip ties and shove me down onto a metal chair. The edge of the seat cuts into the back of my thighs.
"Stay," one of the gunmen orders unnecessarily, then leaves, locking the door behind him.
I sit in the darkness, trying to calm my racing heart. This wasn't my best plan. Fitz is going to absolutely destroy me for this stunt. But I couldn't let them take Grace. Not again. Not when I know what she's already survived.
The zip ties are cutting off circulation. My hands are already going numb. I try to shift position, but the chair scrapes against the floor with a sound that seems impossibly loud in the small space.
The question is—what now? Fitz and I are separated. We're both restrained. The resort is locked down, and according to Sawyer's last update, roads are blocked by avalanche risk. Help isn't coming anytime soon.
We're on our own.
I test the zip ties, but they're professional-grade and tight. They cut into my wrists. Even if I could get free, there's still a locked door and an unknown number of hostiles between me and Fitz.
Think, Jordan. Think like Fitz would think. What are our assets?
One: We're both highly trained. Fitz in tactical operations, me in... well, creative problem-solving and pissing off the right people.
Two: We're not the only professionals here. That woman from the dining room—the one who looked military. She's still in the ballroom, probably also planning something.
Three: They think we're helpless. That's an advantage if we use it right.
Four: Fitz will be planning. He's always planning. He probably has three different escape routes mapped out already, accounting for my inevitable tendency to do something stupidly heroic.
The door opens, flooding the room with light. I blink, trying to adjust, and see the leader enter alone. He's removed his ski mask, revealing a face that's younger than I expected. Late thirties, maybe. Educated British accent. Sharp eyes that miss nothing.
"Mrs. Fitzwallace," he says, pulling up another chair to sit facing me. "Or may I call you Jordan?"
"You can call me whatever you want, but I'm not telling you anything useful."
He laughs, and it's genuine. Almost friendly. Which makes him more dangerous, not less. "I don't need you to tell me anything. Your reputation precedes you. The woman who runs the most exclusive BDSM club in London. The woman who somehow has connections to The Hague, despite having no official status. The woman who has single-handedly extracted more Chibok girls than entire government agencies." He leans forward. "You're quite remarkable."
"If you're going to kill me, just get on with it. Skip the villain monologue."
"Kill you? Why would I kill my most valuable asset?" He reaches out, and I flinch as his fingers touch the collar at mythroat. The pearls are warm from my skin. "Beautiful. Your husband's collar, I presume?"
"Don't touch that." The words come out low and dangerous. The collar is sacred—only Fitz touches it. The violation makes my skin crawl.
"Territorial. I respect that." He withdraws his hand, but slowly, deliberately. Making sure I know he could have torn it off if he wanted to. "Here's what's going to happen, Jordan. You're going to make a video. You're going to tell the world about your work extracting girls from Boko Haram. You're going to apologize for interfering with cultural traditions. And you're going to beg Nigeria to meet our demands."
"Go to hell."
"Or," he continues as if I haven't spoken, "I start with Grace Okafor. Then I move on to the other girls you 'rescued.' We have a list. We know where they are. Every one of them."
My blood runs cold. The temperature in the room seems to drop twenty degrees. "You're lying."
"Am I? Chiasoka Sani, living in France under witness protection. Amina Kwago, relocated to Canada with a new identity. Precious Nkiru, in university in London." He rattles off names, locations, and my stomach churns. Girls I pulled out of hell. Girls who trusted me to keep them safe. "Shall I continue?"
"How?" My voice cracks.
"We have resources. Patience. We've been watching you for a long time, Jordan. Waiting for the perfect opportunity." He stands, and the chair scrapes against the floor. "You have one hour to decide. Make the video, or I start making examples. Your choice."
The mercenary leaves, and I'm alone again with the horrible realization that my crusade to save these women may have put them all in danger. The girls I rescued. The girls I promisedwould be safe. Every single one of them now has a target on their back because of me.
