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1
BEXLI
Last night, one of the new bitches who arrived each evening to drug and shackle me was interrupted by a loud crash followed by several raised voices and a woman’s screams. She’d raced out of the room before she had the chance to do either. While she’d checked to make sure my door was locked behind her, she didn’t notice when a syringe fell from her pocket and rolled under the bed.
After using my toe to move it farther so it was well out of sight, I sat on the mattress, wishing I could stick my fingers in my ears so I didn’t have to hear the woman’s cries of anguish. Her shrieks made me want to cower in the opposite corner of the room.
I couldn’t, though. I had to force myself to listen, not shudder in fear. That’s what they wanted. For all of us to hear what was happening to her, so we’d be too afraid to stand up to them like she must have.
It was likely they’d beat her to death. I’d seen them do it before, when we first arrived and weren’t yet confined to our rooms. We never saw the woman who’d spat in the face of a guard again—or each other. From then on, we were kept locked up. One woman per room. No different from what I imagined solitary confinement in prison would be like.
Now, a little less than twenty-four hours later, I looked up at the blinking red light on the camera monitoring my room. In a few minutes, it would turn off and the bloody bastard who’d lured us to this hell on earth—Lorenzo Moretti—would arrive for the meal he and I shared each night. Moretti called it dining-etiquette training. In my head, I referred to it as “how to be a perfectly mannered blow-up doll.”
Tonight would be my one chance to escape. If I failed, I’d experience the same thing the other woman had last night. The one whose screams still echoed in my mind. Then all I could pray for was for him to kill me.
2
CAYMAN
Icame down the main staircase when I received an alert informing me a vehicle had pulled through the gate of my parents’ manor in Shere. Not my parents’—mine.
I hadn’t grown accustomed to the fact that it was deeded to me as a gift for my thirtieth birthday a few months ago. Truth be told, I hadn’t wanted it. However, as the sole heir of the Duke of Somerfield, this was only one of several properties I would eventually inherit.
I supposed, of the three ducal estates my father had to choose from, this one made the most sense. A month ago, when I was appointed to the United Kingdom task force, one of five such named to the UN Coalition Against Human Trafficking, I’d offered the property as a command center.
The request had come from the head of the US task force, Philip “Ares” Kappas, by way of my boss’ boss, Z Alexander, leader of MI6.
His was the job I really wanted—Winston “Cayman” Trace, Chief of Military Intelligence Section 6. It had been my career aspiration since secondary school. Serving on this task force certainly made for a high-profile stepping stone in my quest for the position.
“Have they arrived?” Margeaux “Nemesis” Jordan, commanding officer of the UK task force and my immediate superior, asked.
“They have,” I responded, not requiring clarification to know she was referring to the MI6 chief and Henri “Baissier” Marchand, the French ambassador to the United Nations as well as the leader of the UN coalition.
“He’s going to brief us on Mithras, isn’t he?” Nemesis asked. Since I had no idea why the ambassador had requested the meeting, I didn’t respond. Instead, I greeted the guests at the front door and led them into the main sitting area, where those of us who’d participated in the coalition’s first joint mission were gathered.
“I will keep this brief as I’ve been called to New York for a meeting with the security council,” Baissier began before asking Z and Nemesis to join him at the front of the room. I wasn’t the slightest bit surprised when Marchand announced Nem was being named head of the UN coalition. It was a well-deserved promotion and I, along with the rest gathered in the room, stood and applauded.
“I have another announcement.” Marchand turned to me. “As long as Nemesis approves the recommendation, I’d like to suggest Cayman Trace replace her as the UK task force’s commanding officer.”
I was stunned—and thrilled. While Nem’s appointment made complete sense, I hadn’t considered who might be promoted to her former position. And even if I had, I never would’ve expected to hear my name.
“Of course I approve. Congratulations, my friend,” she said, holding her hand out to me.
As I stood to join them, my mind wandered outside the room we were in to Bexli. The one person I wanted to share this news with more than any other. The one who’d risen to the rank of MIP—most important person—in my life the day I first laid eyes on her. I’d been age eight to her seven.
Rather than shake Nem’s or Z’s hand, or even the ambassador’s, my fingers itched to pull out my mobile and call Bex.
I could already hear her response in my head. “I’m so thrilled for you, Cay,” she’d squeal. While my parents would be happy about my news, only Bexli understood how important it was to me to make a name for myself, to achieve something on my own, outside of what I’d been born into. Something beyond the marquess who would someday be the duke.
“This is bloody brilliant!” I heard Kai “Poseidon” Allora, my closest friend and the commanding officer of the Maltese task force, exclaim. Although, when I turned to thank him, I realized he wasn’t talking about my promotion.
“What did I miss?”
Poseidon’s head cocked. “Zep has been named CO of the Swiss team, and Mag to Albania.”
“No kidding?” I congratulated Henry “Zeppelin” Bonham and Justin “Magnet” Magnussen.
“You all right, mate?” Zep asked, putting his hand on my shoulder.
