ULAU MEDA, INDONESIA

EXACT DATE: UNKNOWN

PRESENT DAY

Molly squinted at the sudden bright light as the container she and Gina had traveled in for the past fifteen hours was finally opened.

The fresh air was a godsend, and both women gulped it in.

Their captor made an apologetic face as he held his handkerchief to his nose. “The Depends didn’t work as well as I’d hoped.”

“No,” Gina told him, “they didn’t.” Particularly not when she’d gotten seasick on the last leg of their journey.

“Ah, well, it was worth a try.”

Trim and elegant, with gray at his temples, the Italian man who’d ordered them at gunpoint into this container spoke perfect English, with only the faintest trace of an accent. He was still as apologetically polite as he’d been back in Hamburg.

“My friend is ill, too,” Gina said. “She needs ginger ale or cola—something to settle her stomach.”

Molly was beyond queasy, and so hungry she was lightheaded. It wasn’t a good combination. It was a miracle that she hadn’t thrown up as well.

Of course, she still might.

“By all means,” the man said. “We’ll just dial up room service.”

She was so fuzzy-headed, she couldn’t tell if he was mocking Gina or if he meant what he’d said. Of course, it was hard to completely trust a man who’d pack two grown women in a container and ship them...

Molly didn’t know where they’d been shipped, only that it was much warmer here than it had been in Germany. And it was sunnier, too, although the light that had made her squint came from a bare bulb hanging down from the ceiling.

As another man—younger, darker, shorter, but wider—peered in at them, still brandishing the crowbar he’d used to pry the container open, Molly helped Gina to her feet. Or maybe Gina helped Molly. It was difficult to tell which of them was steadier on her feet.

The older man spoke sharply to the younger one in what sounded like Italian—no doubt a warning to be careful of the car that was parked beside them. A navy blue Impala, it dated back to the days when bigger was better. It was in very good shape for its age—similar to its owner.

“We’ll need a shower and a change of clothes,” Molly told him with as much dignity as she could muster, considering the circumstances.

They were in a garage with shuttered windows and a concrete floor. Concrete with bits of shells mixed in—similar to the way they made it back on Parwati Island.

“Are you all right?” Gina whispered to Molly.

“I’ll live.” Besides her churning stomach, Molly’s heels were bruised from their attempts to get attention by kicking the metal sides of their prison. She was hoarse, too, from screaming for help.

No one had heard them. No one, at least, who had cared.

The older man led them into the house, down a hallway, into a room that was nicely furnished. A king-sized bed. A sofa with bamboo legs and sides. A TV even, though what were the odds that it worked?

An open doorway revealed an attached modern bathroom—all gleaming white tile and chrome fixtures.

It was air conditioned and cool, thank you, Lord Jesus. It was nicer than many of the hotel rooms she’d ever stayed in—except for the decided lack of view.

Due to the fact that there were no windows whatsoever.

“If you put your clothes outside the door,” their captor said, “my daughter-in-law will wash them for you.”

With a stately bow, he closed the door behind him.

Was he just leaving it unlocked?

Gina was thinking the same thing, and went over to it. Opened it.

The younger man they’d seen in the garage was standing guard out in the hall. He still held the crowbar.

Gina closed the door, fast. “Okay,” she said. “Okay.” She moved away from the door, lowered her voice. She was clearly feeling better.

Molly wished she could say the same.

“There are three of them,” Gina continued. “We’ve only seen two, but he mentioned a third—his daughter-in-law. So far I’ve only seen one gun, and I haven’t seen it lately. What we need to do is be ready for them to come back in here. Maybe we can ask Crowbar for help, like the toilet won’t flush, and when he comes in, we’ll hit him over the head.” She crossed toward the bed, pulling up the cover to look at the metal frame. “We need to make a run for it. Now—before any reinforcements arrive.”

Gina’s voice was getting more and more faint, as if she were talking from a great distance, instead of just a few feet away. That couldn’t be good.

“Help me with this, will you?” Gina said, trying to move the mattress.

Molly tried to go toward her, and ended up sitting right on the bed. Her legs weren’t working right.

“Oh, that’s really helping.” Gina’s voice was sharp, until she looked up. “Molly? Are you okay?”

Molly’s cheek was against the crispness of the sheets. How’d she get there?

“Just gotta... close my eyes,” she said. “Just for a sec... Can we... make a run for it... a little later?”

RAMSTEIN AIR BASE, GERMANY

JUNE 22, 2005

PRESENT DAY

Jules Cassidy had called a time-out as they drove to Ramstein Air Base.

It was not unlike the time-outs Max’s father had called during long family road trips.

Max had sat in the backseat of the car, in between his sister and brother, not just because he was the youngest, but because he usually got along with them both.

When they’d started to fight, they’d had to fight over him.

Although there had been quite a few frustrating times when they joined forces and ganged up on him.

At which point, his father usually called for total silence.

Just like Jules had as they’d left the hotel.

They’d stopped only twice on their way to the airbase—to pick up a rental car to make the journey, and then at a shopping mall.

A good leader, Jules had made sure his team was properly—and literally—outfitted. He grabbed a pair of jeans from the shelf, without even asking Max’s size. Apparently, he already knew what Max wore, down to the style and brand.

A pair of sneakers—again he knew which rack to approach—and a lightweight jacket later, they were back in the car and on their way.

It wasn’t until after midnight, when they hit the airbase, that Jules let Max and Morant speak to each other, let alone get into it.

But first he checked in to make sure they still had an hour to kill before boarding the transport heading for Indonesia. He also led them to a patch of tarmac from which they would not be overheard.

“Who goes first?” Jules asked, light on the balls of his feet, like a boxing referee.

Grady Morant, aka Leslie Pollard, aka Dave Jones, raised his hand, but then didn’t speak right away. He scanned the area, taking in the activity on the airfield. He did it automatically, out of habit.

Same way Max did. He knew if they went inside the terminal, they’d both head directly for the same seat. Back against the wall, easier to see anyone coming or going.

He and Morant were a lot alike.

Except Max hadn’t turned to a life of crime.

Morant finally cleared his throat, then got the party started with a totally unexpected acceptance of blame.

“Look, I know it’s on me—completely—that Molly and Gina were grabbed.” He took a deep breath. “But—”

Okay, here it came. The part where it really wasn’t his fault.

“I swear,” he continued, “I didn’t send them to Kraus’s workshop. I didn’t even tell Molly where it was. I have no idea how she found the place, and... As for why they went there, the only reason I can come up with is that Molly realized she was being followed. Maybe she wanted to try to warn me.” He shook his head, misery on his face. “Goddamn it. I should have known not to trust Kraus.”

It was pretty obvious that was how the kidnapper had found him, found Molly and Gina, too. They’d all watched it play out on the DVD. Molly and Gina had walked in, Mr. Kraus made that phone call, and five minutes later, the man who’d ID’d himself as E. showed up.

Coincidence? Not likely.

Morant wasn’t done. “I just... I had to risk it. There were reasons for haste.”

Reasons. For. Haste. Max resisted the urge to rip out the bastard’s throat. Reasons like a chance to make a million dollars in some business deal that was mostly legal—oh, except for the parts that were felonies? Or maybe Morant was going to try to tug on their heartstrings with reasons that were sentimental. His dear old mother was ill, for example. Or his cousin needed a kidney transplant.

Max couldn’t wait to hear this.

But Jules stepped in and took the discussion in a different direction. “If you weren’t intending to send Molly to Kraus’s workshop, how exactly were you going to get that passport?”

“The plan was to meet in a bar,” Morant explained. “In Hamburg. Me,” he added. “For me to meet one of Kraus’s sons. And pay for it, in cash. Believe me, I had no intention of Molly getting anywhere near any of that.”

“Gina was a different story, though, right?” Max asked, his anger making little lights flash at the edges of his peripheral vision. “You didn’t give a damn about her, so using her credit card for the down payment was a no brainer.”

That was surely what that ten-thousand-dollar cash advance in Nairobi had been about.

“Or maybe you stole her card,” Max added, “Without her even knowing.”

Morant looked like he was seconds from swinging at Max. “Fuck you.”

“Fuck you!” Max just hoped he’d try it.

Jules stepped between them. “This is not useful.”

“I didn’t steal Gina’s credit card,” Morant said heatedly. “She knew what I was doing—she insisted. And we didn’t use her card. She got the cash from one bank, I took it to another and wired it to Kraus.”

“Were both banks in Nairobi?”

“No,” Morant said. “We flew to Paris—of course they were both in Nairobi. Look, I know you’re angry...”

Max was beyond angry. Anyone with a little computer hacking know-how could have traced that money back to Gina’s credit card. It was just one of the many, many ways E-the-kidnapper could have used Morant’s business transaction with Kraus to locate him. “How many banks are there in Nairobi, Morant?”

“Shit, I don’t know,” Morant said. “Yes, I trusted Kraus and... It was obviously a mistake. I gambled, all right? I didn’t know what else to do. I had to get Molly back to Iowa, and she wouldn’t go without me!”

“You took the photo for your new passport with Gina’s camera, right?” Max asked him. “Sent it electronically to Kraus? A copy was still in there, saved in a file.”

“If you know that,” Morant’s defiance was edged with despair, “why ask? Yes. I mean, what? Are you hoping I’m going to lie about it—”

“It would have taken my team approximately ten minutes to identify you as Grady Morant from that photo,” Max raised his voice and spoke over him. “The same photo you sent to Kraus. It probably took her a little bit longer—maybe an hour—to figure out who the hell she was doing business with—” he was full-out shouting now “—and that her new customer still had a price on his goddamn head. So much for honor among thieves, huh, Grady?”

“I said it’s my fault,” Morant shouted back. “It’s my fault. It’s my fault! What more do you want me to say? You know, Gina wanted to help. She asked if she could help—”

“And you goddamn didn’t keep her safe,” Max snarled at him. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking, fuck,” Morant roared, “if I don’t do something, my wife is going to die of fucking cancer!”

It was then, shaking with anger, that Grady Morant nearly started to cry. “You stupid self-absorbed asshole,” he whispered through clenched teeth, “you may have been willing just to throw Gina away, but I have no intention of losing Molly without a fight!”

NAIROBI, KENYA

JUNE 8, 2005

THIRTEEN DAYS AGO

“They want me to go to Hamburg for a biopsy,” Molly said, as she came out into the doctor’s waiting room, her face pale.

“What?” Jones stood up.

“They want me to go to Hamburg,” she said again. “In Germany.”

“I know where Hamburg is,” he said. Jesus, this couldn’t be happening.

This was supposed to be a minibreak—Molly was reading about one of her other favorite Joneses again. They were supposed to drive into Nairobi, visit a doctor who’d actually gotten a medical degree, find out that the lump she’d discovered was either normal or imaginary, have dinner, spend the night in a fancy hotel screaming lustily the entire time, and then drive back to camp in the morning.

He hadn’t planned at all for “They want me to go to Hamburg.”

Yes, she was almost exactly the same age as her mother had been, when her mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. Yes, the lump she’d found was similar to her mother’s in size and consistency. It was even in the same breast.

“What do they think it is?” he asked, even though he knew. Biopsy. They didn’t do biopsies for swollen glands or viruses.

Molly slipped her arms around his waist, holding him tight. “It’s proba-bly nothing.”

“Mol, it’s not probably nothing if they fucking want you to go to Germany.” She winced, and he turned to the people—mostly women—who were filling most of those waiting room seats. “Excuse me. This doctor thinks my wife, whom I love more than life, has breast cancer, so I’m going to say fuck probably about ten more times. Is that okay with all of you?”

She took his hand, pulling him toward the door. “Let’s take a walk.”

“I don’t think you should go to Hamburg,” Jones said, as she led him into the stairwell and down toward the street level. “I think you should go home. To Iowa. I think you should see your mother’s oncologist. Because your mother’s fine, right? It’s been, like, twenty years and she’s fine.”

The lobby was mostly empty, and much cooler than the sun-drenched street. There was a bench, off to the side, beneath a brightly colored wall mural.

“Let’s sit down,” Molly said.

She tried to tug him down with her, but he resisted.

If he was scared before, he was now petrified.

“Let’s take a walk,” he said. “Let’s sit. Molly, whatever you have to tell me, just please tell me.”

“I sort of don’t know how to.” She had tears in her eyes.

So Jones sat beside her. He laced his fingers with hers. “You know I love you, right?”

She nodded.

“Well, I don’t love you for your breasts,” he told her. “If one—or both of them’s got to go, then they’ve got to go. It’s not going to change the way I feel about you. It’s not going to change anything.”

Molly started to cry.

“Hey,” he said, “that was supposed to make you, well, not exactly happy, but at least—”

She kissed him. Happier.

She pulled back to look at him. “I love you, too,” she said, and somehow that unleashed a new flood of tears.

“Molly, you’re really scaring me,” Jones said. “Did the doctor give you a death sentence or something?”

“It’s just...” She shook her head, looking down at their hands, clasped together. She exhaled before she spoke. “Remember the night that you came into the mess tent, and I realized it was you and I dropped my tray?”

It was Jones’s turn to nod. He had no idea where she was going with this.

“And then, later, I came to your tent, and we kind of had... half-assed sex?”

He nodded again. Half-assed sex... He looked at her, realization dawning. Was she saying...? They’d had half-assed sex without a condom. “But I didn’t come. I mean, I remember that part really well.”

“Apparently,” she said, “you didn’t have to.”

Jones sat in silence for several long moments before he found the air to ask, “Are you serious? You’re...”

“Pregnant,” she said. “Not quite four months pregnant.”

Which meant in five months... Oh, shit.

“I thought you were, you know, in whatchamacallit,” he said. “Perimenopause.”

“Yes,” Molly said. “I am. But apparently the last few months I missed my periods because of... this.” She gazed at him, searchingly. “Are you completely horrified?”

“Shit yeah,” he said, “but not for the reason you think. Can you be treated for cancer while you’re pregnant?”

And there it was. She looked away from him. “It’s not so much can I as will I. The doctor said that after the first trimester, some chemotherapy drugs pose no known danger to the baby.”

But. Jones knew that look Molly was wearing on her face way too well. He said it for her. “But...?”

“They haven’t done enough long-term tests. I’m not going to poison this child.”

And there it was. The doctor hadn’t given Molly a death sentence. But she was potentially giving one to herself.

“This should be happy news,” she said. “That I’m pregnant. It shouldn’t be an add-on to, ‘the doctor wants me to go to Hamburg for a biopsy.’ ”

Jones shook his head. “Surely it can’t be good for the baby to just—”

She knew where he was going. “My having breast cancer won’t harm the baby.”

“Are you sure?” he said heatedly. “Have they done enough long fucking term tests on that?”

“Shhh,” she said, glancing over at the security guard standing by the front door. “Come on—”

“No,” Jones said. He stood up. “No, Molly. You can’t honestly tell me that you want to have a baby that you won’t be around to watch grow up.”

“We don’t know that. If the biopsy comes back and it’s only stage one or two, then waiting a few months—”

“Five months,” he said. “While the cancer is growing at an increased pace, feeding on all the estrogen and growth hormones that your body is making. It’s insane to—”

She stood, too. “We don’t have a choice anymore.”

“Yes, we do!”

Now she was mad, too. “Okay,” she said. “Yes. We have a choice. It’s my choice. And I choose to do more research, talk to more doctors, and go to Hamburg for a biopsy. Is that okay with you?”

What the fuck was he doing? Arguing bitterly with a woman—his woman—who had just been told she could well have cancer. How could that be helping? Yes, he was scared, but she had to be, too.

Jones reached for her. Held her tightly. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s okay. Molly, God, I’m so sorry.”

She clung to him. “I am, too.”

He was not going to let her die. He was not going to lose her.

But Jones knew, as he held her, that there was really very little he could do.

Yeah, he’d already done far more than his share.

PULAU MEDA, INDONESIA

EXACT DATE: UNKNOWN

PRESENT DAY

Molly had been asleep for quite a few hours when Gina heard a soft knock on the door.

She’d been dozing herself, but she sat up now, her heart pounding.

At first, she’d been too busy to be scared. Helping Molly take off her soiled clothes and washing her face. Peeling back the edge of the bandage covering her biopsy stitches, making sure it was healing nicely and not infected. Tucking her under the cool cotton sheets on one side of that big bed.

She’d been sleeping on a camping cot for so long, an actual king-sized bed seemed ridiculously large. Did anyone on this planet really need a bed that big?

Gina had showered and rinsed out their clothes in the sink. No way was she putting them out in the hall for the invisible daughter-in-law to launder. If she did that, they might never get them back, making it that much harder for them to make a break for it.

Of course, in Molly’s current condition, she was unable to run. If there only were a way to get her out of here...

If Gina were alone, she would’ve risked it already. She was taller than Crowbar Guy.

The door now opened. Just a crack at first, then wider, and Gina wrapped her robe more tightly around her.

As far as robes went, it was very nice, like something from an expensive hotel. But gleaming white, it practically glowed in the dark. Making a run while wearing it would be about as effective as having a neon hat that flashed “Here I am!”

Gina hadn’t wanted to put it on—this wasn’t a hotel, it was a prison—but the air conditioning had been set to a temperature that was a little too cool. She tightened the belt as she got to her feet.

It was dark in the hall, and she couldn’t tell who was standing out there until he spoke.

“Anton said you refused the tray of food he brought.” It was Gun Man. The Anton to whom he referred must be Tiny Crowbar Guy.

There were only two men holding them prisoner, with one gun between them. Gun Man had spoken of a third—that daughter-in-law—but Gina hadn’t so much as heard the whisper of a female voice. It was possible he’d mentioned her to make them feel more relaxed. Like, they were going to think everything would be okay because one of their guards was a woman.

As if that made a bit of difference.

Gina wished, for the four thousandth time, that Molly was awake and alert, and ready to run like hell.

“We’re not hungry,” she lied as Gun Man came farther into the room. She was actually starving. But if she were holding two prisoners captive with only one helper and a single gun between then, she’d lace their food with tranquilizers.

“Ah,” he said. “But when you do get hungry...” He was carrying a bag, the netting strained from the weight of its contents. He began unloading it on the dresser top. It was food—about a dozen cans of varying sizes. He stacked them neatly, and put a small, handcrank can-opener on top with a flourish. “If you should like any of this heated, we of course stand ready—”

“No,” Gina said. She stood up, moving so that she blocked his view of Molly. She looked too vulnerable lying there like that, asleep, one smooth shoulder exposed.

“As you wish.”

“We wish,” Gina said sharply, “to go back to our hotel in Hamburg.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” He actually looked apologetic, but Gina knew better.

Her legs were shaking, but she locked her knees and lifted her chin. “Who are you working for?” she asked. “Whatever they’re paying you, we’ll pay you more.”

He sighed heavily. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”

“It can be,” she said, even though she knew in her heart that this man wasn’t holding them for the money. This room was too nice, and his clothes—his entire appearance—screamed of wealth.

“You should expect to be here for a while,” he said. “Please let me know if you need anything.” He started for the door.

What Gina needed was Max.

God only knew where he was, what he was doing—if he even knew she was in danger.

Why would he? The only person who knew that she and Molly were missing was Leslie Pollard, aka David Jones, aka Grady Morant.

All things considered, Leslie-David-Grady was unlikely to turn to the FBI for help.

He would come for them, for Molly. Gina didn’t doubt that for a heartbeat. But it wasn’t going to be easy for him to get here—wherever here was.

It could take him weeks to find them.

Months.

For now at least, Gina was on her own.

Gun Man was going out the door, but Gina stopped him.

“What’s your name?”

“Emilio,” he told her.

“I’m Molly,” she lied. “Look, my friend is really sick. As a show of good faith—”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” he cut her off, already knowing she was going to ask him to let Molly go.

“Why?” Gina persisted. It didn’t have anything to do with being selfless and courageous, although if Max were listening in, she knew he’d think otherwise. He’d be wrong. It was all about how fast Molly could run in her current condition. Which was not fast at all. Gina’s chances of escaping were slim to none if she had to drag Molly with her.

“She says she’s Molly, too,” he said. “Which one of you do I believe?”

“Me,” Gina said. “She’s a liar. I mean, come on. Look at her. She’s almost old enough to be my mother. Do you really think that she and Jones—” She corrected herself. “Grady—”

Again, he interrupted. “I think she is a beautiful woman, and that true love laughs in the face of convention,” he told her. “I also think that she far more fits the description of this woman of Grady Morant’s than you do. I believe, therefore, that you are the liar.”

Figures she’d get a combination of Sherlock Holmes and Yoda for a captor.

“Why are you doing this?” Gina asked. “You seem like a decent man—”

“They have my wife,” he said, and with a nod, went back out the door, closing it gently behind him.