The occupants of the cooler used plywood sheets to create a dead space in the lobby. A half-circle plywood wall blocks the hallways, conference rooms, and offices. She can identify the secretary’s desk only because the occupants built over it. She sees signs of recent use, though. Empty beer cans and candle stubs litter the floor. It’s clear that the city’s addicts are using this spot to get high.

  What’s drawing them here?

  Anastasia takes a cautious step toward the secretary’s desk, certain she has the answer. She notices light emanating from between the gaps in the plywood sheets. It’s soft, stuttering. The flame of a candle as someone passes by it.

  Her pace slows, like her breath, as she nears the desk.

  “Hello?” Anastasia draws out the word, savoring it like a stoned teenager.

  The plywood shifts open, like the window of a fast-food restaurant. A man appears in the opening. Candles burn at his side, highlighting the fighter’s scars tracing his eyebrows. He’s tall and muscular. His face is angular, and his eyes are predatory. A rusty machete sits by his right hand. “Come here, girl.”

  Anastasia would rather drag a straight razor across his face, but she complies. This man’s accent is like Remi Kawu’s, a sign that he’s a member of the Black Flag Mafia. When she reaches the window, she places her purse on the counter. Flattens her palms against the plywood, displaying her phony track marks. “I’m looking for a fix, and I heard this was the place to find it.”

  The man grabs a candle, letting it scrape across the wood as he moves it between them. “You heard right.”

  Anastasia stares into his bloodshot eyes and recognizes an absolute predator, but she doesn’t flinch. “Wouldn’t mind a place to sleep, either.”

  He studies her, then reaches for her purse, assessing her response. When she doesn’t argue, he considers her passive. He reaches inside but hesitates at the sight of dirty needles. He sneers. “You want to stay here, girl?”

  “That would be incredible … yeah.”

  “Then stay.”

  A metal latch pops on her left. A false door swings open. Two giant men surge forward and grab her. She has just enough time to snatch her purse off the counter before they drag her deeper into the bowels of Amsterdam’s underworld.

  Fifty-Six

  The mission’s risk profile is climbing, but Anastasia’s pulse drifts in the opposite direction, slow and steady. This is what the Russian government built her to do. She lets go of fear and sinks into the muscle memory of her training.

  Be mindful.

  A lesson from State School 4. The old mantra returns as two enormous men drag her toward the cooler. Their hands are like vises on her upper arms, jerking her forward hard enough that it feels like her shoulders might tear. They’re tall, all muscle and rage, machetes hanging from cracked leather belts. When her feet leave the floor, she lets herself dangle, limp, powerless.

  At least, that’s what she wants them to think.

  Mindfulness starts with the breath. Breath creates focus. Focus kills.

  Anastasia stops screaming. She inhales, slow and measured, and lets her gaze wander. The men on her left and right are doing all the work; all she has to do is observe and remember. Chart her pathway in, so she can get out alive.

  They move down a corridor lined with offices, most of them open and gutted. What catches her eye are the bathrooms. A line of men waits outside a reeking restroom, each clutching a bucket sloshing with sewage. Another line, mostly women and children, stands by the ladies’ room, rags and bars of soap in hand, waiting their turn to scrub the grime from their skin.

  The air is thick enough to chew. Rot. Sweat. The heat presses down from the ceiling, trapping the stink and pushing it deeper into her lungs with every breath. Candles burn in glass jars and broken beer bottles, their small flames licking at the darkness in the windowless hallway. The waxy smoke mixes with human filth until the cooler becomes a single, suffocating odor.

  Her stomach rolls, but she locks it down. She has smelled worse. Walked through worse in Russia’s name, but this is for Victor—nothing will slow her down.

  The experience worsens when they pass through a heavy metal door and step into the cold-storage area.

  The hallway beyond is vast, maybe thirty feet to the ceiling, but the space feels smaller, suffocated by makeshift shelters stacked and lashed together. Some are bizarre, jury-rigged by drug-addled geniuses who took creativity to the brink—layers of pallets, blankets, car doors, and plastic screwed together into crooked little towers. Others are simple dens: mattresses on the concrete, blankets nailed to uprights, a place to collapse and ride out the toxins in their veins.

  Fentanyl users stand or sway in the main walkway, folded at the waist like broken scarecrows, faces gray and slack. The living dead, she thinks, stepping close enough to smell the chemicals leaking from their pores and hear their wet, shallow breaths.

  She looks ahead and finds her objective. Four industrial coolers, identical to the blueprints: two hulking boxes on the left, two on the right. Beyond them, the corridor opens into a loading bay.

  Anastasia grinds her teeth as they close in on the cooler to her immediate right. Red candles burn in clusters by the entrance, their glow pooling on the concrete. It symbolizes the red-light district. That’s where they intend to take her, turn her into inventory, one more body to be rented by the hour.

  A problem, because Ugo Dozie doesn’t live in that space. Remi’s cellphone contained Ugo’s contact information, including the burner he’s using to conduct business. Before entering the cooler, her team used it to geolocate Ugo’s position.

  Four men stand watch at the doorway. Each grips a rusty machete, blades darkened from use. It’s a reminder: once she goes through that door, walking back out will be a problem.

  But the two men hauling her don’t slow. They drag her past the entrance. Anastasia angles her chin, trying to steal a glance inside, but the guards are jackals, more interested in the show than security. One sneers and puckers his lips, blowing her a slow, mocking kiss. Another draws his thumb along the mottled edge of his blade, eyes never leaving her face as he grins.

  “My turn soon,” he says, voice hoarse with anticipation. “Save some for me.”

  She doesn’t answer. The point isn’t worth arguing. Her role is to be weak, an object with a pulse. One who won’t resist being passed around. The longer they underestimate her, the closer she gets to Ugo—and Jen Yates.

  A patrol comes toward them, four men in mismatched clothing but with machetes at their sides.

  Anastasia catalogs it all, and she doesn’t like it. Extracting Ugo alive in this chaos will be impossible. Interrogating him here will be even harder—but she came prepared for that. She tightens her jaw, feeling the old anger simmer just below the surface. She will get what she came for and walk out.

  They reach the second set of coolers and turn right, entering cooler four—Ugo’s. A cluster of guards loiters at the entrance, laughing over some private joke. One of them reaches out and grabs her chest, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. Anastasia’s vision narrows to a pinprick.

  Not yet.

  She forces her body to sag instead of tensing, but burns his face into her memory. When this goes sideways, he’ll be one of the first to die.

  They shove her onward, deeper into the cooler. Another shock waits. The main pallet racks that once divided the interior are gone, leaving only the ones anchored along the walls.

  Residents transformed the remaining racks into stacked apartments. Metal legs and I-beam grids are now concealed by blue tarps, corrugated metal sheets, or warped plywood. Some residents have carved windows in their temporary walls. As she passes, paranoid eyes watch her.

  The place hums with activity. To Anastasia’s left, a man leans out of a shack, hands busy doling out plastic baggies to a line of twitching customers. Across the aisle, a woman kneels over a bucket, scrubbing shirts in gray, soapy water, humming some tuneless lullaby under her breath.

  Life. Commerce. Misery. All thriving in the carcass of a former business.

  The guards herd Anastasia toward the back of the space, where a group of men sits around a massive wooden wire spool turned on its side and repurposed as a table. A dozen candles crowd its surface, puddles of wax forming around their bases. The flickering light throws jumpy shadows across their faces.

  Anastasia studies each face, squinting through the dimness. Hard, young eyes. Cocky. Dangerous. All too young to be Ugo. Security, then. His inner ring.

  “We’re here to make the boss a happy man.”

  The nearest guard doesn’t even bother standing. He just tips his head toward a door behind the card table.

  “Just knock,” he says. “The boss is awake.”

  Fifty-Seven

  Anastasia locks eyes with Ugo as the door of the shanty swings open. He doesn’t hesitate to invite his visitors inside.

  Ugo, a powerfully built, squat man, shuffles backward. He is sixty on paper, perhaps, but paper doesn’t tell the entire story. A lifetime of hardship has taken its toll. His physique suggests a man in his forties, but his face, sunken and lined, hints at seventy. He wears a gold-plated Desert Eagle under his leather belt. The .50 Action Express on its slide glints in the candlelight.

  Ugo’s eyes also grab her attention. They’re large, bulging. A sign of thyroid issues. They’re also pale blue, and rheumatic. They remain fixed to her as the two guards shove her into the living room.

  The area is tight, ringed with blue tarp and corrugated metal. Interrupted by I-beams and crossbars. The two men who dragged her here duck under the plywood ceiling, while Ugo stands comfortably. Behind him, a kitchen table for two, with a kettle boiling on a hot plate. A battered dresser serves as a counter, its scarred top crowded with chipped mugs and a stained cutting board. A hutch with missing doors, and it’s full of dry goods—rice, canned beans, instant noodles—all the little luxuries he hoards.

  Anastasia’s instincts tell her what she needs to know. Ugo is a terror, and this is where he feels safe. It’ll make what comes next easier. She crosses her arms over her chest and avoids eye contact, remaining submissive. Let him think he’s in charge.

  “How long has she been here?” Ugo asks.

  “Five minutes. We haven’t touched her.”

  “Girl,” Ugo says.

  She hears Ugo call her, but she ignores it, pretending to drift as she shivers.

  Ugo claps his hands. “Girl!”

  Anastasia starts. Angles her head in his direction but doesn’t make direct eye contact. “I get spacey … sorry.”

  “Take off your clothes.”

  Ugo and his thugs remind Anastasia of a pack of rabid dogs. It’s dangerous for her to expose her body to them, but she doesn’t argue. She removes her backpack and tosses it onto the floor. She rests her purse next to it. After removing her shoes, she unclasps her belt and slides down her pants. She doesn’t hesitate to let her cotton panties fall, but as they brush her knees, she glances at Ugo.

  He’s almost drooling. His eyes widen, and his breath hitches. He can’t hide his attraction, but she can hide her grin. Sucker. And it’s time to fuel the desire growing in Ugo’s lovesick heart. She removes her shirt. Without a bra, Ugo and the others get a picturesque view of her breasts. But “picturesque” is the word for the view—“perfect” is the word for her body.

  The fun is only beginning.

  Harness your focus and use it to manipulate your mind. Your body will follow obediently.

  Those words belong to an instructor from State School 4. Ugo and his cronies disgust her, but she’s going to trick them into thinking otherwise.

  Anastasia channels her focus into a vision—a sexual fantasy. Romantically, she has only ever been interested in one person, but he has no place in her dreams. Her fantasy involves just one person: herself. And it begins on a beach. The sand is as soft as silk and equally white. The water is turquoise, and tiny waves crash inches from her bare feet before receding into the ocean.

  In the warmth and solitude, she finds peace. She is alone with her body, without the memories of harsh and loveless sexual encounters. Judgment has no place next to her on the sand. She is free to love herself however she pleases.

  The vision intensifies, and she feels the sun on her skin. And when the tips of her fingers sit delicately on the center of her chest, she isn’t sure if it’s real or imagination.

  But she knows how magnificent it feels when they begin to tease her breasts. A gentle breeze electrifies her skin as her fingers continue exploring. They circle her nipple, and it firms in response. She reminds herself to be patient, but an irresistible urge is growing between her thighs.

  She yields, but not fully. Her fingers take their time responding to the call, exploring first the peaks and valleys of her toned abdominal muscles. They glide lower, closing in on their final destination⁠—

  “Get out! Now!”

  Ugo’s scream is piercing and shockingly desperate for a man with access to women. It shatters Anastasia’s fantasy and returns her to a harsh reality. Ugo surges past her, grips the arms of his men, and forces them toward the door. They’re too hypnotized to resist as he tosses them out of the shanty.

  Anastasia recognizes Ugo’s lust, his greed. When he slams the door and padlocks the latch, he signals that he has no intention of sharing his newfound treasure. When he faces her, desire radiates from his being.

  What else could she expect? Her nipples are hard. Liquid warmth is glistening between her legs. Her fantasy was powerful, and it produced the desired effect on her body—one that belongs to a fresh junkie. A woman whose body can sustain four, maybe five years of abuse before it loses its appeal.

  Before Ugo can take her, Anastasia folds and dry heaves. “I’m sick.”

  “Oh, sweet girl … when was the last time you had a shot?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Come here. Let me help you.”

  Ugo’s coarse hand grips Anastasia. He helps her to her feet. As he guides her to the kitchen table, she knows that this is a risky move. A shot of heroin, likely mixed with fentanyl, could kill her; at the very least, it will put her to sleep for days and derail her hunt for Jen Yates.

  It could also be the weapon she needs to start a silent interrogation of Ugo Dozie.

  He pulls out her chair and eases her into the seat. The kettle atop the propane stove begins hissing, and he sets it on a hot plate.

  “One more minute.” Ugo turns and opens a drawer in the cabinet behind the table. He removes a rubber hose, a spoon, a syringe, and a bag of powder. Wow, she thinks. Those drugs aren’t his, and they’re evidence that this isn’t his first time chemically restraining a woman.

  Ugo sits across from her with practiced ease. The smirk on his face belongs to a predator who is close to taking what he wants. He ties off her arm. Allows her veins to rise while he prepares her fix.

  Anastasia watches him untie the bag of powder. “I have a low tolerance.”

  “Best to start slow.” Ugo holds the bag over the charred spoon and gives it a tap. After removing the lid of the kettle, he dips his finger into the boiling water. He doesn’t flinch as his skin sizzles. He holds his finger over the spoon, allowing several drops to fall onto the heroin. He winks. “Already warm.”

  Ugo cooks the dope on the propane stove. When it bubbles, he sets it on the table and sucks it into the syringe.

  That’s when he surprises Anastasia by dropping to his knees and shuffling toward her. His breath fans across her exposed chest as he grabs her arm. He searches and sets the needle against a bulging vein.

  “Wait,” Anastasia says. “I’m shy about this, and I have a special way.”

  Ugo stops. His rheumatic eyes bore into hers. Moment of truth, she thinks. She gave him a meek, subservient woman. A woman unwilling, and after a shot of heroin, unable to resist him. Was it enough?

  She finds the answer in his smile, which is as rotten as his soul. “Of course. I’m a gentleman, after all.”

  “A perfect gentleman.” Anastasia takes the syringe. Offers an encouraging smile as he rests his hands on her bare legs. “And so generous, too.”

  Anastasia jabs the needle into his shoulder and shoots the plunger. He gasps and jumps to his feet. “How is your tolerance, Ugo?”

  Ugo rips the needle out of his arm and falls to the ground before he can reply.

  Anastasia stands over his body and laughs. “Not so great, I guess.”

  Anastasia dumps the contents of her purse on the ground and accesses her medical kit. There’s Narcan inside, and it will save his life in the event of an overdose. But there are a few extra pieces of equipment inside, and when he wakes up, he’ll receive the surprise of his life.

  Fifty-Eight

  The North Sea

  The riskiest part of the day.

  Jen is certain of it; or her exhaustion is throwing off her well-calibrated danger meter. She is hanging off the exterior ladder of Turbine 17, attempting to board the interceptor. One moment, it’s close enough to tap with her boot. The next, it sinks into a trough, creating too much distance to jump. All the while, the pilot works the throttle, attempting to keep the boat in position.

  “Just commit!” Dietrick stands on the boat, arms outstretched to catch Jen if she falls.

  “Sarah! It’s just like the nacelle!” Katrien yells from atop the turbine walkway, looking down at Jen. “Make the elements work for you!”

  “Sounds doable!” Jen replies. Just like putting a cast on a broken leg. But she gets the message. Drops two points of contact and angles the left side of her body toward the boat. It feels natural, like she’s halfway into boarding the boat. The easy half.

  Let it come to you, she thinks.

  When the interceptor is halfway up the face of a swell, she pushes off. The boat, as she expects, rises to greet her. But she’s early, and her leg is straight when her boot touches down. It stuffs her knee. The pain is immediate, just like her fear of being crushed between the turbine and boat as the force tosses her backward.