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done for Michael couldn't carry her forever. I was grateful to her for saving his life — I couldn't bear to lose him, too — but I also would have liked to see more concentrated effort on her part.
    Loyalty was all we had, and if we couldn't count on that, we had nothing, nothing at all.
    The quiet screech of hinges made me pause. I craned my neck, looking over my shoulder, and saw Michael standing in the doorway.
    His face was tight with restraint. That was never a good sign. I watched him carefully, but this time his expression betrayed nothing of his inner mind.
    Cliff noticed me tense and his hands stilled.
    “Can I have your attention? Suraya,” Michael barked. “Where are you?”
    In the other room, the faint strains of Hindi stopped. The door opened, and Suraya stepped out of the conference room, her slim brown arms folded over the front of her dress.
    “What's going on?” she demanded irritably.
    I opened my mouth to ask her who the hell she thought she was talking to him like that. But Michael caught my eye and shook his head.
    Fine . I pressed my lips together, and waited.
    Michael cleared his throat, shifting something under his arm. A file folder. Packed full of paper.
    “We have a problem.”

Chapter Three
    Predicament
     
    Christina
    We have a problem .
    I swallowed hard.
    When Michael said there was a problem, that usually meant someone was trying to kill us.
    My irritation with Cliff fizzled out like a wet sparkler as Michael handed me the manila envelope he had been carrying under his arm.
    I ran my fingers along the matte surface. Apprehension eddied through my thoughts until I felt almost carbonated by the sheer, bubbling force of my anxiety. I knew I wouldn't like whatever lay inside this folder. Not at all.
    Why was he giving me the folder now, in front of everyone? He'd talked to Angelica in private; he could have done me the same courtesy, instead of leaving me hanging out to dry for everyone to see.
    Sweat dripped down my forehead and into my eyes. It had gotten suffocatingly hot under the lights.
    I sneaked a look at Michael.
    Was this about trust? Or was this a test?
    I paged through the folder, trying to get a grasp of what I was dealing with before I was forced to acknowledge it publicly. My first thought was that it would involve blood and death.
    Why else would he look so grim?
    Well. I was half-right. There was plenty of blood.
    It took me a moment to process the images I was looking at. I had never seen their like outside of the movies, and even that had been toned down for a viewing audience. This was uncensored reality in all its gritty, gory glory.
    Those poor girls .
    Because they were, without a doubt, girls.
    Adrian had told me in our last meeting that he had trouble getting women to come home with him.
    I'm afraid I've developed somewhat of a reputation was what he'd said. Slyly. As if he were joking about the weather, or sports.
    For what? I'd asked. Sending girls home in boxes?
    I shook my head. The spaces to which these women had been confined were coffin-small. Hardly enough room to move, to even breathe. They must have been entrenched in their own waste, because there was nowhere for them to go to the bathroom.
    My skin crawled at the thought. I knew what that was like. Being humiliated. Being filthy, hungry, and alone. Robbed of the most basic human privileges that so many of us take for granted until they're gone.
    Death was not the scariest thing out there; no, the denial of it could be far worse. I studied the faces that were so painfully, heartbreakingly young beneath the murky veneer of blood and grime and sweat, and I saw in those eyes a look of hopeless resignation and — sickeningly — acceptance.
    My stomach cramped in unease.
    Some of them wore scraps of soiled clothing. Many were naked. On many I could not tell where the dirt ended and the bruises began. Stories had been written into their skin, every drop of blood and smear of filth a single sentence in their