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greed—those were the reasons she’d ended up in hell to begin with. One devil she knew, the other she didn’t.
    One killed slowly, painfully, and enjoyed it.
    The other with lightning efficiency.
    Her hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
    Shadow placed a hand on her knee and she jumped.
    He spread his hands out, palms up. “You’re safe. We’re not dealers. We’re with a task force inside Interpol.”
    “Interpol?” Relief dared to raise its head. “What task force?” she asked, looking from one to the other.
    “It’s . . . ”
    “Settle down,” John interrupted Shadow. “We’re not going to harm you, though I can see where you might have trouble believing that.”
    “Can you?” she hissed. “Can you really?”
    For one long moment, no one said a word. His eyes again made her think he could see all the way to the very center of her. Very quietly, very precisely, he said, “Yes. I bloody well can. I once lost someone in one of those bleeding hells.”

Chapter 4
     
     
    John shifted in his seat and saw Shadow exchange a glance with George in the rearview mirror.
    Things were not going exactly as planned, but then again, when the hell had they ever?
    “Take me to the embassy,” Dusk tried again.
    He had to give the woman credit. Though she was clearly terrified, she still had spine. And anger. Lots and lots of anger, not that he blamed her.
    He cleared his throat.
    “It’s on Trziste. I know this section of town. I remember. Take me there, please.” She paused, her voice cracking. “Please. If you’re here to help me, you can take me to the embassy.”
    Becca turned in her seat. “Hon. That would be the dumbest thing you could do.”
    He watched the girl’s arched brows frown. “I don’t see that.”
    “Do you have a passport?” Becca asked, her voice no-nonsense. Before Dusk could answer, she trudged on. “No. On that it would be pointless. You’d then have to fill out paperwork, answer questions, which our embassy would then have to follow up on and verify. And once that happened, if it even took that long, Mikhail Jezek would find you.”
    He watched the color slowly fade from Dusk’s cheeks, watched her cross her arms over her middle, holding tight to her elbows. “He’ll kill me. He’d kill anyone, but he’s already angry with me. God, he’ll kill me as slowly as he can.”
    She’d said it so quietly, he had to strain to hear. He wondered what she meant, but figured now was not the time for a debriefing.
    He watched her take a breath, her collarbone protruding, the other bones of her arms and legs too noticeable. It wasn’t surprising to him. She looked like the others, half-starved, horrified, and wanting to go home.
    She shook her head, blinked and nodded. “I can’t go back now. It’s done. He’d kill me either way. You’re right, the embassy would probably be stupid.”
    Silence descended after that and no one spoke, until finally George pulled to a stop in front of their flat on the Vltava River. About bloody time.
    They were far from out of the woods.
    “Here we are,” he said.
    Dusk sat still, looking out into the night. He climbed out, then turned and waited, holding his hand aloft. Finally, her hand reached up and clasped his. He couldn’t help but notice how cold and stiff her fingers were, how her hand trembled in his as he helped her out of the limo. She didn’t meet his eyes as she straightened that nonexistent skirt. He hurried her inside and hoped no one saw anything. As he opened the door, he said, stepping back, “We have a half an hour, give or take, maybe a bit longer.”
    “Longer,” Becca interrupted. “She’s got long hair and I need some time to work on her disguise.” She dumped a bag in the entryway.
    He glanced down at his watch, almost midnight. “Fine. You have an hour. I don’t want to push our luck.”
    Becca motioned for Dusk to follow her. She stood just inside looking around, like a frightened orphan worried she’d be turned away.