Sully looked over his shoulder at the woman standing there in front of his cell – an exotic island nymph with the face of an angel.

No way. He was either drunker than he thought, or he was still asleep and in the middle of the same dream from last night. Oh, yeah, this was the little honey from his dream. His hands had tangled in all that black hair. She had the same sexy dark eyes. The same pouty lips, too.

Grinning, he muttered, “Come on, baby, climb on in here and we’ll start the party all over again.”

He was two steps from the bed when his sexy dream-lover spoke and stopped him in his tracks.

“If I were you, I would be thinking about a way out of here instead of having a party. The men who visit this cell don’t usually live very long.”

Sully turned slowly. “You’re real?”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Wendy Rosnau resides on sixty secluded acres in Minnesota with her husband. She divides her time between her family-owned bookshop and writing romantic suspense. She is the 2004 recipient of the Midwest Fiction Writers’ Writer of the Year Award.

Wendy loves to hear from her readers. Visit her website at www.wendyrosnau.com.

Dear Reader,

In Sleeping with Danger, you’re about to meet the most menacing of all Merrick’s elite agents – the Irish gun-runner dubbed Mad Dog Paxton long before he left Dublin to become Onyxx’s deadly weapons expert. It’s been eighteen months since Sully Paxton was left for dead in an Onyxx incursion that went sour in Greece. Where has Sully been all this time? What has he survived?

As many of you know, I’m a huge fan of bad boys. I hope you enjoy spending time with him and with the woman who is about to steal his heart.

For updates on future releases, my backlist or if you missed one of the previous books, log on to www.wendyrosnau.com.

Wendy Rosnau

Sleeping with Danger

WENDY ROSNAU

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Jerry

Chapter 1

They had stopped beating the hell out of him five days ago and started feeding him regularly. The thick gray mush and a cup of water now came every day instead of three times a week.

No longer numb, he slowly became aware of his wretched existence, as well as the pain that raped his body with every breath he took. He was given two weeks to contemplate the change in the routine—to consider whether it was a blessing or a dark omen—before they came for him.

Even though the sun was low on the horizon, he squinted against the brightness as the heavy iron grate overhead was unlocked and he was pulled from the pit and dropped like a sack of garbage on the rocky ground.

In the beginning the hole in the earth where they kept him had been a tight fit, but that was months ago. These days they could have flushed him down a sewer pipe, he was so damn thin.

“On your feet. Greegorah!”

The old instincts that had kept him alive for a year and a half were still a part of his memory. Those memories urged him to get up and fight back, but he was physically broken. Even the guards’ orders didn’t rally him to his feet.

“Get up. Now!” Pedro gave him a vicious kick. The guard’s steel-toed boot connected with his ribs. He grunted, bit back a pitiful moan, then flattened his dirty hands out on the hard ground and pushed his body upward. After three tries he managed to get to his knee, and there he remained, too weak to stand.

Again Pedro used his foot, and like a rotten stump in a windstorm it toppled him easily. His head struck a jagged rock and split open his forehead.

“That’s enough.”

It was Argo who had spoken. A man twice as brutal as Pedro. He waited to feel more pain from the commander of the guards, but for some reason the short-legged Greek with a passion for sadistic torture wasn’t interested in making him scream today.

He forced himself back to his knees, and as soon as he did, the two men grabbed him under his arms and began dragging him toward the old Greek monastery. A few yards from the back entrance he managed to get his feet under him. When the guards let go of him, he leaned heavily against the stone wall while Argo retrieved a key from his pocket. When the door swung open a blast of sour air stole his breath. Whatever was down there was dead, or close to it.

Pedro pulled him away from the wall and that’s when he saw the steep stairwell that led down into the bowels of the sanctuary. There was no way in hell he was going down those narrow steps on his own power.

“Move. I don’t have all day to babysit your ass.”

Pedro gave him a shove and he reached out and saved himself from eating another rock by grabbing on to the door.

Argo took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, shook one out and pinched it between his lips. Firing it up, he said, “A smoke takes me four and a half minutes. See you at the bottom.”

With the clock ticking, he shuffled forward and flattened out one hand against the cool stone wall. Then, like an old man, one step at a time, he started down the narrow steps as the faint smell of tobacco was swallowed up by the stench below.

With each painful step he imagined Argo’s cigarette between his own lips. Imagined inhaling the nicotine—what he wouldn’t give for a little buzz right now.

You can make it, he told himself. Slow and easy. One step at a time.

A smoke takes me four and a half minutes. See you at the bottom.

In the old days he would have taken the steps four at a time. Hell, in the old days he would have turned on the two guards and snapped both their necks in less than…four and a half minutes.

He never let go of the wall, and like an infant who had just learned to walk, he tested out his balance with each step he took.

He heard Argo and Pedro start down.

Three more steps.

Two.

One.

He came off the last step just as Pedro came up behind him. The guard looked disappointed that he’d managed to make it without falling on his face.

Out of breath, he sagged against the wall as Pedro pulled a wooden stick from the belt loop on his pants. One quick jab to his ribs and he was on his hands and knees.

The stick came at him again, this time it made contact with his bare ass and the hard whack drove him forward and he sprawled spread-eagle on his belly.

The caustic odor in the air burned his nostrils, and it reminded him that this hellhole was definitely a death trap. So this is it then, he decided. This was where he would die.

“We have our orders, Pedro?” Argo grumbled. “Get him on his feet.”

“Stupid orders, if you ask me.”

“Do you want to tell him that?” Argo asked. “Every man here is expendable. Even you and me. Now get him up.”

Pedro reached down and hauled him to his feet, then gestured down the corridor. “Move.”

He shuffled forward, heard voices in the distance. After he’d gone twenty yards he realized that what he was hearing was a chorus of moaning.

He continued on toward the noise, each step twice as painful as the one before it. The corridor took a hard left, and when it straightened out he was standing in a large circular dungeon—a dungeon of horrors.

In his wildest dreams he hadn’t expected anything like this. His eyes followed the iron cage around as it wrapped the outer wall—a cage eight feet wide and ten feet high. At least two dozen men stared back at him. Men just like him, naked and broken, starved beyond recognition. Some were huddled in corners. Others, those who could still stand, were clinging to the bars of the cage, their eyes ghostlike and too big for their bony faces.

Did he look like that?

It was obvious that food and water had been as scarce in here as they had been in the pit. No, maybe he had fared better. He’d been able to eat the rats and bugs that fell between the grates that had imprisoned him in the hole.

His eyes shifted to a slab of concrete ten feet square and two feet thick in the middle of the room. On it stood a small wooden table, a toilet, sink and a cot—the mattress covered with a sheet.

He stared at the simple, bare-bones amenities. To a man who had been living in hell for over a year they looked like the Ritz. It reminded him of the stripped-down apartment in Dublin where he’d lived for a short time with Paddy, with one big difference—the room at the rundown Dunroy Hotel had walls, even though they were paper-thin and he’d been able to hear old man Murphy beat his wife late at night and, on his days off, screw the neighborhood whore.

He didn’t see the leg shackle and chain cemented into the center of the floor until Pedro prodded him up on the slab and manacled one of his ankles.

Since he’d been imprisoned his senses had been heightened. His sight was as crystal-clear as an owl’s in the dark of night, and his nose was as razor-sharp as a hound dog on the scent of a rabbit.

He immediately picked up the aroma of food though it was faint—the air was fetid with human waste—and turned slowly to search out the source. On the table was a covered tray, and beneath it was something edible.

He forced the food and the gnawing hunger in his belly from his mind and focused on the clothes folded on the foot of the bed—a pair of green fatigues, a black T-shirt and white boxers.

“Wash up, and use the soap.” Argo motioned to the bar at the sink. “You smell like the butt of a dead carcass. Then eat and get some rest.”

Wash up.

Eat.

He glanced at the sink, envisioned the water flowing out of the tap. Fresh water, not some contaminated swill the color of piss.

He didn’t understand why he was being given these things after all this time. Instead of questioning the gift, he should be kissing his enemy’s feet. But as he looked around the room at the naked starving men, the idea of accepting his good fortune in front of these poor bastards ripped his heart out.

“Why me?” he asked.

“Guess you drew the long straw, pretty boy.”

“What about them?” he asked, his eyes drifting to the dying menagerie in the cage.

Argo grinned. “Today they all wish they were you. By tomorrow they will want to cut your heart out and eat it. And that’s no lie. Before we can get the dead out those boys are licking their chops.”

The guard’s words prompted him to turn his attention back on the cage. He scanned the individual faces, his eyes drawn to one man who was leaning against the back wall. When he saw the scar that traveled from his right hipbone to his knee, he whispered, “Roth Erwin.”

“Recognize someone?” Argo’s grin spread. “That one’s about ready for the bone pile. He no longer fights for food. But like the others, he will hate you by morning. And when he dies, he will haunt you from his cold grave. They all will.”

After the two guards left, he stood there like a monkey at center stage of a circus. He was so damn dirty and hungry, and still he didn’t move. He glanced at the covered food tray on the table. The urge was there, the need, but he couldn’t do it.

He walked to the sink and turned on the faucet. It was a pretty sight, the water spilling from the tap. He tucked his head under and let the water flow into his mouth and over his dry lips, then scrubbed his hands until they stung.

He found a clean washcloth and towel on the floor next to the sink and he went to work shedding the layers of dirt from his face, working his way down his body. And all the while the smell of the food continued to torture his belly.

It was a slow process, removing the crusty layers of dirt, but he kept at it until he began to feel human again. But he wasn’t clean when he finished—it would take days to scrub the imbedded filth from his body, maybe weeks.

How long was he going to be here?

Still avoiding the food, he dressed in the issued clothes. Finally he pulled out the chair at the table and sat down. With a room full of eyes glued to him, he lifted the cover off the tray and stared at two fat slices of meat, potatoes swimming in butter, a chunk of bread and a clean cup that he could take to the sink anytime he felt like it.

He glanced at the silverware, but he didn’t pick up the fork. He should be celebrating right now—water, a bed, food.

He should eat it quickly before it was taken away from him like some cruel joke.

In the past year he’d been flogged, tortured and starved, but none of it compared to the mental anguish ripping him apart at that moment.

How could he do it?

How could he betray these dying men by eating the enemy’s food while they watched?

Because you want to live, the voice inside his head whispered. You can’t help them if you don’t help yourself first.

The truth staring him in the face from all sides, Sully Paxton did what he was trained to do—survive. He picked up the fork, speared a piece of meat, then closed his eyes and opened his mouth.

Adolf Merrick, commander of the Onyxx Agency, tossed two sleeping pills into his mouth and chased them down with a glass of water. He’d started taking the pills a few weeks ago after he’d broken it off with Sarah Finny.

Guilt was a bitch. For two years he’d convinced himself, and Sarah, that he wanted a new life, but what he wanted was his old life back. Since that wasn’t possible, the alternative was to walk away from Sarah and live with his memories and pray it was enough.

The pills knocked him out so he could sleep, but the downside was they prevented him from dreaming. Dreaming was what had kept him sane for twenty years. It’s where he lived with Johanna, where he kept her memory alive and the loneliness at bay.

He’d told Sarah he couldn’t see her any longer. He blamed it on obstacles at work. What he should have told her was that even with Johanna gone, he couldn’t forget their life together—didn’t want to—and that the Agency was the only thing that made him feel remotely alive.

Merrick climbed into bed and closed his eyes. He needed to find an apartment of his own. He’d been living out of a suitcase in a hotel on the Potomac in Arlington for three weeks—ever since a fire had destroyed his apartment in Washington. A fire that had blown up the entire building.

Gas leak my ass.

Like a well-aimed hammer the pills sent Merrick into a dead sleep just after ten o’clock. He never moved again or made a sound. Not even a soft snore drifted into the stuffy hotel room until predawn, when he came out of his drug-induced sleep as if a bell had gone off inside his head.

The room was still dark, and he wondered what had wakened him. Then he heard his cell phone ring.

He looked at the clock on the nightstand. It read 5:30 a.m.

He reached for his phone, read the unrecognizable number, then flipped it open and put it to his ear. “Merrick here.”

“Did I wake you? Or are you having another sleepless night imagining your hands around my neck? Do you ever sleep these days, old buddy?”

The voice from the past jackknifed Merrick straight up in bed. “Cyrus.”

“Back from the dead. Oh, that’s right, I never died.”

“How did you get my number?”

“The same way I survived Prague. I never give up. You lit a fire inside me that day you left me in that minefield drowning in my own blood. Betrayal can be powerful motivation.”

A few weeks ago Merrick had learned the identity of the Chameleon. Cyrus Krizova was alive. One of their own agents had become a terrorist, and for the past twenty years—while everyone thought he was dead—Cyrus had been targeting the Onyxx Agency, and Merrick.

There had been no betrayal in Prague. Only pure agony when he’d been forced to leave a comrade behind, but now Cyrus was the enemy.

Merrick snapped, “You son of a bitch, I’m going to kill you.”

“You should have done it twenty years ago. If you had, you wouldn’t be sleeping alone tonight. You are sleeping alone, right? Of course you are. If you want a man dead, there’s only one way to make sure. Put a bullet through his heart, and two in his head. That shouldn’t have been too hard. I wasn’t going to run off. An animal caught in a trap is treated better than I was. And let’s face it, you were the best exterminator in our outfit.”

“We’re trained to kill the enemy, not our own.”

“You were chickenshit, is that it?”

“I had a job to do, and I did it the best way I knew how. It was a damn hard decision to make.”

“As I recall you had help making it. Paavo Creon swayed you to leave me, but it was your choice. You were in command. I think it went something like, we can carry out only one man. Cyrus will die before nightfall. He’s six-four. Weighs two-twenty. Briggs is forty pounds lighter.”

Merrick was transported back twenty years, his memory as clear as if it were yesterday—the carnage, the blood, the smell of death all around him. His team had been on their feet one minute and the next they were scattered like broken toys in a playground.

Leave him, Adolf. You have to think about the men who can survive.

Every man in the outfit had been hit. The skin on his own back had been peeled like an onion, and he could see his guts coming through a hole in his side the size of his fist. One man had died on impact. Peter Briggs had shrapnel in both legs—later he would lose them—but he was still lucid, his eyes wide and his voice full of fear, begging not to be left behind.

But Cyrus…he hadn’t made a sound. No, he wasn’t dead, but he was headed for the grave. There was no doubt.

Hell, his face was almost gone.

Yes, he should have ended Cyrus’s suffering with a bullet. He’d tried. He’d pulled his gun, aimed, but he couldn’t pull the trigger. Not on his comrade. Not his best friend. So he’d saved the others, and filed a false report about who had died on impact.

“Reminiscing?”

“If you wanted revenge, why not just come after me?”

“That was the plan. But first I had to put myself back together. Starting with a new face.”

“So you cloned Paavo Creon.”

“An ingenious idea, don’t you think? Of course I wanted revenge on him for his part in leaving me in Prague, but that would come later. It took a number of plastic surgeries, but eventually I became his twin. You should have seen the look on his face when he realized he had a double and it was me.”

“What happened the night of the fire at Paavo’s home?” Merrick asked.

“Paavo arrived home unexpected. I’ll never forget the look on Muriel’s face when she saw both of us. That’s when she realized she’d betrayed her husband with me. The fire wasn’t planned but it was the perfect way to get rid of her and take Paavo prisoner. I never intended to take the little girl, but Evka had her father’s instincts for survival. I rewarded her for that by making her my daughter. She never knew I was the double until your agent interfered a few years ago. By the way, how is she doing?”

“She’s waiting for the day I call her and tell her I’ve killed you and avenged her parents. And for myself. Why did you have to kill Johanna?”

“She was your most cherished possession. What you loved most. You destroyed my life, so I destroyed yours.”

“You had Fiora.”

“She remarried a year after the Prague incident. I couldn’t allow someone with so many flaws to raise my children.”

“You killed her?”

“She was the past and I needed to concentrate on the future. I needed more surgeries, money to make that possible. While I was in the hospital I began to think about your flawless, beautiful wife. Remember that picture you used to carry with you? Her image became my lifeline, and that’s when I realized she was the perfect revenge between us.”

“You’re dead, Cyrus. I’m going to kill you.”

“You’re going to have to find me first. So far you’ve failed miserably, just like you failed to protect your wife.”

“You’re insane.”

“What I am is somewhere out of your reach, and right now you’re wondering where that is.”

“I’m coming, Cyrus. It doesn’t matter whose face you stole, or what island in Greece you’re hiding on, I’ll find you, and when I do I’ll put a bullet in your heart and two in your head.”

“That’s the spirit. I was hoping you’d still feel that way. I have unmeasurable patience, and it seems you’ve acquired a lengthy amount yourself. I wouldn’t want you to give up too soon.”

“I’ll never give up.”

“Good. The game is far from over. That’s why I called.”

“What have you done now?”

“I’ve been in touch with a friend of ours.”

“No friend of yours is a friend of mine.”

“I suppose he would agree with you. Nonetheless, Holic Reznik sends you his regards.”

“The assassin is behind bars at Clume. Your sidekick is never going to see the light of day.”

“Behind bars the last time you checked. When was that?”

No, Merrick thought, it wasn’t possible. Holic was in solitary confinement in the highest security prison in the U.S., surrounded by a twenty-four-hour guard.

“Semtex makes a helluva hole in brick and steel if you know how to pack the load. As you know, I’m an expert when it comes to blowing things up. Still living out of a suitcase?”

Merrick was on his feet now, but before he could say anything more the phone went dead. Quickly he punched in his superior’s phone number. “Harry?”

“Merrick. Hell, I was just about to call you. There’s been an explosion at Clume.”

Merrick closed his eyes, listened to Harry’s account of what they believed happened. It was the perfect time to set Harry straight—he was talking terrorist attack. The perfect time to tell him about the phone call he’d had with Cyrus. What would he say if he told him Cyrus Krizova was alive, and that one of their own Onyxx agents was the Chameleon?

But if he revealed everything to Harry now, he’d never get the chance to avenge Johanna.

He asked, “What about the prisoners?”

“It’s too early for a body count. It’ll take days to sort through the rubble.”

Merrick didn’t need to wait days to know they wouldn’t find Holic Reznik among the dead. Cyrus had him. The question was, why? The assassin’s mangled hands made him as useless as a one-legged frog in a jumping contest.

Merrick hung up the phone and dressed in jeans and a black sweater. As he walked past the window he saw it was still snowing. The Potomac was as gray as the sky, as gray as the day he’d left Cyrus in that minefield in Prague.

Chapter 2

For fifteen months Melita had been confined on the barren islet Despotiko. Some days it felt as if she would die there. She felt that way tonight as she hurried along the goat trail back to the monastery. For weeks she had been slipping out after dark in search of someone to help her escape the island.

The village was three miles away, the harbor lined with boats. She could stow away so easily. The problem was convincing one of the fisherman in the village to risk it.

What she needed was a gorilla with brass balls and a death wish. That’s what one of the fisherman had told her tonight. But there was no gorilla on the island, and that meant outside of growing wings, she was not getting off the island.

It was almost dawn and she couldn’t get caught outside the periphery. Melita picked up her pace and crested the rocky knoll. She heard the sea rushing the rugged shoreline, and up ahead she could see Minare. The monastery’s tall tower in the moonlight.

The first guard she slipped past was dozing against a rock. The second, too busy taking a leak off the rampart to notice her. Number three had left his post altogether.

She moved through the flower garden, almost home free. Ten feet from the back door she saw a shadowy figure step onto the stone path. At first she thought it was Hector, but her bodyguard—and more importantly, her friend—was supposed to be inside keeping watch over the long corridor that she had to slip past to reach the stairs that would take her back to her bedroom in the tower.

She was about to softly speak his name into the darkness when the shadow revealed himself. “Restless again tonight, Melita?”

The heavily accented voice stopped her dead in her tracks. It was her father’s houseguest, Holic Reznik.

He sauntered toward her with the grace of a stalking panther. He was smoking a cigarette, and he held it awkwardly in his disfigured hand a few inches from his lips. Both hands had been damaged in a shoot-out he’d been engaged in months ago. Holic was an assassin, and the maiming had been the result of a scrimmage with two government agents. It had cost him two fingers on his right hand, and the thumb on the left, as well as extensive nerve damage.

For a number of weeks she had watched him from afar, wondering why the assassin had arrived and decided to stay. At the moment that question didn’t seem as important as the one affecting her breathing right now. Did he know where she’d been tonight? If so, did he know that her trips to the village were forbidden?

“I asked you a question, Melita. Restless?”

“I like taking walks before dawn,” she said. “It’s the quietest time of day.”

His lips curled around the cigarette, sucked hard, then sent a cloud of smoke into the warm island air. “I rise early myself, but for a different reason. My hands pain me. They keep me up at all hours.”

His Russian accent was colored with a sharp German influence. Sharp like his unnatural eyes, set deep into his sockets. Even though his dark complexion and masculine features would easily attract women, when Melita looked at him all she saw were his eyes—black soulless eyes…the eyes of a killer.

On the other hand, when he looked at her, she got the feeling he was stripping her naked one piece of clothing at a time.

Holic was in his early forties, not overly tall, with short, thick black hair in its early stages of growing out.

Hector had warned her that Holic was a randy womanizer, and that she should avoid him. That was just what she intended to do.

Melita forced herself to take two more steps. “I need to get inside.”

“Before a guard spots you and reports it to your father?”

That wasn’t going to happen if she could get inside in the next five minutes. She’d learned the guards’ routine. Names, schedules and who took their job seriously. She knew which guard drank too much, who snuck off to the kitchen for a late-night snack and who couldn’t keep his eyes open past midnight.

She’d planned her trips accordingly, and for several weeks she’d been able to slip away and return without anyone the wiser.

Until tonight.

“I’m not forbidden to take walks,” she challenged.

“An extremely long walk tonight,” he offered.

“Have you been following me?”

“Of course. A man seeking an advantage does what he must. You are persistent. A commendable quality. But the villagers will not help you escape your life here.”

“I have no life here.”

“Perhaps I can make it more meaningful.”

Spoken like a man who thought he had the miracle cure for what ailed every woman.

“Do you know why I’m here?” she asked, wondering just how close a friend he was to her father, or if it was strictly business.

“You’re being punished for bad judgment. I’m in agreement. Taking a common guard as your lover was in poor taste.”

He relaxed his stance, his confidence overflowing. His open white shirt revealed that he shaved his chest, and the painfully tight fit of his jeans confirmed that his miracle cure for what ailed a woman, ailed him more. She was surprised that he could walk in such a state.

“The villagers are too frightened of what will happen to them if they show you any mercy. As they should be. There would be no leniency for the fool who helped the Chameleon’s daughter escape him. But perhaps I know of a way you could regain your freedom.”

He smiled, then reached out and stroked her cheek with the back of one of his disfigured hands.

Even though his hands were an obvious handicap to him, she’d seen him out on the target range every day. He was still a superb marksman. Speed was perhaps the only flaw in his execution.

When he began to trail his fingers down her neck she pulled away. “I believe your…way of helping me would only serve you. I suspect that’s why you haven’t told my father about my late-night walks?”

“I see no reason to alarm him about something that isn’t going to happen. Well, at least not without my help.”

“So if I share your bed, you’re prepared to forget you saw me this morning, is that it?”

“I’m prepared to forget it, and give you a future elsewhere.”

“My father would kill you if he knew what you’re suggesting.”

“No doubt, he would. Your lover suffered an agonizing death. Did he scream much? I was told your father made you watch.”

Melita refused to let his cruel words rattle her. She was used to her father using Nemo’s violent death as a tool to control her.

“You’re wasting your time if you think you can blackmail me into your room after midnight.”

“One night would never be enough.” He glanced at her bare feet. “I’m curious if this rebellious spirit follows you into the bedroom, or if last year you were the victim of a silver-tongued playboy when you surrendered and lifted your skirt for Nemo.”

He was a bold bastard, and Melita met his boldness with a bit of her own. “Which are you hoping for? Do you like victims or rebellious bitches?”

He laughed. “You are delightful, sweet Melita. What I hope for is a chance to find out. Do me a favor, and I will do you one.”

“I think I’ll stay in my prison.” She tried to walk past him but he blocked her exit.

“Don’t dismiss my offer too quickly. Your lover is dead. Your father owns every breath you take. Have you forgotten what freedom feels like?”

“The question is would I be free?”

“If I decide to talk to Cyrus, it won’t go well for you. You’ve been slipping out at night for weeks, trying to persuade a fisherman at the village to sail you off the island.”

“Go to my father and tell him your tale. But before you do know that my story will be quite different. I didn’t go to the village tonight, nor have I ever.”

She tried to go around him again, but this time he grabbed her arm, his grip so tight it would surely leave a bruise. He tossed his cigarette to the ground, pushed her against the stone face of the monastery and trapped her there.

“Taming you will be my pleasure, and it will happen soon. I will have you. A little preview of what it will be like, hmm…”

He smelled of tobacco and whiskey, and she thought perhaps it was the whiskey that had prompted such crazy talk. But it wasn’t just talk. Suddenly he tangled his fingers in her long black hair and jerked her head back. His free hand flattened out on her belly and he moved it slowly upward over her left breast. Squeezed.

“Very nice. More than I expected.” A second later his hand was around her neck, squeezing until she couldn’t swallow. “Hear me, Melita, you and I will party soon, and I promise you that you will enjoy yourself. I know I will.”

Melita closed her eyes as his lips crushed hers in a cruel kiss, and then he was grinding his body against her.

He forced his tongue down her throat and he raped her mouth with a promise of what was to come later. He was disgusting and vile, and the taste of him made her want to gag, then it made her want to scream.

Where was Hector? She was off schedule now. He should be checking his watch and starting to worry about her.

Desperate, Melita slipped her hand into her pocket and closed her fingers around the little bell she carried with her to call the goats that roamed the island, and to signal Hector in case she ran into trouble. Pulling it from the folds of her skirt, she rang it.

It was a gentle bell that could be missed in a windstorm, but tonight the breeze was but a whisper, the night as quiet as a graveyard. If Hector was nearby he would hear.

Holic’s mouth slackened and he pulled back as the bell registered somewhere inside his lust-crazed head.

When he let go of her neck, Melita sucked air into her lungs, the rush making her almost dizzy. She whispered this time when she spoke, her throat raw and bruised from his abuse. “Hector will be here within seconds. How do you want to die?”

He stepped back from her. “You have him trained well. I wonder if your father knows that your bodyguard’s loyalty is in question. I think it’s time your watchdog learned who pays his salary.”

He left her then, slipping into the darkness just as Hector appeared. Angry and scared, Melita rubbed her neck as she took her frustrations out on him. “Where have you been?”

“Following your instructions.”

“But I’m late.”

“Does that mean you had some luck tonight?”

Six feet, six inches, Hector dwarfed her, but he would never be as frightening as Holic Reznik. He was a gentle giant with none of the qualities it took to be a ruthless guard in her father’s camp, or an assassin for hire.

“No, I had no luck. No one in the village will help me. It’s a lost cause.”

“Why did you ring the bell?”

“Holic Reznik saw me. He knows I’ve been to the village. And he knows why. He…” She stopped before she spilled the rest of what had transpired between them. Hector wasn’t violent, but he was protective of her. She didn’t want him doing something stupid.

“I’m afraid he intends to tell my father,” she confessed.

“I’ll deny it. I’ll say your early-morning walk was to pick flowers and visit the goats. That I was with you the entire time.”

She slipped the bell back into her pocket. “The question is, who will my father believe?”

“You picked flowers and played with the goats. That is our story. Stick to it. Now go inside, and get that frightened look off your face or he’ll read the truth the minute he sees you.”

Melita looked up into Hector’s kind face. How he had come to be in her father’s employment she didn’t know, but he didn’t belong here any more than she did.

She glanced around, spied the lavender growing in the garden and plucked a handful, then hurried inside.

Sully scratched another mark into the leg of the wooden table with his fingernail. He’d been on the platform thirty-six days. Still shackled like an animal, he’d put on weight and started to regain his strength. It was due to three meals a day, and Argo’s determination to return him to the man he used to be. The question was why.

Physically he was winning the fight, but emotionally he was raw and heartsick. He was surrounded by pain and misery, his dying audience a constant reminder that he had become their enemy.

Argo was right, they hated him now. If he was tossed into the cage with them they would rip him apart and feast on his remains.

Like he did each evening after supper, he washed at the sink, then went to bed early. Lying on his back staring at the dark ceiling, he was constantly aware of the men ten feet away. Eyes closed, he could still see their skeleton faces and misshapen bodies—bodies that continued to grow weaker as his grew stronger.

He’d planned to share his food with them. How would anyone know? But they would know, Argo told him, pointing to a camera on the wall. If he tried to toss food to anyone, they would be taken out and killed.

The men haunted him day and night. His nightmares were his reality—and sometimes he would startle and realize his own cries had awakened him.

He jerked awake now, but this time it wasn’t due to the men moaning, or a nightmare. He angled his head and listened, picked up the sound of heavy footsteps moving down the corridor.

When the light came on, he swung his legs off the bed, the chain around his ankle rattling on the concrete.

Argo entered the dungeon. He pulled a key from his pocket and stepped up on the platform. “It’s time,” he said, then unlocked the manacles on Sully’s ankle.

“Time for what?”

“Your taxi just arrived.”

Sully didn’t get up.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to miss us here?”

That would depend on where Argo was taking him, Sully thought. For the past month he’d felt like a cow being fattened for slaughter. He was no longer hungry every hour of the day, or crawling with parasites. But there was no comfort in it.

Argo slid his gun off his shoulder and aimed it at his chest. “Get up.”

Sully eyed the weapon as he stood. He recognized the make. It was a Czech Skorpion M-84. The design had been deferred, then later buried altogether. At least that was the story.

Now who could be manufacturing bad-boy Skorpions?

It didn’t take a genius to figure that out. The Chameleon was involved in everything from contraband to global anarchy.

“Let’s go. Take it nice and careful, pretty boy. You wouldn’t want my finger to slip on this trigger.”

Sully stepped off the concrete platform, then stopped to glance one last time at the circle of men huddled naked and hungry in their iron death trap.

Three men had died last week.

He searched out Roth Erwin and found him lying on his side with his knees curled up into his chest. He hadn’t moved from that spot in two days. Sully looked for some sign of life. Suddenly, as if Roth could feel his eyes on him, he opened his, then Argo nudged Sully in the ribs with the M-84.

“Move out.”

Sully left the dungeon and walked down the corridor. Weeks ago he’d been worried about his legs collapsing beneath him, but tonight there was no fear of that.

He hadn’t been outside in a month, so when he stepped into the moonlight he embraced the warm night breeze on his face. He took a long, deep breath—the clean air better than the best sex he could remember.

Again Argo nudged him with the gun barrel. “Head for the dock.”

Barefoot, Sully followed the uneven path that went up a rocky knoll. When he reached the craggy summit, he spotted a cruiser riding the water a hundred yards offshore. The sleek cigar boat was a badass smoker that no doubt had enough horsepower to outrun anything on the water. Its lines were similar to the Halmatic VSV used by the British for seaborne covert insertions, and the American Rigid Raider interceptor. It also resembled his own cigar boat that he’d used when he was a gunrunner in Ireland.

A small fishing boat was waiting at the end of the dock, Pedro seated in the stern. He climbed in and sat down on the middle seat. Argo covered the bench across from him in the bow.

The M-84 still pointed at him, Argo said, “The boss man wants you alive, but accidents happen. Stupidity could get you killed tonight, pretty boy.”

Sully had no intentions of making a stupid move. Not with a gun aimed at his chest and nowhere to run. He was a good swimmer, but his endurance was questionable. He’d survived too long in hell to throw it away on a futile escape attempt.

Argo would pick him out of the water like a rubber duck floating in a carnival pond.

Pedro sent the boat out to sea and headed for the cigar boat. Once Sully was handed over to the crew, his wrists were cuffed and his ankles were shackled. In irons once again, he was shoved into a seat and locked down, and then the cruiser took off, skimming fast and furious over the water.

The four-man crew were armed with Czech Skorpions, and yet they were dressed like fishermen.

Sully kept his ears open, and his eyes out to sea. He had traveled the Greek Isles over the years, and although he couldn’t speak the language fluently, he could speak some and had no trouble understanding the men’s conversation on the boat.

Before long one of the rebels had unwittingly provided him with their destination. Despotiko was a small island that sat southwest of Paros and east of Sifnos. That meant they were headed north.

Sully glanced back at the fading image of the rocky island where he’d spent most of his incarceration. There were over two thousand islands in the Greek Isles, many of them nameless. The odds of finding this place again would be slim, but not impossible.

He could no longer see the monastery. With the new day dawning, he put to memory passing landmarks—anything that would help him find his way back to hell island.

There…he’d named the island, and he promised himself that if he escaped whatever fate he was headed for, he would be back. He only hoped that some of the men would still be alive.

It had been five hundred and twenty-two days since his capture at Castle Rock when the Chameleon’s men had ambushed his Onyxx team, and he’d been left for dead. By now Sully was sure Merrick had replaced him.

He pushed the memory of his old life out of his mind. Argo said he’d been given the gift of life. He didn’t know why that was, or what he would find on the island of Despotiko, but for some reason he was feeling optimistic. It must be something in the air he was breathing, he decided.

Sully suddenly smiled, knowing what it was. It was the scent of freedom, and it smelled as sweet as a field full of Irish lavender.

The vase of lavender sat in the middle of the table on the balcony outside Melita’s bedroom, high in the tower. She stared down at the wooden post beyond the garden, at the blood on the ground, and the guilt nearly brought her to her knees.

It always happened there, and she knew why. Her father loved to make her watch.

She wiped the tears off her cheeks as she heard him speaking to the guard posted outside her door. Moments later her father appeared on the balcony sipping a cup of coffee.

“Nothing like a little morning excitement to get the blood pumping.”

“Hector did nothing wrong. How could you beat him?”

“Every man at Minare has a purpose. A specific job. You were Hector’s job. I’ve told you before when you disobey me, your actions have consequences.”

“Then punish me,” she railed. “Beat me, not him!”

“The punishment fit the crime. I’ve learned the best way to teach you a lesson is through your misguided attachments to the hired help. Your loyalty to Hector is touching, but you should be more concerned with your loyalty to me.”

“Loyalty to a father who keeps his daughter locked away like a prisoner.”

“You made the choice. A bad choice, but a conscious one. For months I’ve been waiting to hear you confess regret. Today I see that you’ve learned nothing from your hiatus away from those you love. Reckless mistakes are costly. Today Hector paid the price.” He took a sip of his coffee. “It’s a good thing I’m a patient man, and I value my children. I rarely give second chances. But I’ve had to make countless concessions where you’re concerned.”

“Lucky me.”

“Yes, you are. As your father it’s my job to keep you safe from my enemies, and of course, yourself. You do seem to enjoy tempting fate.”

“And who will keep me safe from you?”

“No one. I am the center of your life, Melita. Get used to it.”

“I hate you!”

“Now if I could just channel that anger into something productive we would be making progress. Your latest escapade has proven what I already know. You’re cunning and smart. A survivor, like me. My blood is your blood. That is a fact you can’t deny and I intend to never let you forget.”

“If your blood runs through my veins it’s because I’ve had a transfusion. I’m nothing like you.”

“What you are is a fool if you think rebelling against me will enact your freedom. I control your life as I do Hector’s, and every man who works for me. Hector looked me in the eye and lied to me this morning. He made an error in judgment. His loyalty should be to me, not my daughter. You know how I detest flaws in my men as well as my children.” That said, he made himself comfortable in one of the heavy iron chairs at the balcony table.

He was dressed in his business clothes today, his crisp white shirt stark against his sun-baked face and neck. His black pants were creased, and his shoes as shiny as his short silver hair.

Was he leaving the island again? He’d stayed longer than usual, most likely because of Holic Reznik’s arrival. But he would be growing anxious to see Callia. He never stayed away from Melita’s stepmother for very long.

She pitied Callia as much as she loved her. She must have patience of steel to put up with her father. Or perhaps she was blinded by love. No, her father was unlovable. Callia was just as much a prisoner as she was. The only difference was her island home wasn’t a monastery with a view of a whipping post from her bedroom balcony.

He cleared his throat, and Melita refocused her thoughts. “Where is Hector?” she asked.

“He’s been confined to his quarters.”

“I want to see him.”

“No. At the moment he’s not feeling well enough to have a visitor. Your time would be better spent here in your room thinking about how you want to spend the rest of your life—locked in a room, or enjoying the freedom I can give you.”

“How could you believe a stranger over Hector? Holic Reznik is—”

“A trustworthy associate of mine. I’ve known him for years. If he says you’ve been sneaking off to the village in an attempt to escape the island, then I believe him. By the way, I’ll be leaving in two days for a few weeks. While I’m away Holic will be in charge. Make trouble in any way and he has my permission to string Hector up on the firing range for target practice.”

Melita’s knees went weak. “You can’t leave Holic in charge! He wants—”

“He wants what?”

“He lied to you because I rejected him this morning when I was coming back from…picking flowers. He was in the garden and he attacked me. He shoved me against the wall and…touched me. He told me if I would spend time in his bed he would get me off the island. When I rejected his offer, he told me he was going to make trouble for me.”

“And where was Hector while this was happening?”

“He… He was close by.”

“Hector didn’t mention Holic had attacked you. The truth is Hector would have snapped Holic’s neck if that was true, and I would have rewarded him for it. Any man fool enough to touch you without my permission is a dead man.”

“Holic did touch me, and he made it clear he will do it again. You can’t leave him in charge while you’re gone.”

She waited for her father to digest every word, waited for him to rethink giving Holic the keys to everything at Minare, including the one to her bedroom.

“Holic is not an idiot. He knows what my plans are for you, and he also knows I would kill him if he laid a hand on you. I’ve done it before, remember?”

Yes, she remembered. She would live with her part in Nemo’s death forever. She motioned to the flowers. “This lavender is fresh this morning, and—” she raised her chin and pointed to the bruises on her neck “—so are these. Holic choked me when I tried to get away.”

He studied the marks on her throat, then pulled a silver case from his pocket and opened it. Taking one of his favorite cigars from it, he pinched it between his lips. Setting the case on the table next to his coffee cup, he lit the cigar with a lighter he took from his pocket. “As I said, you’re a cunning little fox. You probably put those bruises there to aid your story. It’s something I would do.” He grinned. “Like father, like daughter.”

Melita glanced at the lighter on the table. He’d had it a long time, and she’d watched him finger it and stroke it like it was something special. He did it many times a day. “What do the initials P.C. stand for?”

He slipped the lighter back into his pocket. “It’s the name of an old friend. Before he died, Paavo Creon gave it to me. He was generous, that way. He shared everything he owned with me before he died.”

“And how did he die?”

“Tragically.”

“Was he also in the business of torturing and killing?”

“Be careful, Melita.”

“I don’t believe he was a friend. The devil has no friends. All he has is enemies, and you must have more than your share. More enemies than rocks on this island. If your own children hate you, then—”

“Enough!”

It would never be enough. The vision of Nemo tied to a wooden stake on her father’s yacht flashed in Melita’s mind. She would have given her own life to save him, but nothing she had said had made any difference.

“Reminiscing, Melita? Are you seeing Nemo screaming for his life, or is it all the blood you can’t forget? You were the cause of that, just as you were the cause of Hector’s suffering this morning. We’ve had this conversation a dozen times. As I told you, your betrayal killed your lover, just like your foolish trip to the village this morning has scarred Hector for life.”

“Stop it.” Melita covered her ears.

Her father stood quickly and jerked her hands away from her ears. “It’s time to grow up and embrace the life I’m prepared to offer you, Melita. Agree to surrender to me and we’ll begin again.”

What he offered she wanted no part of. To live a life controlled by him would be worse than death. The only thing she wanted was to forget she was Cyrus Krizova’s daughter.

“Punishing Hector today served a dual purpose. It was a warning to my men that I don’t tolerate failure, and it was also a reminder to you that your selfish actions hurt other people. We both know how much you hate being the catalyst to a disaster. Next time you slip out of your bedroom before dawn think about Hector dangling from a rope in Holic’s iron sights.”

“I’ll never surrender.”

“I can wait you out, Melita. Your life here does not alter mine. Surrendering to me might seem like a prison cell itself, but it can also be the key that unlocks the door. Your brother learned that. As imperfect and weak as Simon was, eventually he learned that fighting me hurt him more than accepting his birthright.”

“Simon’s sick. He can’t fight back or choose for himself.”

“You’re not listening. I choose for all my children.”

“Then choose for me to go back to Mykonos. I’ll live there quietly with Simon and take care of him. You can forget us and we’ll forget you.”

“That’s not an option.”

“Why? I loved living at Lesvago. I wouldn’t leave. I wouldn’t ever leave. And Simon needs—”

“Peace and quiet.”

“What does that mean? Has he contracted another blood infection?”

“No, that’s not what ails him these days, but it’s nothing for you to concern yourself with. Enough about Simon. I’ve decided that starting tomorrow you will spend every afternoon with Barinski in the lab. His lack of organization is affecting his productivity. You like to organize things.” He touched the flowers on the table. “While I’m gone you can keep his records orderly.”

“Take me along with you. I miss Callia and Erik.”

“No. That would be rewarding you for going to the village against my orders.” He bent and sniffed the lavender in the vase. “Remember you have the power to keep Hector and the villagers healthy. You don’t need another death on your conscience to send you off the balcony, or slitting your wrists again.” He angled his head and blew smoke into the air, then he sent his eyes slowly over her from head to toe. “There’s something else. I’ve ignored this ridiculous costume far too long. You will start wearing the clothes in your closet, and shoes on your feet.”

Melita raised her chin. “If you want me to dress like your daughter, I will…for your promise to stop killing the goats.”

He sighed heavily. “So we’re back to that, are we? The goats on this island are raised for food, Melita.”

She turned and gazed out over the balcony, the wind lifting the hem of her peasant-style red cotton skirt. The air was fresh and balmy, and she could smell the wildflowers that grew randomly along the rocky path. The goat herd was there munching on the foliage in the sunlight.

She turned and faced her father. “Make this place a refuge for the goats. You could demand it. Do it father, and I will…consider surrendering my life and my soul to you.”

“And what would the villagers eat for meat?”

“The villagers are fishermen. They can eat fish.”

“Despotiko, a refuge for those shaggy beasts?” He laughed. “It’s unfortunate that your pets are weekly turned into steak, but that is the life of a goat. Perhaps it would be wise to refrain from naming them.”

“My loyalty in exchange for the lives of a herd of goats,” she promised, sure she had lost her mind.

He stepped forward and brushed the back of his hand along her cheek, then just as quickly he sent his hand into her hair and grabbed on. Melita cried out in pain and dropped to her knees at his feet.

He said, “You have never been, and never will be, in a position to make a deal with me.” He let go of her and she slumped forward. “Ask me for your forgiveness. Say it, damn you, or I will slaughter that herd of hairy beasts within the hour.”

She knew he would do it. Would make her watch.

Tears began to fall and she couldn’t stop them. She gulped air, whispered, “Forgive me, father?”

“I didn’t hear that.”

Melita cleared her throat. “I said, forgive me, father.”

He reached down as if he were going to touch her head, the act of a caring father who was sorry he’d lost his temper. Instead he grabbed her arm and hauled her back to her feet.

“Pick flowers. Play with your goats. Name every damn one of them. But if you want to save Hector a bloody ending, you will keep yourself within the boundaries of Minare. And when I return to the island, I will expect you to greet me wearing shoes and looking like my daughter, not some island waif.”

When he let go of her, Melita stumbled back into the balcony railing. Righting herself, she heard voices in the distance. She scanned the trail that lead to the sea, and saw one of her father’s guard patrol cruisers had docked.

“Are you expecting company?” she asked, drying her eyes with the back of her hand. She prayed it was Simon. She needed to see him. Needed to make sure he was all right, and to tell him she forgave him for his part in Nemo’s death.

“Inside, Melita. You are to stay up here the rest of the day.” When she didn’t move, he pulled her away from the balcony. “Inside.”

Melita obeyed her father, but the minute he left the tower, she was back out on the balcony straining her neck to see who had arrived.

There had been no visitors to Minare for months except for Holic Reznik. Please, God, she prayed, let it be Simon.

To her disappointment, the man who came ashore looked nothing like Simon. But then no one looked like her white-haired, albino brother.

The stranger wore his black hair to his shoulders, and he was being escorted by two guards. He walked ahead of them shuffling forward like an old man. Or maybe he was crippled.

As she continued to watch from the tower, Melita realized that the man was neither old, crippled, or a friend of her father’s.

What hindered his normal stride was a pair of iron manacles around his ankles.

Chapter 3

The double-agent scenario wasn’t a new idea. Regeneration, better known as brainwashing, had been around in the spy world for decades. But a year ago Cyrus had decided to take the theory a step further. He’d spared no expense on the latest technology—the bowels of Minare now looked like a space-age conspiracy.

Every genius plan had problems to iron out. A week ago those problems had allowed his guinea pig to slip through his fingers. But it wouldn’t happen again. He knew what had allowed Jazmin Grant to escape him.

Human nature, or what he referred to as the lust factor, could be a secret weapon or could short-circuit a double-agent’s brainwashing at a crucial moment. But not this time. With Sully Paxton, he planned to take the problem out of the equation.

Cyrus stepped into the lab and stopped in the doorway. He had come to tell Barinski that Sully Paxton had arrived and that they would begin the regeneration procedure again. The idea of snatching up Merrick’s elite agents and regenerating them one by one put a smile on his face.

“Barinski?”

When the doctor didn’t answer, Cyrus walked into the animal room where all the research and theories were tested out on lab rats. He found Barinski coddling one of the rats, talking to it like the damn thing understood every word he said.

“Perhaps you need to invest in a hearing aid, or I should install a bell on your door,” Cyrus said by way of introduction.

Unaware that anyone had entered his sanctum, Barinski jumped and let out a startled cry. His squawk of surprise frightened the rat. The rodent clamped down on Barinski’s finger. The doctor squealed again and dropped the rat, allowing it to scurry out the door.

Cyrus swore. He hated rats. Hated everything about them. He’d existed on a steady diet of rodents in Prague for months after Merrick left him to die. Since then he hadn’t been able to look at a rat without remembering his desperation.

“I want that thing found. You know what I’ll do to it if I find it first.”

Barinski winced at Cyrus’s words, then at the blood dripping from his finger. He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his baggy pants and wrapped it around the injury.

“Is there something you came to discuss with me?”

“Paxton’s here.” Cyrus tossed a file on Barinski’s worktable. “Everything you need is there.”

“What kind of shape is he in?”

“Better than I expected. There’s a picture in the file of him when he was pulled from the pit. It’s not the same man who came off the boat today. But I’m not surprised. Adolf Merrick scoured the countryside to find Paxton and five others just like him. They are the toughest bastards alive. Adolf Merrick’s pride and joy. And because they are, I want them. All of them, starting with Paxton.”

His latest plan was perhaps one of his most ingenious. The concept of Sully Paxton’s allegiance being stripped from Onyxx was perfect revenge. It would also aid him—a man in his line of work could always use an elite private army ready to serve his cause. They would kill whomever he needed silenced, and his shipments would always be delivered on time, whether it was guns, drugs, or the blueprints of the latest, most indestructible submarine.

Yes, Paxton would be the first. After he’d seized control of Merrick’s elite fighters, he would poach both government and private agencies all over the country.

“I’ve gone over your notes concerning the emotional malfunction of Jazmin Grant. Our success in converting these agents is contingent on complete surrender, both body and mind. Physically it won’t be hard to bring Paxton back to the iron man he once was. He’s halfway there.”

Cyrus had instructed his men at Vouno to put Paxton through hell. From the day he’d captured Sully Paxton at Castle Rock he’d had him beaten and tortured, and anything else he could do to him to make him scream.

From personal experience he knew that what didn’t kill a man always made him stronger. And now Paxton was even more indestructible than ever before.

“Your job will be stripping his memory and reprogramming him. But before you get started I want to ensure that he doesn’t end up like Grant.”

“Grant’s problem was—”

“I know what the problem was. The lust factor made her vulnerable. It got in the way of her loyalty to me.”

“Lust factor?” Barinski was staring at him like an idiot.

“She surrendered to her sexual attraction for Ash Kelly if you remember,” Cyrus reminded him. “I don’t want the same thing happening again. That’s why I’ve decided my army of stallions are going to be gelded. Starting with Paxton.”

Barinski was hesitant in his response. “I’ve never performed a surgery like that.”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to figure it out.”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“You have two months to turn Paxton into a human robot.”

“Two months. If I worked day and night it would take me twice that long.”

“You’re selling Paxton short. He’ll be ready in two months.”

Barinski found his glasses on his forehead and slid them onto his bulbous nose. It helped his squinting, but magnified his fish eyes to the size of a giant sea monster’s. “Where is he now?”

“He’s in a cell down the hall. Remember, your future is dangling by a thread, Barinski. I usually don’t reward failure with a second chance. And I do see Jazmin Grant as your failure. Not mine.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Let’s hope your best will keep you alive at the end of two months. To help you, I’ve instructed Melita to be your second pair of hands.” Cyrus’s eyes drifted to the open door of Barinski’s office. It looked like he’d turned his rats loose in there. “She can keep your files in order to help speed things up, but I don’t want her anywhere near Paxton.”

“It would be a pleasure to work with the angel.”

Cyrus rolled his eyes and grunted. “I have no use for angels, Barinski. Melita has more of the devil in her than anyone knows. That’s why she is so important to me. Remember, two months. Disappoint me and I’ll have you digging your own grave before I plant you in it.”

That said, he left the lab and headed down the corridor to the holding cells. He saw Barinski’s rat as he rounded the second turn in the hall. It was wedged into a corner trying to be as invisible as possible. He pulled a switchblade from his pocket and flicked it open. Then, before the rat had a chance to take its next breath, the blade was in the air moving toward its target.

The rat never knew what hit him. As he lay on his side twitching and dying, Cyrus put his foot on the rodent’s narrow head and crushed it beneath his foot. Then he reached down, picked up his knife with the dead rat still impaled on it and continued down the corridor to welcome Sully Paxton to Minare.

Sully was dozing on the cot in his cell when he heard heavy footsteps. The cell where he was incarcerated was dry, and it didn’t stink like the dungeon on Hell Island. There was fresh air coming from somewhere, and that told him that the tunnel was open-ended. If he managed to get free, there would be a way out of the monastery other than through the front door he’d entered.

He sat up, but before he could get to his feet, the Chameleon was standing on the other side of the iron bars grinning at him.

“You’re not surprised to see me?”

“I don’t surprise easy.”

“But you must be curious why you’re still alive, and why I’ve decided to change your address.”

“I figured you’d tell me when you were ready. No sense losing sleep over what I can’t change.”

“That’s what I like about you, Paxton. You’re a man who says what he thinks, and believes what he says. That’s why I’ve taken such a special interest in you. I hate to admit it but Merrick has a talent for picking winners. Normally when recruiting a team of special agents, you would look for sterling military jarheads. But Merrick being Merrick went looking for the wildest vigilantes alive. Truly the name rat fighters fits the M.O. of his most elite.”

Sully glanced at the rat impaled on the Chameleon’s knife and wondered if the rodent was a visual aid. “Am I supposed to conclude that I’m going to end up like that rat?”

The Chameleon laughed. “Not if you’re smart. And we both know how smart you are. A street-smart Irish gunrunner.”

“Is that it? Need a gunrunner?”

“Perhaps. You know, Paxton, I find it fascinating that you’re still alive. That your mind is still processing rational thoughts and you’re on your feet. It’s a testimony to your endurance. My screening process is a bit barbaric, and more often than not the result is disappointing, but you haven’t disappointed me at all. That’s why I’ve decided to reward you.”

“And this is my reward, more iron bars? I vote for a room with a view and a beautiful woman for a few hours.”

“The cell is only temporary. A few tests to ensure you haven’t contracted any contagious diseases, and you’ll be moved. However there will be no view in your new quarters, and I promise you that very soon women will be the furthest thing from your mind once you begin working for me.”

“You can’t believe I would ever agree to work for you.”

“Not willingly, no.”

“I could kill myself in here. Snap my own neck. That would flush your plans down the toilet.”

“If that was your intention you would have done it at Vouno.”

Vouno…. Was that the real name of Hell Island? Sully wondered.

“No, already you’re in survival mode…again. Death at your own hands would mean you had failed Merrick, and more importantly, make you a coward. What I’ve observed over the years about the Onyxx six is that each of you have a private code of ethics that demands survival at any cost. That’s what Merrick saw in each of you. Why I knew no matter what I ordered done to you at Vouno you would survive.”

The Cameleon spoke of Merrick as if he knew him personally. Sully sized up his jailer. At Onyxx the Chameleon’s identity was unknown. But that hadn’t altered the fact that he’d topped the list as the most wanted international criminal for over a decade.

“Who are you?” he asked, never expecting to get a straight answer.

“You don’t recognize me? That’s right, you wouldn’t. Not unless you knew my history, or you’d talked to Merrick recently. Which we both know you haven’t.”

Was he saying that since his capture Merrick had uncovered his identity?

“Your boss and I go way back. We were friends before he betrayed me.”

“Before Onyxx?”

“No. We were both recruited by the NSA. We were the first team of Onyxx operatives at its conception.”

There had been talk at the Agency that the Chameleon could be a rogue agent. Sully said, “Long time to hold a grudge.”

“I assure you it’s more than a grudge. I believe my file at Onyxx states that I died just outside of Prague in a minefield. As you can see, Mr. Paxton, Cyrus Krizova is very much alive.”

So the Chameleon finally had a name. Cyrus Krizova.

“You and I have a lot in common. We were both left for dead by our comrades, and we have both survived.”

“You’re saying Merrick deserted you? Not a chance.”

“You find that hard to believe?”

“I know Merrick. That’s not his M.O.”

“Like your team, there were six of us. Merrick was the field commander, Briggs was point man, Paavo Creon was the typographer and, like you, I was the weapons expert. The others…well they’re not important. Like you, Paavo was a regular pretty boy. That’s why, when I needed some repairs done on my face after I stepped on that mine, I decided to take his. He wasn’t going to need it anyway.”

The smug look on Krizova’s face told Sully that Paavo was probably dead.

“You killed Merrick’s wife?”

“What I did was save her from wasting her life with a man with no honor. He didn’t deserve a woman that flawless.”

“Johanna Merrick wasn’t a part of your war with Merrick.”

“As you know there are always casualties in wartime. Like me, your Onyxx team left you for dead at Castle Rock. Are you telling me you don’t harbor any resentment?”

“I was caught behind enemy lines. Fallen comrades are left for dead. It’s standard policy at Onyxx.”

“That’s noble of you, Paxton, but while you were left for dead, Sly McEwen was carrying out Jacy Maddox. A fallen comrade at death’s door. He should have been left behind, too, but he wasn’t. They didn’t even try to look for you.”

So they had all made it out alive. It was the first Sully had heard. But instead of resenting Sly for getting Jacy out, all Sully felt was relief. His teammates had survived Castle Rock. That was good news.

“You’ll be in good hands with Dr. Barinski.” Cyrus looked at his watch. “Before I say goodbye, do you have a meal request for dinner? I have an excellent chef. Whatever you’re craving, I’m sure Cosmo can accommodate you. And of course as much as you want. You’re still underweight.”

“In that case, how about your heart on a silver platter,” Sully replied, “and a six-pack of Killian’s Irish Red.”

Cyrus chuckled, then stepped forward and slid the rat off his knife and tossed it between the iron bars to land at Sully’s feet. “An appetizer while you wait for your meal to arrive. I ate rats in Prague to stay alive. I know in the pit you did, too. You see, Paxton, you and I have even that in common. And I’m sure there is much more.”

An hour later a guard delivered Sully his supper. To his surprise it was served on a silver platter, and beneath the domed cover was an animal’s heart and a six-pack of beer. It wasn’t Killian’s, but the brand could have been from Tasmania and two-thirds dog piss and Sully would have drank it.

It was the first time in days that he had passed on a meal. He picked up the dead rat, tossed it next to the heart and covered the tray. Then he carried the six-pack to the cot and fell asleep nursing his thoughts with a liquid meal that went straight to his head.

In the morning Sully woke up with a screamer of a headache. The beer had tasted good going down, but he was paying for it now. His tolerance to the booze wasn’t what it used to be.

The urge to relieve himself forced him to his feet, and he staggered to the toilet. Normally he could handle drinking all night, but being out of practice had given him a helluva buzz.

He moaned as he put one foot in front of the other. The toilet was five feet away but it felt like five miles. He unzipped his pants, took a stance and let it flow.

He was in the middle of a heavy sigh when he heard a noise behind him. He looked over his shoulder as he continued to perform his normal morning bodily function and stared at the woman standing in front of his cell—an exotic island nymph with the face of an angel.

No way. He was either more drunk than he thought, or he was still asleep and in the middle of the same dream he’d conjured up after midnight. Oh, yeah, this was the little honey he’d been sucking on in the dream, his hands tangled in all that black hair. She had the same sexy dark eyes. The same pouty lips.

Sully felt his body jerk to attention. Wanting to continue down that horny road he’d traveled all night, he left his fly open, flushed the toilet and staggered to the cot.

He looked back, saw she was still peering at him through the bars. Grinning, he muttered, “Come on, baby, climb on in here and we’ll start the party all over again.”

He was two steps from the cot when his sexy dream-lover spoke and stopped him in his tracks.

“If I were you, I would be thinking about a way out of here instead of having a party. The men who visit this cell don’t usually live very long.”

Sully turned slowly. “You’re real?”

“If I’m not, why are you talking to me?”

Sully rubbed his unshaven jaw, studied the woman as she studied him. He decided she was real—his dream-lover had been naked. The only thing naked on this little beauty was her feet. She wore a white peasant blouse and a bright blue skirt.

“Are you the nun who drops by to pray for the lost souls, or the monastery whore who guarantees the condemned die happy?”

He saw her chin jack upward. It was obvious she wasn’t amused by his prison humor, and didn’t find him as appealing to look at as he did her. She was taking him apart a piece at a time, as if he was some side show at a carnival.

For a month he’d been eating and sleeping and pissing center stage. It had given new meaning to the words caged monkey.

“Buy a ticket to the circus, did you, honey?”

“What?”

Sully took a few steps toward her. “I don’t do tricks. If you’re expecting to see me pull a rabbit out of my ass, it’s going to be a long wait. No rabbits in here.”

He thought his comment would chase her off. It didn’t. Instead it put a smile on her face.

“You think that’s funny?”

“If you could perform such a trick, I pity the rabbit.”

So she could give as good as she got. He liked that in a woman. She was a gutsy little nymph, and the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen in his entire life. The cruel joke was she was on the outside looking in.

“Ever done it through a pair of iron bars?” he asked.

“Is that what an imprisoned man misses most?”

“When you’ve been locked up as long as I have, it’s close to the top of the list.”

“It’s been one day. I saw you arrive yesterday.”

“Relocated.”

“From where?”

“Vouno.”

She frowned. “Never heard of it. What’s your name?”

“What’s yours?”

“I asked you first.”

She had barely gotten the words out when a male voice sounded in the corridor. By the surprised look on her face it was clear she recognized the voice and didn’t want whoever it was to find her there. She quickly glanced around, then said, “He can’t find me in here.”

“Who?”

“Holic.” She swung open the door to the empty cell next to him and slipped inside, then hurried to the cot and dropped to her knees. Flashing him her small sexy ass, she wiggled under the cot and disappeared.

From her hiding place, she said, “Don’t tell him I’m here.”

“I won’t tell if you give me your name.”

Sully heard her swear, two very nasty words in Greek. Smiling, he said, “A generous offer. You can try it through the bars as soon as I get rid of my visitor. For now, I’ll have your name.”

She swore again, then told him. “It’s Melita.”

On her belly, feeling the damp stone floor seeping into her clothes, Melita peered out from beneath the cot. She wrinkled up her nose as the sour smell suddenly gave her the urge to sneeze.

Oh, God.

She reached up and pinched her nose, concentrated on slowing her breathing until the urge passed. If Holic found her there she would be in worse trouble than she already was. The slimy bastard would like nothing better than to put her against the wall with another ultimatum.

She saw two pairs of feet stop outside of the prisoner’s cell. One was Holic’s. He always kept his black boots as shiny as a mirror. The other pair were easy to identify as well—green tennis shoes.

What was Nigel Barinski doing here with Holic?

Melita pressed her cheek against the dirty floor to get a better look. The prisoner had taken a seat on his cot. He was dressed in green fatigues and a black muscle shirt. He’d zipped up his pants, and she found herself looking long and hard at him again. Over six feet, his black hair grazed his broad shoulders—shoulders that looked rock hard even though he was extremely lean.

She was curious as to who he was, and what her father meant to do with him. So curious it had caused her to use bad judgment and search him out.

“On your feet, Paxton,” Holic ordered.

“Unlock the door,” Nigel insisted. “I can’t examine him from out here.”

Holic dug a key from his pocket and inserted it in the lock. The cell door swung open, and Nigel stepped inside. Holic returned the key to his pocket and followed, pulling a handgun from the holster on his belt. He aimed the weapon at the prisoner they had just addressed as Paxton.

“I said on your feet, back against the wall,” Holic ordered.

There were a few minutes of silence, then Paxton stood and Nigel set his medical bag down on the cot. “I need a blood sample to test for any diseases or infections. I have him scheduled for the decontamination chamber after lunch. I want him bug-free before I bring him to the infirmary.”

Melita listened to every word Nigel said. She had no idea what his purpose was here at Despotiko, but she knew he wasn’t simply a doctor who kept her father’s guards healthy.

“Remove your shirt, Mr. Paxton.”

Melita saw the prisoner’s shirt fall to the floor at Nigel’s order, but before she could see much else, Nigel blocked her view.

“I read your file. It was impressive. Surviving what must have been a living hell has made you quite valuable.”

“I imagine you know all about survival living with that face,” Paxton said.

Melita heard Holic laugh. “That’s probably the only thing we’ll ever agree on, Paxton.”

Nigel lived with constant ridicule over the way he looked. Melita felt bad for him, although, she had to admit his appearance was unusual.

The blood sample taken, Nigel kicked an empty beer can. “There will be no more alcohol. From now on you’ll be on a strict diet to get your weight back up. My orders are to have you at one hundred percent in two months. That’ll take work on both our ends. Now your pants, Mr. Paxton. Drop them, please. I need to examine your phallus and scrotum for the surgery.”

Surgery? Melita wondered what kind of surgery Nigel would be performing on that part of Paxton’s anatomy?

A few seconds later she had her answer when Nigel said, “I have orders to castrate you.”

When the prisoner didn’t move, Holic stepped forward and shoved the barrel of his handgun underneath his chin. “Drop you pants, Paxton.”

Melita saw Holic take a step back. Saw the prisoner’s pants drop to his ankles. Nigel moved forward, blocking her view once more, then suddenly he moved left.

Buy a ticket to the circus?

Paxton’s words popped into her head, but she wasn’t witnessing any freak show. What she was viewing was more like a peep show, and worth every penny.

She heard Barinski mumble something to himself. Finally, he said out loud, “I’ve never done this kind of operation before. But it can’t be too hard.”

Paxton was in the process of pulling up his pants when out of nowhere the smell of mold on the floor climbed up Melita’s nose. Unprepared for it, she sneezed.

“What was that?” Holic turned to stare through the bars into the empty cell where Melita hid. She squeezed her eyes shut, sure she would be discovered any second.

She heard something that resembled her sneeze, and her eyes popped open just as Paxton said, “I’ve been sneezing all day. There must be something down here that I’m allergic to.”

Holic laughed. “I’d be more worried about Barinski tickling my crotch with a knife than allergies, Paxton.” To Nigel, he asked, “What’s the reason behind castrating him?”

“After he’s been reprogrammed we don’t want him thinking about anything but the job he’s going to be trained to do. Our last attempt at reprogramming an agent misfired because her lust factor got in the way.” Nigel scratched his head. “I suppose a practice run on one of my rats is in order. I can’t afford to screw up again.” Nigel picked up his medical bag. “See that he’s brought to the infirmary after he’s been disinfected.”

Sully jerked the zipper up on his pants and damn near neutered himself without Barinski’s help. He winced, then gave an empty beer can a hard kick, sending it into the wall.

He heard Melita dragging herself out from under the cot in the next cell, and turned to see her getting to her feet.

When she came out of the cell, he said, “Get me out of here.”

“Me?”

“Who else would I be talking to?”

“Why would I help you? I don’t even know you.”

“Because I just saved your ass, and it’s time to return the favor.”

“By the sound of it your ass isn’t what’s in jeopardy. What did he mean reprogrammed?”

“How the hell should I know? What I do know is that sticking around here to find out is going to—”

“End your partying days.”

She looked away, but Sully saw a glimpse of a smile. It pissed him off, and he said, “You wouldn’t think it was so funny if you were in here and I was on the outside looking in.”

“I suppose not. Lucky me. If you’re thinking of breaking out of here, it won’t happen. Minare is heavily guarded, and there’s no easy way off the island.”

“That guard with the crazy doctor has the key to this cell. Get me the key, and I’ll worry about the rest.”

“He’s not a guard. That’s Holic Reznik and there’s no way I’m going near him.”

“What do you want for helping me out of here? Name it, and it’s yours.”

She thought a minute, then asked, “Do you have a boat?”

“Stashed under the cot?”

“That’s what I thought.” She shrugged. “No boat, no escape. Goodbye.”

“Wait!”

She didn’t stop. She was gone, and with her, Sully’s last hope.

Starve him. Strip him naked. Beat him until he couldn’t move. He’d survived all of it and more. But turning his brain into mush, and—

“What’s your first name?”

Sully spun around to see that Melita had come back. “Why?”

“You know mine.”

“Why does it matter? I plan to hang myself before Reznik comes back.”

She gave him a frown. “Suicide is overrated.”

“What would you know about it?”

She turned to leave.

To stop her, he said, “My name’s Sully.”

She turned back. “No one is named Sully.”

“It’s short for Sullivan.”

“You have an accent.”

“I’m Irish.”

“Paxton isn’t Irish.”

“It’s a long story,” he said, trying not to scare her off again. “Maybe if you got me out of here, we could discuss it over a beer and dinner a few thousand miles away.”

“Were you serious about giving me whatever I wanted if I helped you, Sully Paxton, even though you don’t have a boat?”

“Dead serious.”

She took a step closer and lowered her voice. “What if what I want is for you to take me with you? What if we left the island together? Would you agree to that?”

“Done.”

“Just like that?”

“I’m a man with few options, honey. Be my angel of mercy and I’ll not only get you off the island, I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

“Without a boat?”

“I’ll swim you out of here on my back if I have to.”

“Some men would promise anything to get what they want. Especially a man in your position. How good is your memory?”

“My what?”

“Do you remember what you say? More importantly, do you follow through? You see, I can’t just take your word for it.”

“My promise is solid.”

“Promise. That’s a word I haven’t heard in a while.”

“If you knew me, you wouldn’t have to doubt it.”

“That’s my point. I don’t know you.”

“If you’re serious about wanting out of here, I’m the man who can make it happen. Anywhere you want to go. Barinski said he read my file. Find it and read it. Once you do, you’ll know I’m your man.”

She was taking in everything he said, and he could see she was definitely considering his offer. It didn’t matter why she wanted off the island, only that she did—as badly as he did.

“I have to go,” she said.

“When will I see you again?”

“When I decide whether I can trust you or not. If I do decide to help you, we’ll need a boat. Do you have any money?”

Sully patted his pants pockets. “Used my last quarter to call home.”

“There are boats at the village. I’ve already tried to get someone there to help me get off the island, but they’re all too afraid.”

“Why?”

“That’s a stupid question. Why do you think?”

“They’re afraid of Krizova.”

“He owns everyone on this island.”

“Including you?”

“I’m not the one behind bars.”

“And still you’re here, where you don’t want to be.”

She started to walk away again. He made one more plea. “Read my file.”

She never answered him.

Sully put all his energy into believing that if Melita read his files, she’d be back. But by afternoon when she hadn’t returned, he started to pray for a miracle. What arrived on the heels of that prayer was Holic Reznik, and minutes later he was headed for the disinfection chamber.

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