"You really have no choice," Gabriel Darche puffed on the cigar between his teeth with cold confidence. Blonde hair going white seemed to wash out his already dull, watery brown eyes. It did not lessen the danger radiating from him, though, or the threat laced through his tone. "Whether she lives or dies has always been up to you."

Sitting across the massive desk from the French gangster was a sixty-ish Japanese businessman who showed heavy signs of premature aging. Slick black hair was streaked with silver, lines of worry carving deep into his features. The most notable indication of stress was in his eyes. Bottomless, desperate, bitter, and broken.

"Always before," Tanabe Eizo countered softly. "You have given me a picture of Yua with today's newspaper. That was your idea. A sign of good faith that my daughter is still alive. Yet today... you refuse."

"I am changing the dynamics of our partnership, Tanabe. She will live as long as you cooperate. You get stupid, she'll die screaming."

"That was not the deal-"

"It's the deal now." Darche slammed his hand on the desktop with a thunderous boom, eyes glinting dangerously. "Or I can just have her killed. We can make a new deal when I have your wife-"

"No!" Jumping to his feet, the desperate father lifted his hands placatingly. "Please don't kill my daughter! I will do as you ask!"

"I'm not asking, Tanabe," leaning back once more, Darche grinned. "As far as you're concerned, what I say is the law. Understand?"

"Hai." Nodding meekly, his heart threatening to crack, Eizo bent in a half bow. "I understand."

"Good." Flipping a piece of paper across the desk, the Frenchman gestured at it. "That's the next deposit information. I expect the money to be deposited by the end of next week. No excuses."

A protest formed on the business mogul's lips when he saw the amount, but wisely he stayed silent. After ten years, the strain on his company's finances was beginning to show, but there was no way out as long as the money was still being made. Involving the authorities on any level was unthinkable, and a private firm would be a joke against men like Gabriel Darche. His connections and reach were global. So Tanabe folded the paper neatly into quarters, sliding it into his jacket pocket.

"Will you require anything else?" He hated how it sounded like servitude, but after a decade of bending to the gangster's beck and call, Tanabe realized that's what it was. Faded russet eyes filled with disdain, fingers flicking toward the door.

"Get out."

Exiting the office, Tanabe nearly bumped into Darche's head associate, Rémy Dubois. He hurriedly moved aside.

"Forgive me."

The younger gangster measured him with a silent look before moving on and Tanabe swallowed. He never knew what that one was thinking, and it terrified him. Once outside the hotel, he took out his phone and direct dialed a contact. A smooth, soft voice answered.

"Kon'nichiwa?"

"I'm coming home," he told his wife quietly, hearing her intake a sharp breath.

"Yua...?"

"He will not hurt her as long as I do as he says."

"How does she look?" Reinko Eizo's voice shook from the same strain her husband felt. "Has she gained any weight?"

"She's okay," he soothed, unable to worry her further by confessing he'd not seen her picture this time. "She's okay. I'll call you from the airport."

"How much longer-!"

"Reinko, it is Yua's life." His gentle admonition stopped her. "We do whatever it takes to keep her alive. Perhaps someday, we will be able to bring her home."

He listened to his wife break into bitter weeping, then softly whispered goodbye, hanging up just before stepping inside the car that pulled to a stop in front of him. Darche had him picked up from and delivered back to the airport each visit, just to ensure the desperate father didn't do anything stupid. This time, Tanabe couldn't rid himself of the feeling that the opportunity had come to take matters into his own hands.

***

"Rémy," Darche's tone was murderous. "Tell me you have something. Anything on where she's at."

"Not yet, sir. We're looking at everything, squeezing every source until it bleeds."

"I want her found! Now!" The vein on Gabriel's forehead bulged at his shout, teeth bared in a nearly feral snarl. It was a look that normally sent men running for their lives, but Rémy forced himself to remain calm.

"Every man you have is combing the streets. She couldn't have gone far, not without any money and needing a hit. She'll pop up, and when she does, we'll grab her."

"It's been two weeks, Rémy," Darche countered venomously.

"If we let the other board members know what-" He dodged a stapler that his boss hurled toward him, hearing it smash against the wall.

"No! Axis doesn't hear a word about this! If they do, not only will I lose my place at the head of the table, but a feeding frenzy will begin as every division leader tries to hunt her down first. No..." Smoothing his hair down, Gabriel composed himself, retaking his seat. "No, this stays in-house. I'll personally rip the tongue from the first person who talks."

"Yes, sir. I understand." About to move toward the door, he paused. "What if-?"

"What."

"What if... we're looking at this wrong?" Facing his boss, Rémy shrugged. "She's on drugs, sure, but she's still a woman, and pretty enough to service a paying client. She could have been grabbed by a low-level pimp or picked up by some cop, not on your payroll. Or, going out on a limb, the black market is wide open for girls like her."

"Kidnapped?" Doubtful, Gabriel rubbed his jaw. "Unlikely."

"Agreed, but it would explain why we haven't found her. I can ask around, quietly, and see if there's been any movement in human trafficking."

"Do it," Gabriel snapped his fingers in warning, "but quietly, Rémy."

"Of course."

The phone on his desk began to ring, and Darche waved his lieutenant out, plucking the handset off the cradle with a scowl.

"What?" His features tightened and snapping his fingers, got Rémy's attention. Signaling the man back to him, he slammed the phone down, jabbing at a few keys to wake his computer screen. Opening his email, he clicked on an anonymous message, opening the attached file with Rémy watching silently. A grainy video started, showing two men holding a woman down as a third yanked her pants down.

The vein on Darche's forehead bulged as Geneviève began screaming, writhing in terror and agony. In the nearly twenty-five minutes of footage, a dozen men took turns at her, until she was left mute and quivering. A heavily tanned face filled the screen, leering.

"I know exactly who your little meretriz is. This is proof we have her. I will let my crew enjoy her every day you don't pay to get her back. If she lives a week, my offer expires and I'll call one of your associates. I'm sure they'd be willing to pay a high price to have your cash cow. I'll contact you tomorrow."

The video went black an instant before Darche sent the monitor flying across the room with a curse. It splintered against the brick mantle of the fireplace. Features purple, ugly with fury, he glared at Rémy.

"I want to know who he is and where he is! Now!"

"On it, boss."

Leaving the office, Rémy made a call to their tech wizard, quickly explaining the important parts of the situation. That email and video needed to be dissected immediately, along with the utmost discretion regarding its contents. Knowing he could do nothing else regarding the email, the Frenchman began looking through his contact list. A number he hadn't used in ages popped out at him like a signal beacon. Staring at the numerals, his mind reluctantly opened the door to eight years ago.

A smoky room lit by a single candle. Hot, stuffy air, thick with sweat and musk. Writhing bodies, tangled in thin sheets. The taste of tequila and oysters – before he lost his nerve, Rémy hit call. It rang twice.

"Ola."

"It's me..."

"Ah... my friend," the accent was thick, the voice purring with unexpected delight. "How's Marseille, eh?"

"I need a favor." There was a beat of silence at the other end.

"Favors cost, my friend."

"What do you want?"

"Mm, what a promising question. I want you to come see me. We never finished our... chat."

Rémy's fingers tightened over the phone, his jaw clenching.

"That was a long time ago, and I don't have time to mess around. I'm on a ticking clock here."

"There's always time for old friends, Amado."

"Don't call me that." Rémy had to force the words out between his teeth. On the other end, the throaty voice laughed.

"So touchy! So tense... I can help you with that, Amado. You know what my hands are capable of."

"I'm not interested in talking about old times. Will you help me or not? I need information on-"

"We'll discuss that when I see you."

"I'd prefer to talk on the phone."

"That's not how favors work, Amado."

"I told you not to call me that." Rémy flinched as vivid memories of that night rose in his mind. Wet lips, moist breath, bare skin. A shiver rippled down his back. "Please."

The low, throaty chuckle returned.

"I'll meet you at the airport. Rémy. I've been saving a bottle of tequila just for you."

"I don't drink." His throat tightened at the knowing silence on the line. "Anymore."

"Shame," the soft sound of a tongue clucking made sweat form on his brow. "Tequila tastes different on you."

"I can't just hop on a plane you know,"

"Find a way. I'll see you when you get here."

The other end hung up, leaving the gangster standing frozen, trembling in fury. This was going to cost him.

Somewhere in the South Pacific

She watched him for a long time as he lay limp, trembling slightly in pain. Finally, she edged closer, timidly peering over his shoulder. His jaw had a massive knot on it, cracked lips covered in crusted blood. One eye was swollen shut and purple. Blood smeared his nose and brow, dribbling from the ear she could see.

Swallowing hard, she leaned over just a little more. His shirt had been cut open, leaving a long slice of skin down his chest that had stopped bleeding. Burn marks covered his torso and stomach. Gagging, she jerked back turning away.

"Don't throw up on me," he muttered sourly, not moving. "That'll just make my day."

Breath leaving her nostrils in quivering puffs, she sat back, rigid as he slowly pushed to his knees with a groan.

"Lucky breadsticks," voice an ugly rasp, his scowl was masked behind battered features. "That's two."

His good eye met her wide, frightened ones.

"They hurt you?" A very slight nod of her head answered him. His expression turned hard, sea-green eyes measuring. "Can you run?"

Nostrils quivering a little, fear flooded pale bruised features. Dark glassy orbs flitting around the room, she seemed uncertain how to answer him. Or scared to. Weird. Ji pushed upright, resting his weight on his bent knees and toes trying to breathe evenly.

"You warned me about that worthless sack of skin trying to shoot me in the back, and I appreciate it, but this one is not a freebie. Are you with me in getting out of here, or are you staying?"

Pink lips trembling, her wide gaze returned to him, hands curling protectively to her chest. He thought her manicure was a little too expensive to match her current appearance, her tattered clothing stylish, but a few seasons out of fashion, adding to the mystery. Swallowing hard, she shivered, nodding.

"You're coming?"

Another nod.

"Okay. In the other room, there was a porthole, and I caught a look outside. I think we're one deck down. We make it to the stairs, onto the main deck then to the motorboat and gone. I can buy us time, but you'll have to do what I tell you to get off this rig. Understand?"

Another nod, firmer this time. Ji liked the glint of resolve he saw in her expression, lurking behind the fear.

"Okay," adjusting to sit down on the cold floor, he gingerly examined the burn marks on his chest. "It's up to them now."

It reminded him of the basement. Dark. Still. Filled with the scent of sweat, blood, and dread. Other rooms had come after that, strapped to tables and chairs in Pakistan, Indonesia, Colombia, and even the Agency training room... but the basement had been the first. The beginning of his intimate relationship with agony and terror.

While the pirates had been torturing him, for that's what Ji now knew they were, he hadn't been as bad off as they believed. Mostly it had been a show, delivered with surgical precision to make them believe he was beaten. In truth, Orzo Scarpetti had done more damage with a cigar and a metal pipe. The thought made Ji tighten his jaw, sending a spike of pain through his temple.

"Godless thug," he muttered to no one. "Sick freak."

Movement lifted his good eye, seeing her staring at him with a faint frown. Realizing she'd been caught, her gaze jerked away, shoulders folding in as she hugged herself, shivering. Terrified. Part of him was glad. Let her stay scared.

Fear would keep her guard up. Clingy he didn't need.

"Since you understand English," he offered after a while. "Tell me your name."

Her head ducked down between her arms, and he thought she wouldn't answer. The hushed whisper surprised him.

"Geneviève."

"What?"

She flinched, shrinking farther from him without actually moving. Like she was trying to sink into the metal floor.

"Geneviève,"

"You're not French." Raggedly cut bangs clung to her lashes as she shook her head. "Where are you from?"

"Marseille." Another whisper, nearly drowned out by the groaning creak of the old vessel. Ji's frown deepened. Her accent was genuine.

"Depuis combien de temps vivez-vous en France?"

"A long time." She answered fluently, her voice hardly loud enough for him to hear. Like she was terrified to answer but too scared not to.

"C'est là que tu es né?"

Nostrils flaring, she glanced at him, tears brimming in her eyes as she shook her head slightly. Ji watched her throat work as she swallowed. Not a French native but influenced enough to speak like one. By the look of her ivory skin and dark hair, small features, and almond eyes, he'd guess she was born in Japan.

"Anata wa doko de umaremashita ka?" He tried one of the few phrases he knew, but terror flooded her features. Wrenching away from him, Geneviève buried her face in her arms, shaking. Stroking a throbbing finger along his jaw, he again wished he had a cigarette.

Too afraid to cry, fearing the man's anger, Geneviève held herself as still as possible. She couldn't talk about her past! Gabriel's temper would be awful when he found out. Thinking about it put a chill in her bones even as her stomach growled with hunger. When had she eaten last? It was hard to remember.

After escaping the hotel she'd run as far as her abused body would allow. The first night was spent huddled alone in a cardboard box behind a restaurant dumpster. After that, she managed to find a small storage space next to a clothing warehouse that seemed abandoned. Under a layer of dust, she could tell the space had not been used in a long time.

So she'd holed up like a frightened mouse, going through the wickedly powerful withdrawals from heroin and ecstasy on her own. Gabriel had kept her just high enough to be submissive. Either that or drunk, so much that she couldn't remember what life before was like, or life outside the hotel walls period.

Not a second in that small storage room had gone by without flinching at every noise and shadow. The boxes had been full of abandoned clothing, needles, thread, bolts of cloth, and scissors had provided her with different clothing than she'd escaped with. She'd also altered her appearance by chopping off her waist-length hair. Hunger and thirst finally forced her out to steal a few handfuls of food from a nearby restaurant dumpster, terrified at being seen. Drinking water came from public fountains across the street. Sleeping on the floor of the tiny storage room, tucked behind stacks of boxes she always woke up screaming -

Shaking the memory off with a gasp, the back of her hand swiped briskly against her cheeks, rubbing away tears. If he got angry ... sneaking a look, she found the man sitting with his knees drawn up, arms hooked lazily around them, head bowed. As if he were asleep. Geneviève wasn't falling for that again. His full lips twitched.

"Do I have something on my face?" His good eye opened, revealing a vibrant turquoise iris glowing against the rich bruises. Long, full dark blonde lashes framed his eyes, hooded by thick, straight brows that same rich shade. Geneviève swallowed, trying to tell if he was angry or not but decided it was safest to placate him. With a slight shake of her head, she looked away, biting her bottom lip. His sigh was tired.

"Fudge bars... He hurt you bad, didn't he." At her petrified expression, he lifted a few fingers in a careless wave. "It's written all over your face."

When her bottom lip quivered Ji nodded, closing his eyes again. Everything hurt, he was starving, thirsty, and on the threshold of killing rage from nicotine withdrawals.

"I have no reason to hurt you, Geneviève."

He missed the look of utter terror that hit her at his words. How her already pale complexion blanched, leaving her gaunt features more skeletal than what should have been possible. What he was focusing on was the noise coming from beyond the room they were kept in. A low rumble of engines, along with the creak and grate of the old boat beginning to shove through the waves told him that escape was about to become a lot more difficult.

He wanted a drag. Craving a hit of nicotine so bad his hand curled into a tight fist so he didn't punch it through the floor. What were the dirty water rats waiting for? Patience wasn't something he'd been born with an overabundance of. At some point, he must have fallen asleep. Approaching footsteps ripping him awake, Ji was up and turning as the door opened, a glaring patch of yellow light making him squint.

"Fique de joelhos! Agora!" A man holding an AK-74u, commonly known as a Krinkov in Ji's circle, gestured at him. Slowly he slid to his knees. "Hands behind your head! Don't move!"

Another man holding a revolver entered the room, skirting where Ji knelt to stride to where Geneviève huddled, trembling. Bending, the pirate roughly grabbed her arm, yanking her upright. She shrieked.

"Hey-!" The man with the Krinkov took a menacing step forward, cutting off Ji's protest. She was dragged from the room, the heavy door slamming shut behind them. On his feet instantly, Ji moved to the metal barrier, pressing his ear against it, pushing, testing every inch for weakness. There had to be a way out!

It wasn't long before he heard her start screaming.

Gut churning, heart slamming against his ribs, Ji forced himself to hold still, to listen to each piercing wail. He was trying to gain any piece of information he could, but she was far away, filtering through layers of metal walls.

"Why torture her," he muttered aloud, backing away from the door to study the wall, the corners, and the ceiling. "Who is she to you?"

The minutes that passed seemed like hours, an eternity crawling by before he heard them coming back. With no other choice, knowing they'd expect some form of resistance, he backed away from the door. It opened with a bang, and her frail body was tossed inside like a bag of dirty laundry. One of their captors met Ji's glare with a smug look, grinning. Then the door clanged shut.

Geneviève lay motionless, eyes frozen open, features slack. Kneeling, Ji reached for her.

"Hey," the low rasp was calm. "It's over now. They're done."

She didn't answer, vacantly staring at the ceiling.

"Can you hear me? Geneviève," gingerly rolling her over, he stiffened when her long shirt exposed the waistline of her jeans. They'd been pulled down past her hips, the button torn off. A vibrant red line showed against her hip where her panties had been ripped away. What they'd done suddenly clicked into place and his features hardened.

"Three."