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Lucky nods. “I know,” she says simply. “But it’s a chance. One most people here are willing to take.”

Even if it costs Dimitry his life?

But as soon as I think of it, I know exactly what Dimitry would have to say to that. And I know she’s right.

I slip my hand into Lucky’s. “You’re so brave,” I whisper. “I can’t believe you did this.”

Except I can.

Lucky’s indomitable strength is the reason she has remained smiling throughout the years of hell that most are unable to endure for even half that time.

She squeezes my hand. “I know it’s a risk, Abby. I know that. But I cannot leave them behind.” Her eyes flash fiercely. “I will not.”

“I understand.” I do. I felt the same way about the prospect of leaving Lucky, Mary and Yrsa behind, and I’ve endured only a fraction of what Lucky has. “And it’s the right risk.” I hug her hard. “If you succeed in getting even ten of those people back to their families, then it’s a risk worth taking.”

“Fuck,” Yrsa says blankly, looking between us. “This... is big, yes?”

“Yes.”I nod slowly, emotion surging through me.And it’s exactly what Dimitry would do.For a horrible moment, I’m afraid I might actually cry.

Mary looks terrified. “Do you really think they can do this?”

“Yes.” Lucky nods determinedly. “I have faith in Otis and his friends."

That makes me smile. “If Otis and his friends say they will do it,” I say softly, “then they will.”

Or they’ll die trying.

I know Dimitry and Roman well enough to be damned fucking sure of that.

I’m torn between exhilaration and utter, crippling terror.

This isn’t an operation anymore.

It’s a fucking war.

The auction roomhas the same semicircle of chairs arrayed around a central dais. Only this time, instead of a brightly lit room, it’s almost entirely dark, with just the dais illuminated. The rows are leather lounges in deep shadow, the seated figures indistinct, each in their own private area. Low round tables in front of them are lit from beneath, offering enough light for drinks to be served, but not enough to illuminate any faces.

Somehow I thought I would sense Jacey’s presence in the room. Simplyknowwhich figure belonged to him, whether I could see his face or not.

I can certainly sense him. It’s an edgy, unsettling feeling, like knowing there’s a snake loose in the house, but not knowing where exactly it’s coiled.

Although I strain my eyes in the dim light, scanning each figure, I can’t for the life of me discern which shadowy form belongs to him. My recollection of Jacey’s face will haunt my dreams forever. But his height and build were moderate, his brown hair nondescript. Without a clear view of his face, any of the tuxedoed men silhouetted in the room could be him.

Dimitry’s, though, should be blatantly obvious.

My heart lurches as I look carefully around the room, aching for a glimpse of his bulk, of his long legs stretched out before him. But again I’m disappointed.

None of the men here are Dimitry.

My stomach lurches with fear.

What if he was caught already? Even worse, what if he never even made it this far?

It feels like death is waiting in the very air around us, like some dark, predestined promise.

It’s almost a relief when Rodrigo’s familiar suited figure appears at my side. “Ah, Señorita Chalmers.”

I never imagined the day when I’d find his smooth voice and too-fierce grip on my elbow actually reassuring.