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Three months later, I still don’t know what the fuck he plans to do with me. I haven’t even laid eyes on him.

That’s the other thing about Jacey: he likes to toy with people. To play psychotic games. It’s what he does, the way he keeps everyone jumping to his tune.

But I know he’s here. This place has Jacey’s corrupt stench all over it. Maybe he’s not always physically present, but I’d layany bet that he controls every dollar that comes in or goes out of these walls—and that this is only one branch of his insidious underworld empire.

The computer dings with a new message, and I open it reluctantly.

What kind of hobbies do you have, Matthew?It’s Rachel’s lunch hour. Right now she will be eating macaroni salad at the desk in her classroom. She’s a lonely woman.

They’re all lonely. That’s how we pick them.

What do you like doing?she asks, pathetically eager.

I like spending a lot of time alone,I type.It gives me space to think.

It’s not a lie.

I’ve had a lot of space to think since I came here.

And the conclusion I’ve come to is that it was sheer fucking bad luck that I wound up being captured.

The Banderos, from what Turbo let slip during our week together, recognized me in the Leetham pub from an old contract in circulation that had my photo on it. The contract specified capture, not kill. My guess is that it was Rodrigo Cardeñas who put out that contract years ago, along with my picture. It’s the kind of brash, boastful move Rodrigo would make. He was always trying to appear more important than he really is, to live up to the legend of his father.

But I would also guess that Jacey knew about that contract. That he never stopped watching it, and that he knew the moment I was captured.

Rodrigo is probably bewildered somewhere in Colombia, furious because I disappeared after he went to the trouble of finding me.

Meanwhile, I’m just rotting away in the jungle, waiting to discover my fate.

Correction: I know my fate.

I know I will die here.

I just don’t know how or when.

I don’t matter to Jacey. I’m just a loose end. Someone who saw what they should never have seen. He’ll simply squeeze whatever value he can from me, for as long as I have anything of value to offer.

Then it will be a shallow grave in the jungle beyond the compound, and Abby Chalmers will fade from the world forever.

I could pretend there’s a way out of this. But I’m not an idiot.

I know there’s no way out.

“Abby?”

I’m almost grateful to have my morbid line of thinking interrupted by Yrsa, a Danish girl who survived the shipping container from Australia with me.

“Can you do a live call for me with one of my marks?” she asks. “He thinks I’m Australian, and my accent is too thick.”

“Sure.” I stand, following her through the vast office to one of the private rooms they use for video calls. Each room has pull-down green screens we can project any background onto. Today Yrsa has chosen a Brisbane suburban apartment as her background. It’s cheerful and sunny, looking out over a peaceful blue sea.

In reality, the windowless room stinks like old sweat and is hot as Hades thanks to the glaring studio lights set up to make it look natural.

“Ten minutes.” The supervisor glares at us suspiciously. “We will listen.”

I smile sweetly. “Of course.”

Like that’s news, asshole.