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“Fuck,” he whispered.

It was the same woman. There was no doubt about that. It was she, but everything else had changed.

She stood not on a porch but in a clearing. A jungle clearing. Tanner had spent enough time in jungle clearings to recognize the riot of trees and vines and shrubs. Her hands were behind her. Tied, he knew instantly. She was wearing torn jeans and a stained T-shirt. Her hair was loose; he could see bits of leaf and twigs caught in the tangled strands, but it was her face that commanded attention.

It was battered.

There was no other way to describe it.

One of those beautiful blue eyes was half-shut, the skin around it greenish in color. There was another bruise high on one cheekbone. Something dark—caked blood, he thought—was clumped at the corner of her mouth.

She stood framed between two men. They wore filthy camo pants and combat boots. One was naked from the waist up; the other wore a black T-shirt. They were grinning at the camera. Each had an AK-47 slung around his neck.

Each had a hand on the woman.

One man cupped her breast.

The other’s hand was low and not visible. No question, he was cupping her ass.

Tanner’s belly knotted. He had never seen this pair before, but he knew what they were. Newspapers call them guerrillas or freedom fighters, depending on the politics of the day.

They were neither.

They were monsters, and they were capable of anything.

Anything.

Still, something was wrong with the photo. Bright Star never sent pictures of its soldiers. That was what they called themselves. Soldiers. They sent only pictures of their victims. If these pigs were soldiers and the woman was their captive, which certainly seemed the case, why were they grinning for the camera?

Tanner switched his gaze to the woman.

She looked terrified…and yet, for all of that, her chin was raised, her eyes flashed with what could only be defiance.

He looked at Wilde. “She was kidnapped?”

“Yes.”

“When did you get this picture?”

“Two days ago.”

“How?”

Wilde flushed. “That’s complicated.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Tanner said in a way that made it obvious the polite words were a sham, “how is it complicated? Your daughter was kidnapped. How did the kidnappers contact you? By courier? Fed-Ex? UPS… What?”

“The photo wasn’t sent to me. It went to the San Escobal office of the organization my daughter was visiting. They sent it to State, and someone who knows me in State passed it on to me. He knows—he knows enough about me to have thought Alessandra might be my daughter.”

“You’ve lost me, General. Is the woman your daughter or isn’t she?”

“She is, but very few people are aware of that. We’re—we’re estranged, and she doesn’t use my last name. She calls herself Alessandra Bellini.”

There was surely more to the story than that, but details could wait. All that mattered now was the status of the kidnap victim.

“She was taken in San Escobal?”

Wilde nodded.