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But it was his eyes that were the focal point of the picture. They blazed with what could only be defined as insanity.

“Altair Amjad,” Fat Man said. “Our Gift from Heaven, the Deliverer of Our People.’

Annie could almost hear the caps. And she knew the name. Amjad was said to have killed, tortured, raped and mutilated hundreds of people in these mountains.

She looked up from the photo. Fat Man’s eyes burned with the same flame as Amjad’s.

“He has need of a new wife.”

Annie felt her heart kick into her throat.

“One who is fair of face and who is of royal blood. One who has been taught to be obedient.” Another smile. “Although the Deliverer has told me that he is willing to teach her obedience himself—if she suits him in all other ways.”

“No,” Annie whispered. She wanted to sound strong, but her voice shook. “Absolutely not. Qaram will never allow—”

Fat Man drew back his hand and slapped her across the face. The blow was hard, and she staggered under the force of it.

“Chain her,” he snarled. “If she makes any protest, beat her. We have the blessing of the Deliverer. He says if she shows signs of disobedience, her training may begin now.” He flashed a yellow grin. “Just avoid her tits. He wants those for his own special training.”

Everyone guffawed.

The same two men who’d taken her from the shed dragged her back to it.

Annie was stunned. No wonder her captors were celebrating. Two million dollars to turn her over to a man who would make the King of Tharsalonia look like a Boy Scout. More than ever, she had to find a way to escape

The two bandits shoved her through the shed door and cuffed her to the wooden post again.

One of them stuck his hand between her legs. She gasped when he pinched her.

“Pleasant dreams, princess.”

She held out until the door swung shut after them. Then she sank slowly to the floor.

Gingerly, she touched her cheek. It hurt, but the damage was negligible. What wasn’t negligible was this nightmare.

It would go on and on and only get worse unless she came up with something.

The ambassador’s wife lay in the same fetal position, breathing hard and fast. Annie leaned towards her.

“Mrs. Carson?” she whispered. “I’ve seen your husband. He’s fine.”

No response, just the same rapid breaths.

“He said to tell you that he loves you.”

Nothing. The woman was probably in shock.

“Mrs. Carson,” Annie said, striving to sound as matte

r-of-fact as possible, “we should try to get away. But I can’t move.” She shook her hand so the steel cuff rattled. “Do you have a hairpin? A straight pin? Anything sharp.” Still nothing. “You know what, Mrs. Carson? I bet that rope’s long enough so you can get to the door. Wait, give the bandits time to fall asleep. Then you could move to the door, peek out, see if there’s a guard outside. Maybe he’ll fall asleep and maybe you could reach his gun…”

And maybe pigs could fly.

Annie slumped back against the wall.

The ambassador’s wife couldn’t help anybody. And even if she had a pin, what good would it do? In the movies, people opened locks with pins, but this wasn’t a movie, it was real life.

Annie had never felt more alone.