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Eric Valentine had died a painful, terrifying death after having his throat slit, but it had been over in a matter of minutes. Lynette Baldwin had taken a bullet to her midsection, and that protracted misery was still burned into Quinn’s mind.

But it was Art Keller’s execution that drove home how much Rich Price intended to not only kill them, but extract vengeance or karma or God knew what through pure, unmitigated suffering.

Art had about ten minutes to freak the fuck out about what was going to happen, begging and pleading for someone to tell him what the effects were. Quinn knew, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell him. He got the feeling Dan and Paul also knew—something about their pained expressions and the way they couldn’t look at Art gave them away—but they kept mum as well.

The Irukandji venom began causing pain immediately. In minutes, Art’s pleas began to devolve into wordless cries of agony. After about twenty minutes, though, the true misery started to set in. He was beyond speaking coherently, clutching his chest and arching on top of the bloodstains Eric had left what seemed like a lifetime ago. Quinn couldn’t remember if seizures were a symptom, and he wasn’t sure if Art was seizing at all or if he was just writhing in agony. His breathing became increasingly labored, which could’ve been panic or it could’ve been respiratory arrest setting in. It could’ve been both.

None of them could do a thing for him. Irukandji was known for causing some of the worst pain a human being could experience, and there was nothing anyone in this room could do to bring him relief. The only thing that could possibly help him was antivenom, and Quinn didn’t even know if there was antivenom for the box jellyfish. Maybe Art’s company made one. Maybe Rich was withholding it the way he accused Art of withholding medications from people by overpricing them. All Quinn knew was that he didn’t have any kind of antivenom, and Art’s screams and whimpers were going to haunt his nightmares until the end of time.

It took far, far too long, but Art finally died.

Quinn had no idea how much time had passed. How much time they all had to sit there and listen to another human being scream and thrash and gasp before the poor man sputtered his last. When it was over, Rich’s men collected his body with all the reverence of someone scraping up roadkill.

After they’d gone, everyone in the boardroom stared at each other and at the blood stains all over the room. It looked like a massacre had happened here. Even now, after bearing witness to each horrible death, Quinn struggled to believe the bloodstains had accumulated over a period of days. A single mass killing was difficult to stomach. Separate solo murders each adding to the bloodstains was…

That was too fucking much.

And staying here another day was more than he could handle.

Quinn wasn’t afraid to die. He wasn’t even afraid of getting beat up again. After watching what Rich Price was capable of, though, he was definitely afraid of how he might die.

As the group reeled in silence from Art’s awful death, he stole a look at Geri. She’d be onboard with whatever plan he came up with.

But if they got caught…

Fuck. They’d both been beaten up and warned—repeatedly—not to try again. He didn’t want to leave her behind—hell, he didn’t want to leave anyone behind—but she’d be safer here. She’d have no knowledge of his plan. She’d have no part of it.

She wouldn’t be punished for it.

That was what he’d do, then. He’d get the hell out of here, and then find a way to come back for Geri and the others.

Filled with determination, he closed his eyes and took in a long breath.

Then he shuddered; he was never going to get used to the constant taste of copper when he was in this awful room.

He didn’t want to get used to it. Something that horrible wasn’t something anyone should be adapting to.

And the sooner he got out of here, the sooner he could get back to living a life that didn’t involve the constant smell of blood.

He scanned the people in the room. No, he wouldn’t risk any of them. He’d shoulder the risk himself, and when he got help, he’d send that help back here for them. He wasn’t abandoning these people. None of them. Not even the ones he didn’t like.

He was getting out of here, damn it, and coming back for them.

Step one—make a plan.

Quinn ran as fast as his sore, exhausted legs could carry him. He avoided dense bushes as much as possible (which was difficult in this jungle), mostly out of fear of getting tangled in concertina wire.

So far, so good.

It helped that the sun was still up, though it wouldn’t be for long. He’d timed it as precisely as he could—enough light to get out of the hotel and gain some ground while he could still see, and then darkness to hide him while he moved more slowly toward what he hoped was freedom. He wouldn’t stop this time. Not when he knew the men had NVGs at their disposal.

His plan was, much like the one he and Geri had crafted, not much of a plan. It was less strategy and more “run like hell and figure out the next step later.”

He’d slightly underestimated how much Rich’s men would be watching for a competitor to make such an attempt again. He’d barely made it off the patio before someone had been hot on his heels, and the bullets didn’t miss him by as much as he would’ve liked. The helicopter was already whump-whump-whumping toward him from somewhere, and the shouts behind him said they weren’t concerned with stealth this time.

The element of surprise had worked in his and Geri’s favor.

Tonight, the RightPriceTek goons had been ready.

Not ideal.

He vaulted over a fallen tree and stumbled a little, his exhausted legs not quite making the jump or the landing as cleanly as he’d hoped. He recovered, though, and he started picking up speed again.

His leg grazed a bush, and the rustle of foliage had a distinctly metallic sound.

A glance to his left confirmed it—concertina wire.

Fuck. Was that the same coil of wire Geri had found? Or was this another?

Had Rich’s men booby-trapped the whole damn jungle?

Yeah, probably.

“Son of a bitch,” he hissed, and he forced himself to go on despite the danger near his feet, the burning in his legs, and the way his lungs screamed for him to stop.

“Vaping is bad for your lungs, you know,” his sister had told him umpteen million times. “They don’t even know how bad yet.”

Oh, wouldn’t that be irony—his escape attempt being thwarted by his vice.

Crack!

A second later, something hot dug into his back just below his ribs. He shouted and stumbled, and he instinctively reached back to the wound.

There was something sticking out of his flesh. He yanked it free and glared at it.

Oh. Fuck .

A tranq dart? Really? Fucking really?

He swore as he threw the dart into the concertina bushes, and he kept running. How long did these things take to take effect, anyway?

Not long enough to get off this island.

The pessimistic thought made his whole aching body want to slow down and surrender. Or maybe that was the medication in the dart. He didn’t know.

But he kept pushing forward. Even when the burn in his legs turned to something heavier and more rubbery. Even when his vision started to sparkle, and then darken, around the edges.

Even when…

Fuck.

His foot caught on a tree root.

He couldn’t put his arms out to catch himself, and he landed hard on his face and chest.

Somehow…

He didn’t feel a thing.

Bizarre dreams of snakes and concertina wire filled his world for a long, long time. At least he’d been able to sleep. That was no small feat with those projections and speakers in his suite. Maybe he’d finally gotten too tired for even those awful things to keep him awake.

Except…

He wasn’t in the hotel bed. He wasn’t hot and sticky from sweat.

Oh, fuck. This was the same room he and Geri had been shoved into after they’d made their escape attempt.

How had they gotten him in here this time, though?

The sore spot on his back reminded him of the hot stabbing feeling, which reminded him of the dart, which…

Shit. They’d tranquilized him and brought him back here. Couldn’t they have just shot him? Because then he’d be dead. He wouldn’t be in this awful room, he wouldn’t have to take part in this sadistic competition, and it would all be over.

And he sure as hell wouldn’t be facing down Rich Price.

“Mr. Hayworth.” The man peered down at him with a look that said you fucking idiot . “I thought we discussed this already. Didn’t we?” His arched eyebrow dared Quinn to refuse to answer.

“We did,” Quinn croaked.

“We did. And yet, here you are.” Rich took a step closer. “Did you not believe me? Did you think I was bullshitting you? Lying?” He inclined his head. “Joking?”

“N-no.” Quinn swept his tongue across his lips. “No, I didn’t.”

“And yet…” Rich gestured at Quinn.

Quinn swallowed hard. He didn’t even know what to say. Rich was going to kill him one way or the other, so why dig himself a deeper grave?

Rich narrowed his eyes as a sly grin curled his lips. “You think I’m going to kill you, don’t you?”

Well, now that you mention it…

“Yes,” Quinn breathed.

“I can see why you’d think that. I want to kill you. I very much want to be done with you being a pain in my ass.” His grin broadened. “But I’m not finished with you yet. Just like I’m not finished with any of your fellow competitors.”

This was going to get worse. There was no way around that.

“Let’s be absolutely clear, Mr. Hayworth,” Rich hissed. “Anyone else, I’d have killed and been done with it. But you see, I’ve been watching you and the others, and I can see that there is a spark of humanity in you. There’s empathy that so many billionaires just lack. You’re not quite as much of a sociopath as the others.”

Quinn gulped. Somehow he didn’t think he was going to be rewarded for that.

“So, with that in mind,” Rich went on, “If you try anything like this again, I won’t kill you. Instead, you’ll watch while I torture and kill every single one of your fellow competitors right in front of you. One after the other. Until they’re begging for the release of death. And then I’ll keep torturing them until their bodies give out.”

The words “You’re going to do that anyway” lodged in Quinn’s throat. Because yes, Rich was going to do it anyway. Looking into those evil eyes, Quinn understood more profoundly than ever that no matter how bad he could imagine things getting, they could always be so, so much worse. And an enraged Rich Price determined to make Quinn regret his life choices could make too many people suffer too much.

“Understood,” Quinn said unsteadily. “I… It won’t happen again.”

“Good. I’m glad we understand each other. But just in case you have any thoughts of reneging on that…” Rich turned to Tyson and gestured at Quinn. “He’s all yours.”

Quinn’s heart dropped. Tyson grinned.

And what followed was the longest night of Quinn’s life.