The humiliation had deepened when he’d been dragged into the ballroom and spotted the other four trainers, their team of fake tangos. The only person missing from their six-man band was Rivera.

He’d gone off on what Paul had figured was a boondoggle with the archaeologist. He hadn’t been in position when disaster struck. Hadn’t been taken.

At least, that’s what Paul hoped.

If the woman was in on this somehow, if it had been her job to divert Rivera and the team, then they were all fucked. He figured Rivera had been distracted by the woman he’d screwed and then screwed over.

Paul’s confusion about the situation only grew when he was dragged before the man who must be the leader of the merc team. He wore a balaclava hood with night vision goggles, making it impossible for Paul to make out his features in the dim light of the ballroom.

Why bother to hide his face? Was this man known to the US military?

That question became secondary when the masked man took one look at Paul, then decked one of his minions and yelled at him in Russian.

Luckily, Paul spoke Russian. Unlucky for the merc, he didn’t know Paul was fluent in his language.

“This is not Rivera! I need the sonofabitch alive, and you bring me this piece of shit?” He’d kicked Paul in the ribs then, and the blow managed to eclipse the pain in his hand for a few moments.

What was this guy’s beef with Rivera?

But that had been hours ago.

Now Paul was tied to a chair, halfway across the room from his team, wondering if they were sleeping or dead.

Two mercs entered the ballroom.

“Did you get him?” the masked leader asked in Russian.

“No,” the taller of the two henchmen said, as the shorter man waved a piece of paper in the air.

“But we do have a letter. From a woman to a man named Xavier.”

“Give it to me.”

The short man hesitated, as if realizing the piece of paper was of great value, but handed it over after only a moment, likely realizing that holding the letter hostage would mean losing his own finger. Maybe even death.

Not the brightest bulbs, but not the dimmest either.

Paul studied the leader. He’d removed the NVGs to read the letter in the glow of a red flashlight, but he was too far away and the light too dim for Paul to notice anything distinguishable about his features.

It had been too much to hope the man couldn’t read English, but he let out a nasty cackle as he set the letter on the table. “She’s pregnant. With his bastard.”

Paul had to work to keep his expression blank. Listless.