He’d been thirteen the first time, snatched off the streets of Bucaramanga by two men on a motorbike, and thrown into the back of a truck before he’d had a chance to react. Faces hidden by bandanna masks, camouflage and boots, AKs pointed at his head had all kept him on his stomach against the rusted floorboards.

The kidnappers had stashed him in an old storage tank, where day and night had blended together and solitude had been broken by cruelty. They had said they’d release him only if ransom was paid, had threatened to cut off toes and fingers, and had demanded information he couldn’t give. He’d relived and replayed that first half hour over and over, all the things he could have done, should have done, instead of panicking and losing track of place and time the way he had.

He hadn’t known if it was real or another of Clare’s tests.

He had been forced to conquer fear in that damp, dank dark, and he’d drawn upon his training, searching for ways to turn their habits and patterns to his advantage.

But he hadn’t escaped, not that first time.

Clare had come for him in the dead of night.

She’d shoved a knife in one hand, a garrote in the other, and crept him past the sleeping sentries, gotten him home, fed him, debriefed him, and then vanished for a week. The only thing he had to point to her involvement was that she hadn’t summarily executed the men who’d guarded him, but Clare’s immediate choices didn’t always make immediate sense. “You still have a lot to learn,” was all she’d said about it. “There’ll come a time when I won’t be able to protect you.”

He had sworn he’d never give her another chance, and never had.

He’d talked, lied, wrangled, tricked, traded, cut, dug, broken and, as a last resort, fought his own way to freedom every damn time, and he’d have done it again here, too, if he didn’t already know they’d set him free of their own accord.

Voices from within the building brought him back to the present.

At his back clothing rustled and chairs scraped tile.

The door opened, stayed opened several long seconds, and shut.

Three, possibly four people had entered.

Conversation followed, too low to hear but with none of the braggadocio or fist-bumping camaraderie that would come with a change of guard or a simple message delivery. Rank had arrived with an entourage.

This was whom his captors had been waiting on.

Bodies drew near.

Hands pulled the pillowcase off his head, and ten thousand lumens hit his face.

Eyes smarting, tears forming, he winced against the light.