Screaming against his muffling hand, she fought with everything in her, hitting at his head, trying to scratch his face. The covers over her legs destroyed any chance to kick. His arms were leather covered, defeating her fingernails.

Silently, he rolled her over in bed, all his weight on her. He shoved her face against the mattress until she couldn’t breathe. Panic ripped through her.

“You gonna be quiet?” He brutally wrenched her arms up behind her back until her shoulders felt dislocated.

Frantically, she nodded.

Gripping her by the hair, he yanked her over and up.

All she could do was gasp for air. But her mouth was free. Scream, fool.

Before she could, the man hit her so hard the left side of her jaw exploded in pain. She fell back. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks.

“I got a knife, cunt. You make a noise, and I’ll slice you up.” He was dressed all in black. Like a prizefighter, his face was battered. Scarred and swarthy with a big nose and black eyes. His black hair was buzz cut. His raspy voice held an accent—one she recognized from her college days watching foreign films. Greek.

He yanked her up to a sitting position and made a quick movement. Suddenly, warm liquid trickled across her left biceps, followed by searing pain. He’d cut her. She choked back her cry.

“Yeah. Better.” He held the knife up. “Pretty, huh?”

Frozen with fear, she could only stare as blood—her blood—dripped off the blade.

A nasal voice from the doorway said, “Nobody’s here.”

“Good. Search the place.” The man in front of her smiled. “Who’d you tell about your research, cunt?”

“Research?”

His fist impacted her ribs, and she felt a crack. As pain engulfed her, she hunched over her left side, sobbing for breath. Oh God, it hurt.

He repeated louder, “Who’d you tell about Xeno Labs? Besides Quentin Dane.”

Only a whimper came out.

Leaning forward, he whispered, “The author is dead, poutana. He gave me your name. Your address. And then he died, screaming. Do you want to die like that?”

Grief mixed with her terror. Oh Quentin. “N-no, please.”

“Who did you tell?”

If the man realized the FBI knew about the labs, would he leave?

“I—” Yet, if she gave him Dennison’s name, he might go there. The agent had small children. They’d been playing Candyland. No, she couldn’t. “Quentin. I only t-talked to Quentin.”

A crash and hammering noises came from the other room, then the other man appeared. “I trashed her desktop computer.” He had a thick New York accent. “Did she talk with anyone else?”

“She says no. I think she’s lying.” Gripping her hair, the Greek tossed her on the floor.