Hands reached under Peyton’s arms, lifted at her armpits, and pulled her forward. Her bound feet dragged across the dry, rocky ground. To her surprise, her captors removed the bag before tossing her down. The light was blinding. She heard metal slamming into metal and the turn of a key.

When her eyes adjusted, Peyton took stock of her surroundings.

Her abductors had put her in a stall in a barn. Metal rods reinforced the slat wood walls. She turned—and froze.

Two sentences were carved into the nearby planks:

Desmond Hughes was here

I’m innocent

Peyton stared in shock. Desmond was here? Why?

She heard clothes ripping and Hannah’s labored breaths. The young physician was close—perhaps in the next cell.

“Hannah,” Peyton called.

“Yeah.” Her voice was weak.

“How’re you doing?”

Hannah spoke slowly, quietly. “Got the bleeding stopped.” She paused to catch her breath. “Tied my shoulder up. Bullet went through. I think.” She drew another breath. “Lost a lot of blood. Cold.”

“Hang in there, Hannah. We’re going to get out of here, okay? Some very brave Americans are going to come for us. Save your strength and be ready for anything. You understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

At that moment something changed within Peyton Shaw. She had always lived a purpose-driven life, but it had been a life lived with a cold, clinical sort of passion. She never let her emotions master her. She was never out of control. She’d gotten that from her mother, she thought. Lin Shaw was always composed. And Peyton loved her for it. That same composure had served Peyton well during her professional life.

At work, keeping her emotions in check was imperative. Emotions clouded judgment, changed how a person looked at things. Becoming emotionally attached during an outbreak was a risk; she might be too focused on a particular patient or location, might miss the big picture, or a detail, a crucial contact or piece of information that could save lives. Her emotional detachment had saved lives, and had saved her a lot of grief over the years.

Now, however, in this makeshift cell, as she lay on the dirt floor, the wall of detachment Peyton Shaw had carefully built up over so many years fell. Her emotions broke through in a wave. They took the form of raw, unbridled rage. Rage against the people who had killed Jonas—her friend, her colleague, and someone who might have been much more. Rage against the people who had started the outbreak in Kenya that had killed Lucas Turner and thousands of others. She would find these people. She would stop them. And she would make them pay—even if it was the last thing she did.

Chapter 42

Chapter 42

Millen Thomas heard the camp come alive outside his tent. Boots pounded the hard-packed Kenyan ground. Doors slammed. Body bags were tossed onto the bed of a truck.