He didn’t know her birth name, and neither did she. She remembered little from the days before her missionary parents had been slaughtered in a village near the one in which he was born. For a while after killing her parents’ murderer and her captor, she had been like a feral animal, starving and filthy, scrounging for food and killing anyone who stood in her way. She moved from village to village, but always staying on the outskirts, more at home with the beasts. They had called her dhahabu shetani—the golden devil.

But when he and a few of the boys from his village came across the alleged monster, he had recognized that she was nothing more than a terrified little white girl with no home or family. Still, he acknowledged the bloodlust and wild ferocity in her eyes immediately. He didn’t realize until years later that it was the predator in her that had attracted him, called out to him.

Like a stray dog or cat, she was wary of people, but he had coaxed her in a little at a time, stealing what meager food he could from their reserves and offering it as sacrifice to “the golden devil.” Once the trust was built, she attached to him like he was a lifeline in a storm. He remembered holding her for the first time, her whimpering and sobbing against his chest like an injured animal.

He had thought his mother would turn her away, but to his surprise, she took to the girl as much as he had. Young Idris had no siblings, and he knew his mother had always wanted more children. He would never forget his mother bathing the feral child and combing the knots and clumps of dirt from her long, golden hair.

His mother had asked her name, but the girl had just shaken her head and clung to his mother’s waist, more tears flowing. “From now on,” she said, “your name will be Zarina. It means Golden One, and you will be part of our family.”

And from that moment on, she had been his family. First, as a younger sister, and later as his lover and wife. She was the only person in the world he trusted. The only one who would ever accept him for the monster he was and the life he lived. The only one who could understand his pain. Zarina had known him when he was simply Idris Madeira, before Kruger had been born and become the driving force of his life. He wondered if she would still love him if he tried to become that boy again, if he let go of Kruger and allowed himself to be a person again. As a child, Idris had been the one who saved her from starvation and death, but as a woman, it was Kruger, the predator and killer, who excited her. More than anything, he feared she would not accept what he was becoming, or rather, unbecoming.

He felt the minivan roll to a stop and heard Dr. Raskin’s voice and that of a man, most likely a police officer. He held his breath, even though he had little doubt they would pass through unmolested. The hidden compartment had been built specifically for this mission but was based on designs perfected over many years by the cartel’s drug smugglers. It would hold up to all but the most thorough of inspections, and the police were unlikely to pay much attention to an American soccer mom when they were looking for a seven-foot foreign terrorist.