“Señorita Holland. Señor Logan. It is good of you to come.”

Gage stiffened. “This is hardly a social call. I don’t like your tactics, Señor . . . ?”

“You may call me Don Arturo. Until we have come to some sort of an arrangement, the rest of my name is none of your concern.”

“Where’s my grandfather?” Abby asked. “I want to see him.”

Don Arturo made a slight inclination of his head. “As you wish. I see no point in wasting time.” He turned to Paulo. “Take them downstairs.”

Abby’s heart was racing as she fell in behind Paulo, Gage beside her. As Paulo led them farther into the house, she could see that the rooms along the corridor were nearly empty; whatever furniture had once been there was gone.

Paulo opened a door and started down a narrow staircase that was clearly meant for the use of servants. Abby followed him down, Gage close behind her.

“We know what they want,” he said softly. “And that they’ll do anything to get it. Don’t get your hopes up.”

Electric light illuminated the stairwell and the space below. There was nothing elegant in these rooms. As they passed along the lower corridor, there was no furniture. The plaster walls were cracked, and the paint was peeling. It reminded her of the storerooms below the Hacienda del Oro Verde.

Paulo opened a door near the end of the hall. “Zuma,” he called out. “They are here.”

Paulo stepped back to let them pass, and Abby and Gage walked into the room to see a row of iron bars across one end. It was a prison cell. Inside, a woman sat next to a man lying on a narrow cot.

Abby rushed forward and grabbed hold of the bars. Dear God, surely the emaciated form under the thin blanket could not be King Farrell. But the recognition in the golden eyes that lifted to meet her own said that it was.

Her heart jerked, and tears blurred her vision. “What have you done to him!” She jerked on the iron bars that formed the cell door, and the door swung open. Abby rushed into the cell, her heart hammering wildly. “What have they done to you . . . ?” she whispered, wiping a tear from her cheek.

The woman rose from her place beside King. She looked about fifty, with thick silver-streaked black hair pulled into a severe bun at the nape of her neck.

Abby took the woman’s place on the cot, reached down, and gently picked up her grandfather’s thin blue-veined hand. It felt icy cold. She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “King, it’s . . . it’s Abby. We’re going to get you out of here.”

King moistened his dry, cracked lips. “Abby . . .”

She swallowed back tears. “Save your strength. Don’t try to talk. We’re getting you out of here.”