In his cold metal chair, Evan listened wearily. He had the gnawing sense of having traded roles, of finding himself in a situation befitting one of the people he’d devoted the past six years of his life to rescuing. Now he was the one captive and defenseless, ready to be sold to the highest bidder, just like Alison Siegler. The Lexan room was his own version of intermodular Container 78653-B812.

He’d received his visitors one after another, a newlywed outside the church, each potential buyer coming in to peruse the merchandise.

At some early-morning hour, Dex had roused him from bed with an electric shock to the neck and marched him downstairs to the ballroom. Dex had spread his left hand across the sensor panel to unlock the Lexan door, giving Evan a good view of the tattooed bloody scowl, a preview of things to come.

Security measures had changed. Dex now wore a handgun strapped to his wide belt. The other narcos had added pistols, too, in addition to their AKs. It was no longer just Evan they had to worry about. René had assembled a collection of the world’s most lethal criminal masterminds, and even if he’d had his men strip-search all the buyers and transport them here blind and disoriented, beanbag shotguns were no longer gonna cut it.

“When I buy you,” Sark continued, bringing Evan back to the claustrophobic present, “I will do this to you. Insert nails here.” He jabbed a too-long fingernail into the underside of his wrist. “A weak spot between bones of forearm. Nail go in nice and smoothly. Your feet also must be nailed to relieve strain on wrists. This will allow you to hang longer from cross. People, they die from…” His hand circled the air, searching out a word. He muttered to himself before snapping his fingers. “Asphyxiation. The arms grow tired. The chest and lungs, they overextend. This is when I will add a footrest to help you.”

Pale light sheeted from the high-set windows, giving the ballroom the aura of a cathedral. Dex stood near the dilapidated piano, arms crossed, his shiny dome catching light, his face shadowed.

Xalbador guarded the room’s entrance, the Kalashnikov slanted back over his shoulder, one thumb hooked behind a shiny gold rodeo belt buckle.

The four remaining narcos had shuttled the buyers back and forth all day, supervising them and giving curt directives, an armed bed-and-breakfast staff. The snipers, Evan figured, were still in the hills, providing just-in-case oversight.

Of the buyers who’d come to threaten him so far, he hadn’t seen the party he dreaded most—Charles Van Sciver or one of his Orphan representatives. Not that the guests Evan was receiving were pleasant.