Then he stood, wincing. His head swam from the drugs or too much time spent horizontal—or, most likely, both. Rustic oak plank floorboards, cool and smooth beneath his soles, brought welcome relief from the toasty hearth. He stretched, taking stock. His hands were fine. Likely a cracked rib—nothing to do there. The bruising, pyrotechnic but harmless, looked to be at least a few days along.

All things considered, the beanbag rounds had lived up to their billing.

He crossed to the walk-in closet. Inside hung five button-up shirts, slotted like dominoes. Jeans, T-shirts, and sweaters, folded and placed neatly in stacks, took up very little space on the long shelves. No belt. Beside the stacks he found underwear, socks, and two new pairs of high-top hiking boots in ten and a half. His size.

What he’d been wearing prior to his collision with the wildlife-capture net was missing, his boxer briefs as long gone as his gun and folding knife.

Well, then. First things first.

He pulled on a pair of jeans, the denim scraping across his bruised thigh. Then he yanked a shirt from the rod, the hanger pulling out of shape. Bizarre. Freeing it, he turned it over in his hands. It was made of pipe cleaner, a pliable chenille stem twisted into the rough shape of a hanger. It took his brain a second to process this oddity.

A normal plastic or wooden hanger could be fashioned into a weapon. And they—whoever they were—wanted to make sure he had no weapons.

However lovely the decor, Evan was no guest here.

His gaze traced the length of the nearest laminate shelf. Bolted to the wall. He reached under it, felt the cool of the steel beneath. The hanging rod was welded in place. To get anything loose, he’d need a socket wrench or a plasma torch.

Turning his attention to the shirt, he examined the stitching, the collar, the taper from chest to waist. The fabric slid like velvet across his skin. The fit confirmed what he’d suspected—the shirt was custom-tailored. Which raised further questions.

He’d add them to the list.

In the main room, he took note of the huge screws securing the leather chair and ottoman to the floor, the curtain rod welded to the wall, the drawerless face of the chairless desk. Crouching by the fireplace, he dipped his head and checked the flue. The metal hatch looked wide enough to accommodate his shoulders, but the robust flames would roast him on the way up. Just for the hell of it, he tried the suite’s main door, an oversize block of mahogany that matched the counter and desk. It was locked—surprise, surprise—but he was impressed by how little it budged in the frame.