They reached a landing. “Hold up,” Manny said. He shot a quick glance behind him, finding the top step with his boot, then looked back and ran his tongue across the caps. “Okay. Slow as shit, ése, or you be wearing a round in your face. Then you need golds like me.” He bared his teeth in something resembling a smile. “¿Comprendes?”

“Comprendo.”

The three men moved awkwardly down a few broad flights of stairs, Manny sliding his hip along the polished wooden banister for balance so he could move backward while keeping the shotgun raised. They reached the ground floor, stepping into the embrace of an expansive parlor. The lush Persian carpet yielded softly underfoot. Evan took in the intricate woodwork, the scattering of billiard tables, the excessively stocked bar. René certainly didn’t skimp, particularly when it came to luxury. Two foot soldiers sat on leather couches sipping scotch, Kalashnikovs resting on the cushions at their sides. They barely took notice of the bizarre procession moving past them.

A hostage being moved at double gunpoint didn’t warrant a second glance. Business as usual. Evan wondered how many times René had played through this scheme. How much blood had the walls of this chalet seen?

Evan paused, adding the men to the tally—two dogs, eight guards, Dex—before Nando prompted him to keep heading down a wide corridor. They passed a library, a sunroom, an empty ballroom with a listing grand piano and a past-its-prime air right out of a Victorian novel.

The grand entrance rose two stories, crowned by a glittering chandelier the size of a Buick. Evan leaned back on his heels, looking up, a country rube visiting Kuala Lumpur. Chalet windows filtered in the burnt orange of the setting sun. Manny halted by a curved Hollywood staircase and gestured for Evan to continue outside.

Evan placed his hand on the doorknob. The metal felt like ice. “I can just leave?”

Manny smiled. “You can try.”

And then Evan understood.

His thin tailored shirt and jeans would provide scant protection from the cold. René wanted to show him just how unforgiving the terrain was, to dissuade any thoughts of escape.

But he didn’t need to escape. Not yet. He needed to recon, gather intel, get the lay of the land. And René was providing him with a perfect opportunity to do just that.

Evan stepped outside, the breeze sweeping straight through him, biting at his ankles, his neck, his wrists. Clenching his fists, he drove them into his pockets. A light snow fell, so fragile that the flakes dissipated the instant they hit his clothes. For a moment he stood on the vast stone porch, giving his body a chance to acclimate.

René was right to show off the brutal landscape. SERE training aside, without a clear plan Evan would die of exposure. He appreciated the pageantry. Now he had to bear down and gather as much information as he could.