The barn door rumbled open with a metallic rasp. Another narco, with grease stains on his hands and shirt, stepped outside as he lit up a cigarette. A tenth guard. His left cheek sported an impressive knife scar, his patchy beard riding the pitted flesh haphazardly. He saw Evan and froze.

Through the rolled-back door, Evan took in the interior. Only now did he realize that the barn, for all its cozy Old World appearance, was built of metal. There were no stables inside, but an open stretch housing a pair of big Mercedes SUVs—Geländewagens with their license plates removed. Beside the G-Wagons, a vintage Rolls-Royce Phantom was parked, jacked up on the left side, its rear tire removed. Gear lockers lined the back wall. A distressed feminine voice carried out, ringing sharply off the metal, echoes making her words unintelligible.

Evan strained to source the sound, catching a flash of movement between the G-Wagons, a woman doubled over, head bent painfully, her mane of straight black hair thrown forward over her face. He couldn’t see her features, but the sounds clarified as cries.

She slid bizarrely along the ground like a stop-motion insect, one arm twisted up as if in supplication. It wasn’t until just before she skittered behind one of the vehicles that Evan spotted the massive hand clamped over her wrist, wrenching the arm painfully as it dragged her from sight.

It had a streak of color across the back just beneath the knuckles.

Dex.

The man with the grease-stained shirt slammed the door shut quickly behind him, clearly concerned by what Evan had seen. Or was he? Had the whole episode been staged?

At a twenty-yard standoff, the men regarded Evan, blinking. Then they flicked their cuernos de chivo at him: Get moving.

He kept on toward the edge of the pine forest, half expecting them to herd him back toward the chalet. But they let him roam.

There’d be no going Rambo in a bespoke shirt on an empty stomach with zero planning. Not in this weather.

As Evan hiked through the trees even the muddy patches held firm, frozen in place. Though the branches filtered out most of the snow, a light dusting still fell, melting on impact. He worked his way up the first slope, sticking to the ridge. The trees were less dense here, providing better sight lines to the chalet below and the looming crest. He paused, breathing hard, his sweat clammy and cold across the back of his neck. His hands were going numb.