In his room late that night, Evan considered his next move. He’d been building a mental blueprint of the facility, biding his time for the right moment to escape. Now that René had brought in more men, Evan wanted to know more. Not just about the men but about René. This inexhaustible supply of guards raised further questions. What was René really up to here? Had some of the potential escape routes been compromised?

Evan looked at the fireplace. Made up his mind. Crossing the room, he eased the sliding door open. Knocking out two of the security cameras meant he could move unseen by the balcony, fireplace, and desk.

From the balcony he gazed across at the barn. The big door was rolled back. Inside, two of the narcos practiced hand-to-hand on a wrestling mat laid down in front of the vehicles. They were skilled fighters, acquainted with martial arts. Throws and kicks and deflections. Several others rimmed the periphery, pounding the mat and shouting encouragement. This time around René had wisely hired not just gunmen but fighters familiar with the down-and-dirty.

Shivering against the cold, Evan stepped back into the bedroom but left the sliding glass door wide open. Climbing into bed, he pretended to toss and turn, landing himself just offscreen. Then he shoved a pillow under the covers at the periphery of the hidden camera’s view where his shoulder might be. A chilly current kicked up, the open slider pulling a stream of air into the room.

He waited at the edge of the bed, staring over at the ceiling vent, straining his ears.

When the halogenated ether hissed through, he rolled over and buried his face in a pillow. He felt the draft across his back, the gas moving past him, filling the balcony, dissipating in the night air. He waited until the hissing stopped and then waited twenty minutes more. Breathing grew hard, the feather pillows trapping his breath. But he managed. Finally he lifted his face.

Awake.

He moved carefully around the foot of the bed and walked lightly into the bathroom, keeping to the strip of concrete next to the sink. With his toe he snared the edge of the trash-can liner. He fluffed it open, filled it with water, carried the bulging bag back into the bedroom and over to the hearth.

He poked a hole in the bottom of the liner and used the bursting bag as a watering can, flooding the cedar logs. They popped and hissed, giving off smoke that the chute suctioned up. The fire died down to a cherry glow, the logs disintegrating into ash.

Evan retrieved his hiking boots from where he’d placed them by the footboard and used them to stamp out the remaining embers. Then he moved them from his hands to his feet, lacing them up tightly. After waiting for the flue to cool, he pushed it open.

Wide enough to fit his shoulders. Barely.