A swell of black rage swept over Jamal. He blinked. “You will die, for that, my friend.”

More breathing in the earpiece.

“Forgive me . . . I am anxious.”

Abdullah had finally said what he had always felt, from the first day Jamal had approached the Brotherhood to give him logistical control over their plans in Venezuela. He had not come from their circles and they had questioned not only his loyalty, but his usefulness. It had taken him three months to gain their confidence and persuade them that his involvement was critical to the success of the plan. It wasn’t critical, of course—Abdullah would have pulled it off without him. But they knew as well as he that Jamal knew too much and was too powerful to ignore. And in all reality, Jamal had altered the plan to meet his objectives. As such it was a better plan. Infinitely better.

“Please forgive me.” Abdullah’s voice was raspy over the line.

Jamal abruptly cut the connection.

For a few seconds he sat there, silent under the significance of what they had accomplished. A wave of heat washed through his chest. He peeled off his headset and put his face into his hands.

A mixture of relief and hatred rolled through his mind. But really it was more like sorrow, wasn’t it? Deep, bitter sorrow. The emotions surprised him, and they were joined by another: fear.

Fear for allowing such emotion. He began to shake.

Jamal lowered his head and suddenly he was sobbing. He sat alone in his dungeon, trembling like a leaf and crying like a baby.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Wednesday

SHERRY’S EYES slammed open and she bolted up, her chest thumping loudly in the still morning. The sheets about her lay soaked with sweat.

For a few endless seconds the world seemed to have frozen and she wasn’t sure how to make things move again. Half of her mind was still back there, in the jungle, where she’d just died.

“Marisa!”

Sherry threw the linens from her legs and swung to the floor.

“Marisa!”

The apartment echoed vacant. Marisa had already left for the university. The analog clock by her bed read 8:15, but it felt like midnight, and in all honesty, Sherry wasn’t positive she was actually awake yet.

Panic swarmed around her mind. She’d come face to face with . . . what? What had she just seen?

“Dear God . . .” The prayer sounded like a groan. She ran for the kitchen and threw water on her face. “Oh, God . . .”

She had been back in the box. After eight years of nightmares, she had actually gone back. And her fingers trembled with the stunning reality of it.

Helen.

Sherry jerked up and caught her breath. Yes, of course! She had to talk to Helen!

She paced the kitchen. “Okay . . . Okay, slow down.” She gripped her trembling fingers into fists and breathed deliberately. “You’re awake. This is not a dream. It’s morning.” No, this wasn’t a dream, but neither was what she had just seen. Not a dream. She wasn’t sure what it was, but it was real. As real as anything she had ever experienced. As real as the box.