How did I escape? With difficulty. How did I plan this moment? With pleasure. ― Alexandre Dumas

These men need to die… - Briel’s text message to herself as she killed time in her captivity.

The morning light brought new levels of car and bus exhaust, surpassing the unpleasant mist of the previous night and sending a dense, hazy smog into the city air. With the smog, the team's visibility obscured, but they didn't need to see too far. Returning two miles northeast, the team began a systematic sweep of the area where the local workers had described Jack Buckley the night before. Other than the two witnesses from the previous night's bar, no one appeared to have seen the man – apparently, Buckley had limited his excursions to the night. Fitting, thought Briel.

Though they had always proved competent, most of Briel's fellow team members followed a simplistic protocol of investigation: acquire target, analyze data, extract target. For Briel, such a narrow focus provided little satisfaction. Briel liked to understand things and people, not out of an emotional need, but from an intellectual one. If she could comprehend the motivations of people, she could more accurately predict their potential actions.

With full confidence in her team, Briel ignored her primary mission and began to investigate the workings of the nearby community. She let her team chase down the trails of Jack Buckley while she questioned the locals about the community power structure. Oftentimes in an anarchic setting, some person or entity established a controlling presence in the local commerce and society, in this case, through his monetary influence. Such a person or group acted as a sort of local tribal chief.

Perez, she repeated to herself, stating the name that had come up regularly during her investigations. A Mr. Perez ran much of the business market in the neighborhood of about twenty thousand people, and Briel began to discern several strata that made up the various levels of local society.

Almost in the fashion of a monarch, Mr. Perez had established a “favored” segment of the population. Apparently, the members of the community knew how to serve Mr. Perez in some fashion, and he rewarded them accordingly. Briel also had no trouble figuring out the outcasts and those who had offended the Perezes because they lived in abject poverty and tended to look over their shoulders a lot. Really, Briel did not encounter many of the latter, and she wondered whether they had left of their own volition or had become victims of Mr. Perez's power mechanism. When she recognized the pattern that determined the two groups, Briel did not think highly of Mr. Perez. He seemed to reward the unscrupulous and punish the principled.

Still, others lived and functioned in the nearby neighborhood. The two groups combined totaled about sixty percent of the population, and a generic middle class - only middle in relative terms as no real middle class existed in Mexico City – comprised another thirty percent. A nebulous class, not an apparent part of any group, also existed, not acknowledge by the population at large, and untraceable as to how they subsisted, about 2,000 in number.

Briel knew that a large number of this class would work on the periphery of society, perhaps against Mr. Perez in an opportunistic fashion or perhaps on Mr. Perez's behalf to carry out tasks that not even Mr. Perez wanted to claim. Briel spent hours talking to these outcasts, especially the criminal ones. They possessed a complex knowledge of the seedier aspects of the community but held no great loyalty to Perez. By the end of the second day, Briel and her crew had mined the depths of that subculture and had narrowed the possible hotspots to two bars on the west side of the neighborhood and one church right in the middle of the area.

“Let's start again in the morning,” Briel instructed as the team relaxed in various positions around a ramshackle collection of broken furniture. “Nessa and I will take the church, and you guys split up in the bars. If that doesn't work, Nessa and I will resort to the bars.” Briel didn't relish the idea of flirting out information. Though she found it the most degrading part of her job, she participated when necessary - just reluctantly.

“Hey, boss,” Liam called, his voice wearing a smirk as he spoke the title he had adopted for Briel on this mission. She winced but didn't respond. Instead, she wandered around a corner out of sight from the other members. If Liam insisted on disrespecting her, she would not let it happen in front of the team. Liam followed her, but she did not turn toward him, instead turning her back to him and placing her phone on a ragged table in front of her. She began to pull up various bits of information about the mission, seemingly uninterested in Liam and his presence.

“What do you want, Monroe?” she leveled.

If he insisted on calling her “boss,” she would relegate him to a last name basis only. Of course, her attempt at a dismissive posture became a disadvantage when he stepped close behind her, leaning his mouth close to her ear. The hot breath of his whisper brought chills to her skin.

“You know what I want,” he purred. Briel seriously considered head-butting him right there.

“Something you know you can't have,” she replied with ice in her tone.

He stepped so close that his shirt brushed against her back. “All the more reason to want it.”

Irritated, Briel spun to face him, sure to keep her phone between them, a pathetically weak protection. In his typical fashion, Liam didn't seem to notice the impediment, leaning even farther. Nervous despite her bravado, Briel glanced past his shoulder to make sure that no one paid them any attention, and her lapse in focus cost her. When she glanced back at Liam, he had leaned his face so close to her face that she had to stretch her neck to meet his eyes.

“Cool it!” she hissed, pushing him away so hard that he stumbled back a step. Rather than bother Liam, the action seemed to amuse him, and he chuckled as he reached toward her, wrenching the phone from her hands.

“Oh, I'm cool, Briel.” He set the equipment down on a broken table beside him and oozed to within a hair's breadth of her. “You're the one who is in danger of losing it here.” He punctuated his words with the phone, waving it with judgmental emphasis. Trying to grab at it, she lurched toward him, and he spun her back against the wall, laughing as he held it out of her reach – as if she were a child! Part of her wanted to punch him, but another part stood paralyzed as he brought his arms around her, seeming to examine her phone behind her back. Why had she broken up with him again, she wondered? “You're falling to pieces without me.”

Oh, yeah, she remembered sardonically. That's why. He was so arrogant and self-centered.

Briel knew the ridiculousness of his assertion, but Liam held so much force in his words that they seemed to portend some reality that he could see and she could not. She repressed a shudder, and Liam flashed his beautiful white teeth at her. Somehow, he knew how he had affected her, though she had worked her hardest to repress the physical evidence. Unfortunately, Briel didn't know if she had shuddered from fear or excitement. Perhaps a bit of both, she realized with disgust. Still, she glared up at him with all the force of intimidation she could muster and ducked neatly out from between him and the wall. She deftly snatched the phone, dancing away when he tried to recapture it. Without looking back, she stalked across the room to find Nessa. Briel could feel Liam's smile searing into her back, but she forced herself not to turn around. Though she enjoyed besting him, she did not like how completely he could still affect her.

In typical fashion, Nessa seemed to sense that Briel had just endured some stress, but rather than say anything specific, Nessa just went about the business, asking impersonal questions about the mission and procedures. Within a few minutes, the memory of Liam faded behind a mountain of numbers and scenarios, punctuated by lighthearted humor and friendship. Liam had apparently decided not to challenge her, because she neither saw nor heard him the rest of the night. By the time Briel lay down to sleep, Liam's games seemed more of a mild nuisance than a true irritation. She would figure out how to resist him – or she would decide she had been wrong. Either way, she won.

Usually, Briel spent the nights during a mission planning strategy for the next day's endeavors. As her eyes closed in slumber, however, her mind swirled with thoughts completely unconnected from her mission. A strange jumble of looks and words and sensations danced in her brain. The words of the mysterious Ted, the pointed looks from Jase, and the magnetic attraction to Liam. In the past, the lack of focus might have bothered her, but something seemed to shift inside of her as she lay in the dark.

She remembered her discontentment from the day the policewoman had stopped her. What if, Briel now wondered, the key to her satisfaction lay, not with her accomplishments, but with her relationships, friendly or otherwise? Or what if, since she had already conquered her professional goals, her sense of challenge demanded that she try something more difficult? To overcome her irrational fear of emotional investment. The idea sounded good to her - a new challenge. Only one question remained: exactlt how did one do that. A platonic relationship, like her friendship with Nessa, seemed almost too simple to call a challenge. It had not hit a single glitch, a reality that younger Briel had never encountered. With her romantic prospects, though, Briel could predict nothing, a fact which actually made her smile. I like mysteries, she reminded herself. Mysteries and challenges, so she would keep her eyes open to both.

When sleep finally came, Briel's conundrum followed her, and she tossed and turned through the first several hours of the night. When she finally settled into deep rest, it weighed black and profound, and she would wonder later how she could have slept so soundly in such an uncomfortable environment. The next thing she sensed was the faint city lights squeezing under her lids. Dimly, she sensed the gritty earth under her back, and the chill of the early morning seeped unpleasantly beneath her thin wool blanket. Still, until she felt the pinprick of a needle in her arm, Briel had never sensed an ounce of insecurity.

For what she later calculated to be several hours after the needle had awakened her, Briel knew nothing else, completely unconscious. She awoke to a dampness seeping through the back of her shirt and pants, and she could see nothing but a murky undefined glimmer of light which offered no power of illumination.

As she tried to sit up, a distinct pain stabbed her right hip. She cautiously moved to stand, taking care for her hip while she rose slowly lest her head hit an unseen ceiling. Her surroundings proved to be at least of normal height; she could stand fully erect. Reaching in front of her, she edged gingerly forward until her fingers reached a solid surface. She could not tell if her fingers touched a door or a wall, but the texture definitely seemed rough, the sandpaper feel of concrete rather than wood or earth. Not so good for escaping from a windowless enclosure. Finally, her eyes could just make out a line of light along the floor to her right. A door. At least it’s better than the wine cellar.

As Briel inched toward the light; her hip ached but it did not give. She decided that someone must have dropped her unceremoniously onto the floor where she awoke, thus bruising her right side. The musty smell of mildew made her head swim, and Briel had to remind herself of the training that had taught her to disregard her physical discomforts. She wanted to feel nauseous.

The total space of her captivity included about two and a half feet by three feet, obviously some sort of closet or storage room. Briel couldn't imagine that it would prove highly secure, though she had heard of secret prisons where people were sent to die. She tried not to shudder.

“Why should I take the trade?” the booming male voice broke through the silence on the other side of the door. The unaccented, English-speaking voice surprised Briel. Wasn't she in Mexico? Surely anyone who would capture her here would speak Spanish.

Briel could hear a muffled voice as it offered a response, but the second tone sounded subdued – too low to understand or discern.

“So, I still have my collateral, you get your money, and I have your access to inside information.”

Another muffled reply.

“Give me twenty-four hours to think it over. I need to find out what your material will bring on the market.”

Briel pressed her ear to the crack under the door, striving to hear the response. Though she couldn't make out all the words, something about the tone struck her as familiar. “...guarantee...have to get back...”

“Fine. I'll give you a monetary deposit to be returned if we don't want her. I trust you'll find this sufficient.”

As the vociferous speaker finished his last words, Briel heard a scraping noise and a creaking hinge.

“Until tomorrow, then.” a female voice replied, surprising Briel as she finally made out the tenor of the tone with certainty. Though she did not exactly recognize the tone, she had no doubt that it was a woman, not a man, and the accent seemed foreign yet familiar. Then, Briel heard the echo of retreating footsteps.

The man had offered a monetary deposit in case “we don't want her.” If Briel read the situation right, whoever stood outside the door had offered money for her. The words did not bode well. Still, Briel did not panic in the face of difficult situations, and fear just made her angry. Rather than overreact, she calmly assessed her position.

Since she didn't hear any more conversation in the room beyond, Briel assumed that either both speakers had left or the man had no other companion with him. If the man opened the door to her cell, Briel had several factors that could give her an advantage now that she had woken up. Obviously, her superior training and ability would surpass almost anyone she encountered. Also, her eyes had acquired sensitivity in the dark whereas, without a doubt, anyone who opened her door would stare directly into pitch darkness. She felt on her waist for her belt of weapons, but of course, someone had removed it. Reaching to her ankle, Briel almost cried out in joy. There, strapped to her boot, she found the small pouch inside her boot that held her simple cell phone. Though they had grabbed the knife out of its sheath by her ankle, whoever had detained her had not checked her thoroughly.

With the realization, she began a silent debate with herself. If she opened her phone, she had no guarantee that it would do her any good. For one, she probably had no service inside a concrete prison. Too, the light from opening her phone might tip off her captors that she had the phone. Even more importantly, the light from the phone would blind her currently sensitive night vision for at least thirty minutes - which would negate her advantage in the darkness.

The only benefit to opening her phone lay in the possibility of contacting someone on the outside and asking for help. At first, Briel offered an immediate “no” to the thought. The list of people she could contact presented its own set of dilemmas. She could call Sara, but Briel never wanted to appear less-than-competent to those who offered her assignments. What would happen next time Sara thought to call Briel? Would she think twice, concerned that Briel might flub the assignment? Not calling Sara. Briel could call someone from the team, but again, she needed their respect. Only Nessa or Liam knew her well enough to help and still respect her - at least if Liam respected anyone, ever. With Nessa, though, Briel held little confidence that the woman could successfully run a rescue mission on her own. Liam? Well, Briel did not like the idea of owing Liam anything, even gratitude. Somehow, she knew that he would never let her forget her debt. Only as a last resort. Of course, she could message the Ted guy.

“What do you plan to do with her, Mr. Buckley?” a heavily Mexican accent broke the silence, and Briel's thoughts riveted on the name she had just heard. The speaker's accent surged thickly around the words, the rich accent of Mexico City that under other circumstances would sound so beautiful.

Still, Briel hardly registered the tone of the speaker as she waited to hear from the very man for whom she had searched.

“I need you to find me at least four buyers to come and bid on her. If we give up our advantage, we need to be compensated.”

I found you, Briel thought ironically. Not that Briel liked her confinement, but her fortuitous incarceration meant that her search had ended. All she had to do was stay alive and break out of her cell, and Briel felt sure that she would find Ms. Alvares nearby.

“Should we dress her up?” the accented voice continued.

“No time. Just leave her alone until the buyers arrive. They won't expect her to look like a beauty queen under the circumstances.”

“Fine. But you know it will take me at least 48 hours to find that many competitors.”

“That's okay. Just send the first as soon as you contact him.”

“We don't have the facilities to take care of her.”

“She doesn't need the Ritz, just make sure she has water. I don't want her dying or getting sick before the buyers can assess her.” The charming Mr. Buckley, Briel quipped to herself.

“Where are you going?”

“You think I want to hang around this hellhole? I don't like this part of the business; that's why you have a job. If Miller hadn't forced Henry to close shop, I wouldn't have to be here at all. You take care of it, or I'll find someone else.”

Briel held her breath as she listened to retreating footsteps.

“Mr. Buckley?” the accented voice called again a moment later.

“Yes?”

The accented voice sounded hesitant. “Should we contact Henry? This target you're releasing is pretty high priority. Don't you think he would want to know about it?”

Contact Henry? Briel's eyes widened in spite of the darkness. The man supposedly on life support? If Henry still called the shots, then Briel's level of difficulty had just shot through the roof. Jack Buckley was a mindless blowhard who could do his job well because he had no conscience, and Briel did not doubt her ability to deal with him. Henry, on the other, had constructed the entire ProtoComm empire, had overseen its transformation from legitimate to criminal endeavors, and had successfully concealed the true nature of the business despite its very visible presence in the business world. The man was resourceful and thorough among other formidable characteristics. Briel prayed that the magnate was in no way directly involved with her incarceration.

“Sssh!” Jack hissed at the other man. “Shut your mouth, idiot! I'm taking care of this; you just do as your told. And never mention that name again.”

“Yes, sir.”

Briel listened as the footsteps moved away again and the squeaking and scraping of a shutting door sounded. For about two minutes, she held her breath as the silence remained uninterrupted. What she had heard had shaken her, and though she did not doubt her ability to escape, she had received an emotional blow. When she had helped free Felicity Miller, Briel had reveled in the idea that she had also help destroy Bill Henry's life work.

For Briel to hear that Henry had picked back up and continued his detestable enterprise produced a swell of fury within her. Oh, she would escape, but she would make sure to use her time in captivity to gather as much intel as she could. Whatever she could do to undermine Bill Henry would help salvage some of her satisfaction from the past month. Perhaps, she wondered, she should contact Ted after all. Briel needed information that someone of his technical skill could offer. She moved her hand back toward the phone she had replaced in its strap, but the sound of shuffling footsteps moving toward her door arrested her motion. The screeching of the doorknob preceded the appearance of a crack of light.

A small, deeply-tanned man, only two or three inches taller than Briel's five-foot-three-inch frame, stepped into the doorway before her. On his torso, he wore a tan-colored, short sleeved button-down, silky in texture, which he wore tucked into a pair of similarly colored khaki pants. With his medium brown hair and mustache, and his brown loafers, his monochromatic outfit seemed to swallow him in obscurity. Briel turned slowly to stare at him, though the light behind him shrouded his features in shadow.

“Pienso que tu vas a exigir un precio caro,” the man leered at her. “Tienes los ojos y el pelo, como dulce!”

For about thirty seconds, Briel ignored his rude comments. She cringed as he reached up to touch her face and caress a strand of her hair.

“Don't touch me,” she commanded in English, though she could have spoken Spanish if she'd chosen.

“You shouldn't be so angry, missus,” he responded in English. “I'll take good care of you.” As he spoke, he ran his hand down her cheek to her neck.

“I said, don't touch me!” she insisted as she smashed the butt of her palm into his nose.

If the space had not restricted her movement, she would have continued to pummel the man until she could edge out the door. Instead, the man's yell brought several armed men running into the room. Two of them joined the small, tan man in attempting to shove the door shut as Briel punched and kicked through the opening.

“Don't mark her!” the tan man commanded in Spanish. “Mr. Buckley won't pay us if we damage the material.”

Under normal circumstances, Briel could have immobilized at least two or three of her captors, but her restricted movement hindered her attempts. Just as she shoved her body an inch past the door, a man pushed behind her and restrained her arms.

“Put the restraints on her. Careful not to mark her.”

Briel ceased struggling as her disadvantages overcame her assets. To her irritation, the large man behind her held her wrists while another man moved into the closet and slipped leather wrist-to-wrist restraints onto her arms.

Mixed with the scent of the leather, Briel smelled the unmistakable odor of human sweat, and maybe even blood. Again, she fought the nausea as she thought of how often the restraints might have been used and under what filthy conditions. She could not despair – she had too much experience getting out of hopeless situations. Still, she couldn't ignore the pictures that flashed in her mind - pictures of suffering that would have made a less well-trained woman feel weak. For Briel, the images brought up a murderous hatred toward the perpetrator. Part of her hated Jack Buckley for his utilitarian attitude toward suffering. Another part of her despised the tan man for his perverse pleasure in tormenting her. Mostly, though, all of her vitriol focused on one man: Bill Henry. She had thought she rid the world of a great evil, but she had merely shifted his work from the appearance of legitimacy to acknowledged depravity. Leave it to Bill Henry to turn an abject failure into uninterrupted success.

Though she needed to focus her energy on escaping, she spent several seconds just remembering the face of the man who flaunted such evil before the sky, as if daring the God there to stop him. Briel did not know what she thought of God, but she prayed that He was real just so he could strike down Bill Henry. After breathing in the thought for a moment, Briel stood upright, focusing back on the darkness around her. Fortunately, she didn't have time to dwell on her renewed anger, because she absolutely had to escape. Even more so now that she had to redo the job she thought she had done. Usually, Briel didn't let her business become personal, but someone had made it very personal by kidnapping her.

She rejoiced that her captors had chosen the leather restraints, because they facilitated her movement much more than traditional handcuffs would have. Perhaps with a normal woman, they served their purpose, but Briel scoffed at the hubris that used a lesser product at its own expense.

A long strap connected the two leather bands that encircled her wrist, and she had no trouble pulling her hands from behind her to rest in front of her. From the other side of the doors, an occasional chuckle rumbled, and Briel suppressed her irritation so that she could think clearly. After several minutes of joking about the crazy gringa, silence returned to the room outside. Briel knew that her display of physical prowess would prevent the tan man from attempting his harassment again, but she could also not expect them to open the door, which would have given her a chance to escape.

At an impasse, Briel decided to take a measured risk. When the little man had opened the door, the light had shredded her night vision, so really, she reasoned, there could be no harm. She reached down for the phone at her ankle and turned it on.

I'm in a real bind here, she typed, praying with everything within her that the guy she called Ted – maybe Jase – would respond. Remember Italy?

Italy? Who is this? I’ve never been to Italy, the response came almost immediately.

Briel let out a breath of relief, though the quick answer made Jase less likely as Ted. Having Jase’s help would have been nice. Is your computer secure?

As long as you're not trying to hack it right now.

Well, she explained, last time I talked to you, I narrowed your identity to one of fifty friends – a number I have whittled down even more to about a dozen. You assured me I could trust you.

A few moments passed and Briel wondered if the connection messed up or if she had spooked Ted. Ah, it's about time, he finally wrote. Did you decide to take me up on my offer?

Leaning back against the wall, Briel stared at the ceiling and sighed, regretting the weakness that had compelled her to contact him. She was desperate, though. Of course, she could wait until they moved her, but she had seen the men outside. They were anything but professionals. If they managed to get her into the ProtoComm machine, though, she would no doubt encounter more serious competition. Better to take a risk immediately on the off chance she could escape rather than do nothing and hope her condition improved. Maybe – just maybe – Ted would think of something she could not. She peered against the darkness at the blurred white screen.

Don't let it go to your head, she allowed.

Not really my tendency, but go on. What do you need?

I've been captured, she explained. I think I'm in Mexico City.

Seriously? Like in the movies?

Briel rolled her eyes. If Ted was an operative, he did a really good job seeming like an imbecile. What are you? Twelve? she complained. It's much worse than that. Anyway, I'm not sure what I thought you could do for me.

Well, he seemed to focus, to begin with, I’m triangulate your signal…Yep, looks like your cell phone is in Mexico City. That's good.

Briel shook her head. Why is that good?

I just happen to have some friends in your area. Do you think you can break open the door where you are?

Briel peered skeptically at the inky blackness before her. Yes, but there are at least five armed men in the building with me. You have friends here?

The internet has made the world small. I have friends in most of the major cities. I'll take care of the men in your building. Give me about ten minutes.

How do you intend to do that?

When Ted did not answer, Briel's mind began to churn with questions. What had happened to him? Had she lost the connection? Her signal had seemed weak the whole time. Or, did he work for Henry and intend to hand her over? If so, she had just cost herself all hope of escape, at least before she was transferred to the slave trade.

Or, she sighed, maybe Ted is who I think he is. If so, she needed to prepare for action. She needed to get out of that room. Though her captors had removed her belt, they had not seen her phone; they did not seem particularly thorough. She searched through her clothing to see if some tool had slipped past the men outside. Nothing. Then, she felt around the floor and walls of the cell, praying that she would find anything to help her. Still nothing. Yet, she had told Ted she could get out. How would she do that?

Though she didn't really like the idea, Briel began to revolve a plan around in her head. She turned to the door.

“Hey!” she yelled loudly, banging on the door. She continued yelling and pounding the door for about a minute while she waited for a response. Finally, a shout silenced her.

“Cállate! What do you want?” Briel recognized the voice of the tan man again, and her blood boiled. She calmed herself so she wouldn't kill him on sight. If she killed him, the others would probably kill her, and that would interfere with her escape.

“I'm thirsty,” she claimed. She knew Jack had instructed them to give her water.

Through the door, Briel heard voices mumbling in Spanish.

“We can't open this door,” the little, brown man charged. “You might try to escape again.”

“I won't, I promise.”

The man laughed. “Oh, I believe you, lady,” he mocked.

Briel glared at the door. “Look, you already tied my hands. What am I going to do to you?” Actually, the possibilities were tantalizing.

She considered moving her hands behind her again to perpetuate the charade of helplessness, but decided against it. Chances were, they wouldn't notice, and the restriction would hamper her ability to achieve her objective.

More Spanish mumbling.

“Fine,” the man conceded. “We will open the door, but if you try anything, we will sedate you.”

“I won't,” Briel agreed, though she cursed inwardly at the idea of sedation. Drugs made thinking so much more difficult, though not impossible.

The crack of light returned as someone opened the door once again. Briel turned on her best damsel-in-distress act, hoping to entice the men into a state of incautiousness. As the light flooded her face, she ducked her head and gazed up with an ingenuous, fearful expression at the men who greeted her.

“Please, I'm so thirsty and tired. May I sit at the table for just one minute?”

A tall, young man crossed to her side and took her by the arm.

“Of course,” he replied. “We are not animals.”

“What are you doing, Sergio?” the tan man growled in Spanish. “Put her back in the closet now.”

“Please,” Briel begged helplessly. “I'll be good. I've learned my lesson; I won't try anything. It's just so dark and cold in there,” she shivered in mock horror.

She stared at the room full of men's faces which all stared back at her, and she laughed to herself that she felt much safer in the dark isolation of the closet than in the menacing presence of these men. The men seemed a typically undisciplined, ragamuffin group of mercenaries, and any one of them would have relished the idea of taking advantage of her. As she spoke to them, she allowed Sergio to lead her to a seat at the table. She had made it out of the room – now she needed to stay out of the room. Or, she guessed, secure some way to get out if they put her back in the closet. She assessed the room around her, searching for some tool of escape.

On the floor underneath the table, she spotted a screwdriver and several screws, probably a remnant of some attempt to prop up the rickety table. Of course, with such tools, Briel could definitely have taken out several of her captors before they stopped her, but what she really desired was to go home, and the screwdriver would easily open the door to her closet, hopefully making her able to leave. She chose the less bellicose route.

While she flirtatiously tossed her hair out of her face, she lithely moved her foot over the tool and scooted the flat-head screwdriver until it rested under her seat. No one seemed to notice the movement. For another minute, she sat unmoving, unsure how to proceed.

Just then, the entrance of Jack Buckley with a tall, well-dressed man drew all eyes toward the doorway. Briel cursed. Jack Buckley stood about five foot ten with light brown, slightly thinning hair. His bulbous eyes, the relics of too many drunken stupors, glared around the room as if they could physically burn the men. Briel took advantage of the distraction and reached down to swipe the screwdriver from under her foot, feigning an itch.

The taller man stood several inches above Jack Buckley. The man's olive complexion graced an elegant demeanor and tailored suit, denoting some measure of wealth. Because of the contrast between his refined appearance and the obvious state of his nature, Briel wanted to hiss at him in fury.

“What are you doing?” Jack boomed angrily into the room. “I'm so sorry,” Buckley turned to his guest. “I assure you, my men are under strict orders on how to treat her. She is in as pristine a condition as when we brought her here.”

Rather than recoil, the man curved his lips slightly. “Of course, Mr. Buckley. I would not do business with you if I did not trust your competence.”

“Sorry, Mr. Buckley,” Sergio spoke up. “You told us to give her water. She's tied up, so she can't escape.”

“Ms. Cortes,” Jack Buckley turned toward her. “It's a pleasure to meet you. I've heard a lot about your escapade with my old boss last month.”

“Your old boss? I was under the impression that he had merely switched professional venues. Did he fire you?”

For a moment, Jack just stared at her uncomprehendingly. Finally, he bared his teeth in a skeletal grin. “I guess you didn't hear the news. Mr. Henry had a stroke thanks to you.”

“Wow, I'm so sorry to hear that,” she stated sarcastically. “What an inconvenience for you to be forced to profit from your crimes on the black market rather than in legitimate circles. So much easier when you could exploit the helpless out in the open.” She had tested Buckley about Henry, and apparently Buckley intended to perpetuate the charade of Henry's sickness. If she played along, then it would keep Henry from expecting her to come after him.

“What do you think?” Jack Buckley asked, turning toward the elegant man.

“Well, she's quite lovely, and an enchanting demeanor,” the man conceded, leering slightly on the last phrase. “How long do you think she will last?”

“She's extremely strong. I would say no less than a year. Perry?”

“Yes, sir,” the tan man replied. “It took several of my men to restrain her when she tried to escape a few minutes ago. I have never seen one with quite so much spirit.”

Briel felt like an unruly race horse.

“But I don't want to have too much trouble, Mr. Buckley,” the elegant man stated skeptically.

“She will be worth the trouble, I assure you.”

“Fine,” the visitor raked Briel with his eyes. He strolled leisurely around her several times as if she were a piece of livestock. “I am interested,” he finally stated coolly.

“Put her back in the closet,” Jack commanded, turning to one of the men. When Jack looked away from her, Briel shoved the screwdriver into her boot. She raised her chin in defiance as the thug grabbed her roughly and pushed her toward the closet.

“Don't let her out again, do you understand?” He glared at Briel. “I heard you gave my men a good deal of trouble a little while ago. I'll have to make sure all my buyers know to break you before they try to use you.”

Briel cringed. Though she would die before she let anyone use her as a slave, she winced mentally thinking about all the other women who had no choice. And the fight would likely mean her quick death. She said nothing, determined to delay her desire for revenge until she felt a greater guarantee of success. Without a cross look, Briel returned to her hole and listened for the sounds that meant they had left her.

“How much will you give me for her?” Briel heard through the door. “I have several other interested buyers.”

The voice of the visitor lilted like satin, his thick accent heightening the effect of his elegance. “I admit, I am intrigued. I may require her for my personal use rather than for sale. I am willing to offer you $100,000 U.S. dollars.”

Briel gasped to herself. The high-end price for a victim of human trafficking ranged in the low thousands and often much less. What made this man want her badly enough to pay that kind of money? Or maybe that kind of money didn't matter to him, and he wanted to secure the purchase.

“Thank you, Mr. Perez. I will be in contact with you.” Ah, Mr. Perez. Briel wanted to burst out of the closet and scratch out the eyes of the offending Mr. Perez and his civilized hypocrisy, but she restrained herself.

“Please do,” the refined voice purred.

Briel heard the door close. The muttered laughter of Jack Buckley's men filled the room. A few minutes later, silence returned to the chamber outside except an occasional word from Jack Buckley.

“We can release the girl to you,” Briel heard Jack Buckley say a moment later. “You can pick her up by the old church.”

Several seconds of silence followed, and Briel realized Mr. Buckley must be talking on the phone. What in the world was he talking about? He had just sold Briel to Mr. Perez. How would Jack release her at the church?

“Okay. It's been a pleasure.”

More silence followed, but then she heard Jack Buckley's voice again. His words proved he spoke to someone new.

“We decided to go ahead with the exchange. Mr. Perez offered us a hundred grand for her. He must really like her.”

Silence.

“Right. I released the other girl to our new business partner.”

Pause.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Henry. I just assumed...I can send a team to intercept the girl.”

Mr. Buckley mumbled something to the men in the room with him.

“Okay,” he spoke more loudly. “I can do that. You were right about the informant. She has proven a lucky contact. Is she good enough to keep from being caught?”

Briel listened intently, hoping to extract the identity of the contact Jack spoke of, but with no success.

“Oh, I get it. Yeah, I'll do it. I'll let you know when the transfer happens.”

The sound of a phone snapping shut ended Jack Buckley's phone conversations, apparently a cheap burner phone. His tone turned brusque as he addressed his men.

“Do not open her door. I don't want any of you goons to be tempted to damage the material. Perry, contact Oso and tell him to expect a large money transfer. I didn't know that there was an elite class of slaves. Nice commission for all of you.” Briel heard the tell-tale scraping of the door as Jack Buckley left the room.

Her tool-finding excursion had lasted longer than she had anticipated. When she turned on the phone, fifteen minutes had passed. If Ted had been legitimate in his offer of help, he would no doubt have grown impatient. Still, Briel had trouble typing in her password. Shock and disgust and fear rendered her almost immobile. Finally, she managed to hit the right keys.

Are you there? Ted had written several times.

Finally, Bri, are you there? Are you alive?

I'm here, she responded, slightly taken aback by his use of her nickname. I had to find a way out before I attempted my escape. Plus, I had an unpleasant visitor.

Despite her attempt to remain level-headed, her heart had given a lurch when she saw Ted's messages. Her mind was prepared for betrayal, and seeing his apparent concern had almost undone her self-control. Even more disturbing, she couldn't manage to blot out the images that had again begun to assault her mind: the poverty-stricken women who had, bruised and beaten, been constricted by the restraints Briel now wore. Several seconds passed and Briel grew anxious, longing to distract herself with conversation.

Are you okay? the message finally came. I was on the verge of tracking down your coworkers and sending them your location.

No. No, she was not okay, but she had to pull herself together. Certainly, she couldn’t let Ted bring her coworkers into it.

I'm fine, she lied, thanks. I just overheard some rather disturbing things. So…you think you can get me out of here?

Ted's response came immediately. Absolutely. I’d rather bring a few guns and make your escape a sure thing, but I couldn’t get there in time, and my friends in town aren’t that kind of friends.

I'm fine. This is my job, Briel asserted, though she felt far from fine. She seemed to be fighting an unprecedented hysteria brought by who knew what. Even her laugh at Ted’s exaggeration threatened to burst out in hysteria. Rein in the drama, she commanded herself, taking a deep, steeling breath.

If you say so. Guess I’m going to have to trust you, which is okay because there’s pretty much not anyone I would trust to get out of this kind of situation more than you. But don't do anything yet, Ted commanded. I've set a plan in motion.

His vote of confidence brought a lump to her throat, a reaction to her own insecurity. What are you talking about? Aren't you in the U.S.?

Of course, he agreed nonchalantly. But computers erase political boundaries. I told you: I have friends. Just wait fifteen minutes, and I guarantee to lower the numbers of your captors.

I'll believe it when I see it. I'll wait.

Briel wondered what a computer geek somewhere in the U.S. could do to bring five armed men out of a hovel in Mexico city. He couldn't exactly set off their nonexistent high-tech fire alarm system. Briel suddenly felt torn between the urge to cry and the ridiculous desire to giggle as a realization struck her. For all she knew about him, Ted could be a fourteen-year-old, smart-alec hacker and not a man at all. She shook her head at the thought of trusting her escape to an adolescent.

For several minutes, Briel heard nothing and Ted said nothing. Time dilated, seeming to expand into an infinite run of moments. On several occasions, Briel considered opening the door just to see if something had happened. Finally, she heard the clattering of guns scraping across a table and several menacing clicks. The sound of men as they readied their weapons.

“...don't shoot,” came the slurred Spanish. “Help! Help! Somebody help! These men are trying to kill me!”

The clambering of several sets of footsteps faded away, and Briel finally braved an attempt to open the door. After a few maneuvers with the screwdriver, Briel gently pushed the door of her prison open and glanced into the empty room beyond, prepared to engage whoever had waited behind to guard her. To her surprise, she saw no one. What kind of professional organization would leave merchandise completely unguarded? Briel did not take the time to figure out an answer.

She wanted to head directly out the front door and take her anger out on the distracted guards, but Briel knew that the most direct route rarely proved the most beneficial. To her right, she spotted two doorways, and she headed toward them instead. She peeked into the door which shared the wall of her closet, finding that the small room did not have a window. Instead, it seemed entirely interior.

Opening the other door, on the adjacent wall, Briel found herself looking into a hallway which ended in a short flight of stairs. The corridor had no ceiling or roof, open instead to the outside road. At the top of the steps she spied a sidewalk crowded with food vendors and various types of vehicles. Perfect, she cheered silently. After ascending, Briel sighed with relief, but did not rest. She had only a matter of seconds before all hell broke loose beneath her. After her hours of captivity, the smell of the food, even mingled with exhaust and sweat, made her mouth water. She needed nourishment.

During training, though, she had suffered through weeks of deprivation several times in an effort to prepare herself for any eventuality, and she needed that training now. Quickly, she squeezed between two tightly packed meat vendors and sliced her bonds on a machete that hung from a hook on the brick wall of the building.

She took a minute to stretch every muscle she could, as if the fetters had restricted her entire body instead of just her hands. Even compared to Venice, elation had never overcome her to the extent that it did when she gained this freedom. Her current captivity had held much more vivid imagery than her time intercepting drug communications from Signor Rotolo. Though she didn't know how she would do it, Briel knew that Bill Henry and Jack Buckley needed some serious punishment.

Once she had skirted past the vendor's carts, she ran without direction, not stopping until she had put miles of crowded streets between herself and her captors. Finally arresting her rapid motion, she checked her phone.

A worried message from Ted awaited her.

Are you out? he plead. Please give me some feedback. He had sent the message several minutes before.

I just made it far enough away to stop for a minute, she explained. Thanks for your help. What did you do? What was that commotion?

My friend paid a bum a hundred American dollars to knock on your captor's front door and pretend to be a Jehovah's witness, he offered casually. There are lots of them down there. When the men wouldn't let him in, he went crazy, yelling and claiming all sorts of abuse. Did they all leave you?

Briel laughed as she read the account. Yes, they left. The man made a lot of noise. Tell your friend that his was a hundred dollars well spent.

Nah, I transferred him the funds. Money like that in Mexico is pretty significant. Do you need help getting home? I could hack into an airline and purchase tickets for you.

Briel had to pause for a minute. Before the rescue from a basement in Mexico, she might have rolled her eyes at the seeming bluster that promised some amazing feet of computer genius. After the rescue? Well, the way Ted had minimized the difficulty, Briel would think he performed such a feat on a whim, with ease. Could he really hack an airline system?

No, she assured herself, but the doubt remained.

No! she typed into her phone. Don't do that. I'm fine. My team will be looking for me.

Okay, he allowed, just be careful. You know how to find me.

Seems like. Thanks again.

She pushed the power off on her phone.

As she ambled toward her team's rendezvous point, Briel wore a shocked grin. She recognized the gravity of the situation she had just left, and her determination to bring down Bill Henry felt as strong as ever. Still, the mysterious Ted had surprised her, something that rarely happened, and the fact made him much more interesting. Too bad Briel had no business being interested.