Chapter one

June 1982

Jack studied his cell and thought, well, shit.

He knew he shouldn't have taken this mission. What he should have done on his release from solitary two weeks ago, was hand in his resignation and tell the Agency exactly what it could do with itself. If he'd done that, he would be at home with Sydney now instead of a prison in the middle of Kashmir.

Thoughts of Sydney brought with them feelings of guilt. He'd been away from her for six months, and the first thing he'd done when he got home was leave again. If he believed in God, he'd think this was his punishment. Laura had often tried to convince him to attend church with her—

Laura. Not Laura. Irina Derevko.

For six months his thoughts had followed the same pattern: Sydney, Laura, Irina, Laura, Sydney. Circles.

He'd hugged Sydney when he was finally allowed to see her again, and all he could see was Laura in her eyes, her smile, the curve of her cheek.

Not Laura. Irina.

He was such a fool. But he'd been in love, and she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, and he'd spent six months going over everything he could remember her saying or doing. He didn't want to believe it had all been a lie. She'd loved him, loved Sydney.

No, Laura had loved him, loved Sydney. He knew nothing of the woman who'd pretended to be her.

Enough thoughts of her. He needed to think about escaping, and once he got back, he would hand in that resignation.

The sound of footsteps echoed down the hall. Jack stood and faced the door. Instead of anyone stopping to see him, the footsteps carried on past the door. He heard another sound, something dragging.

In Russian, "Get up, bitch."

A muffled noise, and someone cried out in pain. Jack instantly tensed. Then, the newly-suspicious part of his mind wondered if this was an act to intimidate him, an anticipation of torture before anyone came to him.

The Russians had lost out when they caught him, he thought. Six months in solitary meant he knew next to no information of importance. He almost smiled, then someone screamed.

His blood ran cold. There was no mistaking the terror in that sound, and he was pretty sure it couldn't be faked. He felt sorry for whoever it was and instinctively took a step towards the door before he realized he was in no position to help. He lay down on the bed and tried to block out the screams as he thought about how he was going to escape.

Moonlight shone through thin ventilation shafts, painting the room in pale stripes. Jack had already checked the shaft; it would be of no use. He'd also checked every other inch of the room and found nothing. Frustrated, he looked at the shaft again, and had the sudden desire to see the sky.

This claustrophobia was new. Six months ago, it had not existed. It was something else to blame Laura – Irina – for.

No. Don't think about her.

His fingers scrabbled in the grate for a firmer hold, and he felt something sharp prick him. He released his hand. In the dim light he saw blood welling up on his fingertip, and immediately put it in his mouth. With his free hand, he carefully felt for what had cut him, eventually pulling free a piece of broken glass.

It didn't matter how it had got there or how long it had been there. Jack felt a sudden burst of hope – thought, Sydney! – and returned to his seat on the bed.

Roughly an hour later, there were more footsteps. This time they stopped outside his door. Jack stood. As the door opened and the guard entered, Jack plunged the glass into his stomach. Before the guard could cry out, Jack pulled him into the room, and snapped his neck.

He took the man's gun, shoving into his waistband before ripping the sheet on the bed into strips to wrap around his hand.

Left or right? He stopped just outside his cell, hesitating. There was light coming from the left.

He went that way. As he neared the end of the hall, another door opened and a different guard entered. Jack ducked into the shadows and watched the guard walk past, zipping up his pants as he did.

The room the guard had left was too quiet for Jack's liking. He tried the door, found it locked, and told himself to keep moving. This was none of his business. If the Russians wanted to rape and kill each other, let them.

And then she moaned.

Suddenly it didn't matter who this woman was. Whatever she had done, it couldn't have been bad enough to deserve this kind of treatment. He returned to his cell and frisked the dead guard's body for his keys. Then he unlocked the other cell.

The woman was on the floor. In the dim light he couldn't see much besides dull white cloth and a tangle of dark hair.

"Go to hell," the woman hissed in Russian.

Already there, Jack thought. Ignoring the sensible voice in his head, the one telling him to forget this woman and leave, he entered the cell and knelt next to her. In badly accented Russian, he said, "I'm not going to hurt you."

The woman gasped and scrambled further away from him. He wondered if he'd unintentionally said something else. He tried again: "Can you stand?"

"Yes."

"You speak English?" He rocked back on his heels, regarding her in surprise.

"Yes." The word came out as a half-sob.

Jack helped her to her feet. She was unimaginably light, and he could feel her bones as she leaned against him. Her head was hanging forward and he couldn't see her face behind the curtain of hair. It didn't matter. All that mattered was getting out of there alive.

She faltered after a few steps. Jack hoisted her up over his shoulder. "I'm sorry if this hurts, but it'll be quicker."

She didn't reply and he wondered if she spoke less English than he thought. He repeated himself in Russian, but there was still no response.

Holding her in place with one hand, he gripped the gun in his other, and began walking.

Not five minutes later, they encountered the first obstacle. Two guards, leaning casually against a doorframe. They turned to look when they heard his approach.

"I thought they were finished with her today," the shorter guard said.

Not the response Jack was expecting. He glanced down, and realized the way he was carrying her blocked his clothes from the guards' view. He smiled, but tightened his grasp on the gun. He wasn't sure why, but he'd decided he wasn't going to leave this hellhole without the woman.

The other guard laughed. "You know Cuvee likes his private sessions."

Jack felt the woman tense, and knew she was still conscious. He forced himself to laugh with the other two men.

"Go on, Comrade." The first guard gestured for Jack to pass.

This time Jack's smile was real. He raised the gun and shot both guards point blank in the head. Then he started running. When he came to the end of the hall, he stopped, unsure which way to go.

"Left," the woman mumbled. Jack had no choice but to trust her.

They worked like that, the woman giving Jack directions, until they reached a wooden door. There was nowhere else to go.

"What's behind here?" Jack asked.

"Freedom."

Jack helped her to a standing position again, leaning her against the wall for support. As light as she was, running with her was not easy.

"Are you sure?"

"Minefield first. Then freedom."

Something about the way she said freedom caught Jack's attention. Gently, he moved the hair obscuring her face and tilted her chin up so he could see her clearly.

And couldn't breathe.

"Laura?"