It was enough to change her long-held beliefs of what mattered in the world. She quit the NRI and become a lobbyist for causes she believed in: education, health care, the war against cancer. For the first time since college, her life had taken on a sense of normalcy. There was peace and contentment and traffic; there were office parties, shopping malls, and bills.

And there was Marcus.

She sat back, trying to fight the waves of nausea. Deep, slow breaths helped calm her, but tears welled up in her eyes as she thought of the man she’d spent her year of civilian life with.

Leaving the NRI had been harder than it appeared. There was a definite disconnect with the regular world, a feeling of being a stranger in a strange land. But Marcus Watson had been at the NRI when she started there. They knew each other, even had a past together. He’d already made the transition to the real world and he helped show her the way.

It had been a great year, an easy year after so many hard ones. Their joint experience with the institute gave them common ground to work from, and in many ways it had been nice to let someone else hold the reins for once. But even as Danielle took to this new, normalized version of life, a strange reversal of circumstances had begun.

At his university in New York, Professor McCarter had grown increasingly interested in the artifacts they’d found. He soon began pestering her for information and then, realizing she no longer had access, he went directly to Arnold Moore.

As it turned out, McCarter wasn’t the only one with the artifacts on his mind. The NRI scientists were becoming concerned with a growing wave of energy emanating from what they now called the Brazil stone. When McCarter explained a theory he’d developed, that the stone was one from a group of four, Moore decided it was imperative that the NRI find the remaining stones before anyone else did.

McCarter volunteered to begin the search, but shortly afterward, he was attacked in Guatemala. It became clear that he needed protection, but McCarter didn’t trust the NRI. It was an uneasy alliance to pursue something he wanted to find. He wouldn’t have some gun-toting bodyguard at his side like a chaperone.

Fearing for McCarter’s life, and for the success of the mission, Moore came to Danielle and begged her to return.

The timing could not have been worse. Marcus had just asked her to marry him, and she had hesitated. Moore’s arrival was gasoline on a fire and it triggered endless fighting. It was a special kind of hell, having someone she loved ask her to leave a friend to the wolves.

She spent three days trying to make him understand and then, after an argument for the ages, she’d gone to the airport, bought a ticket, and left for Mexico. She’d boarded the plane fairly certain that she’d destroyed everything. And after all that, she’d failed to help McCarter anyway.

“What have I done?” she wondered aloud. “What have I done?”

As a new wave of sickness broke over her, she felt a great urge to lie back down. How much easier it would have been to just give up and die. But the thought disgusted her. As guilt-ridden as she felt, she knew that any hope of making up for what had occurred, any hope of seeing the people she cared for again, began with getting out of that room.

Relying on sheer willpower, she stood and crossed the floor. The carpet felt soft and well padded under her bare feet.

She reached the door, checking it just to be certain. Of course it was locked. There was an electronic keypad on her side, probably a card reader on the other. She moved to the desk and opened every drawer, one after another.

Empty, all of them.

She slammed the last one shut and sat down, her head throbbing ever harder. Either the lights were absurdly bright or something was wrong with her eyes. It almost felt as if her pupils were dilated, which suggested that strong drugs had been used against her. The terror of her dream and the disjointed, fragmented pattern of her memories and sense of time since her capture only made it more likely.

She looked at her right arm. There were at least four needle marks, maybe more. Bruising around the injection sites made it hard to tell.

Sodium pentothal, she guessed. Or scopolamine. Both drugs were barbiturates that could be used as truth serum. They didn’t exactly work that way, but people had a tendency to talk and give up secrets they might otherwise have withheld, especially under higher doses, doses that were dangerous and often resulted in amnesia.

She thought that might explain the dryness in her mouth and the flaring of the lights.

Before she could consider the thought further, the door clicked open and two Asian men came in. Both were muscular and fit, wearing suits, pressed shirts, and silk ties.

The leader stepped toward her.

“Put these on,” he said, placing her boots on the desk. She noticed a small bruise under his eye, a scabbed cut. She hoped it was her doing.

She took the boots. “Why?”

“Because you’re going to want them where we’re taking you.”

Not liking the sound of that, Danielle pulled the right boot on. As she tied it, she thought of using the left as a weapon, but even if she were to overpower these men, where would she go from there?

Out into the hall? Which led where, exactly? To what? For all she knew there would be another locked door twenty feet away. She would only get one chance, if that. She could not waste it.

She pulled the other boot on and the men walked her out the door to an elevator. Entering, they used a key to access a panel beneath the other buttons. It popped open and the man who’d given her the boots pressed the lowest of the buttons. The indicator illuminated, the doors shut, and the car began to descend.

Danielle did a quick count of the buttons, three rows of twenty, but the way the elevator was moving—and her ears popping—she guessed it was the express. That meant the building would be closer to a hundred floors than sixty. She tried to think of the buildings in China that were over a hundred stories. There were a number of them, but one in particular came to mind: the Tower Pinnacle, owned by Kang and sitting on prime real estate at the edge of Victoria Harbour.

She was in Hong Kong.

“I want to talk with the American consulate,” she said.

“No,” the man with the cut said. “You’ve done enough talking. At least to us.”

The elevator slowed and then stopped. The doors opened, not to a spacious lobby, as Danielle might have hoped, but to a metal threshold beyond which lay darkness and what looked like aged and blackened stone. The place had a dank smell, like garbage or urine.

“What the hell is this?”

The man with the scab got off the elevator.

“Please step out,” he said, holding a Taser and energizing it. The electricity snapped across the prongs.

Reluctantly Danielle moved forward into a hallway of some kind. It looked to be made of natural rock and mortar, like the interior of some medieval castle, only dark and wet with condensation. A heavy wooden door to her right was rotting off its rusted hinges. A single bulb attached to a bare cable cast little light.

Danielle came to a gate made of iron bars.

Before she could react the men shoved her forward. She tripped over a slight ledge and sprawled to the ground, skinning her hands on the stone.

She sprang back up and rushed the gate, but they slammed and locked it in her face.

“Why are you doing this?” she shouted. “What do you want from me?”

“Nothing,” the scabbed man said.

She glanced into the darkness around her. She heard movement: shuffling, groaning, and breathing, as if her arrival had disturbed some resting beast. The stench of the surroundings grew suddenly worse.

“What is this place?” she shouted.

The men were in the elevator now, the doors closing, cutting off the light. One of them replied as the doors slammed shut.