Page 111 of Stolen Beauty

“There’s one more thing,” Sophia says. Max and I exchange a glance. As SEALs, we’ve been through enough briefings with the CIA to be wary when they have one more thing to add. “Our sources are divided on whether or not Sloane Watson is being held against her will.”

Shit. “Anything to back that up?”

“She was willingly conducting research that violates international law.”

Sage had been suspicious she’d grown organs using stem cells or something like that. Doesn’t matter to me what Sloane was doing. I want this resolved, so no one else comes after Sage.

“Our running theory had been that they wanted her sister to hold over her head. If she’s doing this willingly, there’s no reason for them to come after Sage.” I’m right on this. Sloane can’t be doing this willingly. It’s a pointless argument. We’re working under assumptions, but Sophia’s logic is faulty.

Sophia’s hesitation tells me she’s debating what she can share. With a sigh, she admits, “It’s our leading theory, too. But it’s not our only theory. When you approach her, you’ll need to be alert.”

Fisher speaks up from the front seat. “What she’s saying is, if she doesn’t take that pill, you need to get out because there’s a good chance she’ll turn your ass in. This organization has multiple compounds, and the one they have her in is, of all of them, by all informed accounts the lowest security.”

“And if that happens, do we leave her?”

“No. If that happens, you get out, we regroup with a forced extraction plan. She’s leaving that compound whether she wants to or not.”

“Because of the VIP?”

“Exactly.”

CHAPTER 37

Knox

“You ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be. You?”

“Let’s do it.”

I straighten my shoulders, relaxed in my outfit of old camo fatigues, black leather boots, holster with sidearms, Taser, handcuffs, and zip ties. The outfit has been carefully selected to blend in with the Wagner men per the CIA informant.

I shaved. Not my beard, but my head, and used a touch of Sophia’s tinted self-tanner on my scalp so it doesn’t appear freshly shaven. In the mirror, a second of shock hits first before recognition filters through. It’s still me, just no hair. In a front pocket, I have one photo of Sloane and Sage as kids. The photograph is a safety precaution in case Sloane doesn’t recognize me in my current state.

It’s been a dozen years since I’ve seen her, so combined with the gleaming scalp and my presence in Cambodia, I don’t expect her to recognize me. If I try to get her alone, she might even think I’m aiming to rape her. Unfortunately, it’s a highly conceivable scenario in places like this. It’s something that might have already happened. She might’ve been abused and harbor a deep fear of the guards. I need to be prepared for all possibilities.

Once she recognizes me, I trust she won’t turn me in. Even if she has chosen to participate in the name of science, which is Sage’s fear, she won’t give a family friend a death sentence. In the most realistic worst-case scenario, she’ll tell me she wants to stay, but she’ll also tell me to be safe and get out of there. Sloane wasn’t a close friend way back when, but she’s still a Watson, and I trust her.

Max remains dressed in casual clothes. Cargo shorts, a loose button-down Colombia shirt, and sandals. His sunglasses sit atop his head, and he chomps on a stick of gum, the poster child for a relaxed expat.

The CIA acquired an ambulance and outfitted it for our purposes. Shortly after I leave, Max will change into the uniform for the local hospital’s ambulance driver. He’ll wait for me in the house with the covered parking spot that conceals the ambulance. The off-site team is monitoring calls to and from the compound. Max will have his phone with him. When I call emergency services, I’ll be calling Max. For this operation, auxiliary support is remote.

The compound is located outside of O’Smach, within the Cambodian border. The walls of the compound are eight-feet tall, and razor-sharp wire and broken glass bottles line the six-inch-wide flat top.

Two red and gold painted wooden doors block the entrance that’s wide enough to let a single car or truck pass through. Aerial views show there are two exits in the south and west corners close to a nearby stream.

At 7:15 in the morning, the sun filters through the treetops. The packed dirt road is muddy. The sky is cloudy, and afternoon rainstorms are expected.

A uniformed guard, about five foot eight, with brown eyes and skin, inspects my passport. He lifts the handset of an old landline telephone. He says something to me in a language I identify as Khmer. Based on his stance and body language, he wants me to stand exactly where I am and wait.

While I wait, another uniformed guard closes the double doors and secures a latch, locking me inside the compound.

A tall man with light skin and sunglasses, wearing mismatched camo and dusty black boots, comes closer. His hands are at his side, loose and relaxed. There’s a gun in his right holster and a Taser in the left.

The man who checked my passport converses with him in Khmer. The tones are even. Conversational.

The light-skinned man with short, cropped hair scans me up and down. “English?”

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