Since she expected to be home tonight, Naomi returned to the cabin with only a single plastic bag in hand. Happy was in the kitchen, washing dirt off his hands. It was surreal seeing him like that, as if he'd just been planting flowers instead of burying a body.

Did she come across as casually to Foss? She wanted to believe it was hard for her to take down her targets, but it wasn't. Not anymore. Long ago, she'd learned how to switch off her emotions. For her, it had become routine, too.

She just hoped Hana would be her last.

"You never asked why Hana sent me after you," she realized aloud. "Someone had to hire her. If she doesn't deliver, someone else will take the job."

"I can't imagine she told you who the client was."

She hadn't. But that wasn't the point—it was his indifference that bothered her. Just because she hadn't succeeded in killing him didn't mean the danger was gone.

"I don't think anyone hired her," he finally said. "I spent five years inside. If someone wanted revenge, they would've killed me there. They would have found someone inside to do it. Easier than this, with my club backing me now."

Naomi considered his words. That left only one possibility.

"She saw the news. About your sister. And she figured out you're in a motorclub. She was probably afraid I'd turn to you for help." The explanation didn't sit right with her. If that were the case, wouldn't it have made more sense to send someone else? Someone unrestrained by emotion? Or had Hana truly believed she was above all that?

You were above it. You tried to kill him. In that regard, Hana had read her perfectly. It was Happy she'd underestimated. And she hadn't accounted for Foss. Otherwise, everything would've turned out differently.

Happy must have reached the same conclusion because he gave a short nod. "That makes sense. We'll find out soon enough."

He peeked into the plastic bag she'd brought and pulled out a loaf of bread.

Leaning against the counter, he ate a few slices plain. Shaking her head, she made herself a proper breakfast—with toppings—and ate while thinking about what lay ahead. They'd be pulling teeth and chopping off fingers. She was glad Foss had decided to stay home. He might act tough, but she didn't believe he'd get any satisfaction out of it. And if he did... she didn't want to think about that.

It felt like he deserved to keep a kind of innocence Happy and she had long lost—and which his twin brother had probably been robbed of, too. She didn't want Foss to lose that, to fall prey to a darkness he'd never fully escape.

Happy crouched by the hatch and opened it. He lowered himself down, hauling Hana up moments later, sliding her across the kitchen floor. She lay on her stomach, her hair covering her face.

Only when she lifted her head did an odd wave of relief wash over Naomi. Maybe she'd subconsciously feared the woman was dead—that she'd taken some suicide pill to bury her son's location with her.

"Well," Hana rasped. "Took you long enough."

"You looked like you could use a few hours in the dark."

The woman shot Naomi a hard look but said nothing.

Happy dragged her upright and shoved her into a chair. He opened a cabinet, grabbed a roll of duct tape, and tossed it to Naomi. "I'll get the toolbox."

Naomi peeled the tape's end loose and started tying Hana to the chair. The tape's rip was the only sound in the room. Hana seemed content to wait it out.

Once the woman was secured, Naomi stood in front of her, arms crossed. "I don't need to explain how this works, do I?"

"You have questions. You could've asked me yesterday, without all this fuss."

"And you would've answered honestly?" Naomi scoffed.

Hana shrugged. "I know when I've lost. But, naturally, I'll only tell you where your son is if I'm guaranteed my life."

Happy strode back in. He must've caught her last words because he snorted. "You'll live—as a vegetable."

"Then so will your son."

A flash of rage crossed Happy's face. "We'll see."

With a bang, he slammed the toolbox onto the counter and pulled out pliers. "Here." He looked at Naomi, daring her to back down.

Not a chance. She grabbed them and stepped between Hana's knees. Each leg was taped to a chair leg.

Of course, Hana clamped her lips shut. Naomi raised an eyebrow. Did she really think that would stop her? Naomi pinched Hana's nose shut, holding it until the woman turned purple and had no choice but to gasp for air. Naomi shoved the pliers in and yanked her jaw down with her other hand.

There was a sharp clinking as the pliers hit teeth. She pushed the tool farther back, opened the jaws, and searched for a molar.

Hana's eyes bulged.

Without hesitation, Naomi started tugging at the tooth. The older woman screamed, which only made Naomi's movements rougher. This woman had tortured her son when he was just a toddler. She would never, ever feel pity for her.

The molar was firmly rooted. Naomi had to yank hard, and eventually, Happy grabbed Hana's head to help steady her. Naomi gave another pull—crack—and then one more—another crack. On the next attempt, the molar came loose with a satisfying pop.

Hana squeezed her eyes shut, her body stiff. When she opened them again, tears streamed down her face, but she didn't scream. Beneath the watery sheen was a steely resolve that sent a chill down Naomi's spine.

The woman was used to pain. She'd learned how to deal with it.

Naomi glanced briefly at Happy, who clearly hadn't expected this reaction either. Blood dripped from Hana's mouth as she parted her lips.

"I was a soldier once. I was seven when I survived my first torture. You're not as original as you think."

Naomi's hand dropped. The molar slipped from the pliers and clattered to the floor.

It wasn't bravado. Though Hana had once married her father, Naomi barely knew her. But she could tell she was telling the truth now.

"Where is my son?" Suddenly, exhaustion overwhelmed her. She just wanted her son back. To hold him after all these years. Happy could finish this; she wasn't getting any satisfaction out of it anymore.

"In Colombia."

The pliers hit the floor. "In Colombia?" she repeated sharply. That couldn't be true. Why on earth—

"I'm from Colombia." Every time she spoke through her injured mouth, more blood spilled over her lips. She spat out a thick glob. "The FARC. Have you heard of them?"

Naomi shook her head. She couldn't tell from Happy's expression if he recognized the term; he gave no reaction.

"The Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia."

"Guerrilla fighters," he muttered. "Right?"

Hana nodded. "I was fifteen when I came to the U.S. Married a rich old man and inherited everything six years later. I've supported the FARC ever since. Occasionally, I send them children to pressure their parents. Sometimes for ransom. Sometimes to do what you did for me." She shrugged, unrepentant. "Every struggle demands sacrifices."

"But they're not your sacrifices! Not your children!" Naomi snapped. "What does this mean? Is Alec... has he been in Colombia for twenty years?"

She nodded. "He's an excellent soldier."

Naomi froze. Hana's words suffocated her; she couldn't breathe. The room spun, and she grabbed the edge of the counter for support.

"Was he... a child soldier?"

The answer didn't even register. All her strength drained away.