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emeralds—had become his passion and, in a way, his undoing.
    Ham listened, squeezing his eyes shut as if it’d help sharpen his hearing, and for a moment thought he might have gone deaf.
    But he was alone in the hut, perhaps alone in the camp.
    The handsome, dark-eyed American and the Colombians—they were gone, all of them.
    Had they left him here to die?
    Sitting up, Ham fell into a spasm of coughing, holding his ribs, thinking they might start breaking off into pieces and stab his lungs. The creeps had fed him pinto beans and more pinto beans, a little fatback once a day, and once—an immeasurable treat—a can of beanie weenies.
    His hair hung down his back, stringy and unwashed. He had a sketchy, nasty beard. He figured he must have lice. His bowels were a mess, but he didn’t think he had any parasites or infections.
    Maybe his captors thought he was such a coward he’d just sit there, whether they were there to guard him or not. When they grabbed him, stuffing him in a jeep, he’d passed out—he had no idea where they’d taken him, except that it was a remote area in the mountains. The altitude made breathing only that much more difficult.
    I’ll die here like a cockroach.
    He felt a draft, smelled the outside air and realized the door was open. He staggered toward the fresh air. He kept expecting his eyes to adjust to the dark, but they didn’t. Christ—was he blind? But the nights were often pitch black, only he’d never been allowed to walk around, even with a guard.
    Something moved. He saw a shadow, heard a swish—fabric on fabric?
    â€œShh.” A gloved hand clamped down on his wrist. “We’re United States soldiers, Mr. Carhill. We’re here to rescue you.”
    â€œEthan?”
    Ham didn’t know if he spoke out loud. His voice was scratchy. He was so damn weak—was he imagining his own rescue?
    A flash, a shot.
    The camp wasn’t entirely abandoned.
    All hell broke loose, and Ham scrambled in the darkness for his boots, his pants, refusing to be taken half naked—and desperate, he thought. He didn’t want to look so damn desperate.
    He tucked a small plastic bag inside his pants. The bag contained fifteen perfect, beautiful cut and polished emeralds that would bring a good price on any market, legitimate or otherwise.
    Did Ethan know about the emeralds? Unlikely, Ham thought. He’d found them late that afternoon, when his captors were in a panic about something—bad news, obviously. Colombia was world-renowned for its emeralds. They were popular with smugglers. But Ham didn’t believe these were intended for smugglers—they were the ransom payment for him.
    He’d switched them for small, worthless stones.
    â€œLet’s go,” Ethan said.
    Ham nodded, but he was hyperventilating, feeling faint. Ethan hoisted him over one powerful shoulder. Ham felt himself go limp, tranquil in the knowledge that his friend, neighbor and idol—Ethan the Magnificent, he’d called him as a boy—had come to save him.

Four
    J uliet tapped the calendar on her computer monitor with her pencil eraser and counted one, two, three, four, five—six days since Ethan had left her in the rain at Federal Hall. And not a word since. She didn’t know whether to be worried, annoyed or relieved. That was one of the problems he presented. Her feelings toward him were complicated.
    But she didn’t want him to be dead. She knew that much.
    She shook off such a thought, refusing to give it any traction. If something had happened to Ethan, she’d know. If she didn’t feel it in her gut, someone privy to such information would get word to her. A matter of courtesy.
    Mike Rivera stopped on his way past her desk. He was one of two chief deputies in the office, a bulldog of a man and the fifty-two-year-old father of five daughters. “You’re going to stab a hole in your monitor with that