A gray-haired woman lay nearby, her back to Vic. Familiar-looking. That was it. Her memory engaged.

Rescuing a woman who was trying to escape from a man. Check.

Didn’t win. Check.

Now, tied up in a basement. Check.

Probably concussed, too, considering the speed of her thinking. Her day had definitely gone to hell. I might as well be working. Why the hell had she risked her life when a phone call to the police would have worked?

The answer to that really sucked. She’d acted all macho-and stupid-to prove she still had it. That she wasn’t irreparably damaged. But she was. In the hospital, Mr. Show-no-emotions Spymaster had looked at her with pity; he didn’t think she’d heal enough to return to duty. So she’d jumped right into the first fight she could find. Act any dumber and I might as well be a guy.

Well, with luck, her inept rescue could be salvaged. The idiots hadn’t tied her legs.

Hearing footsteps, Vic froze, watching through dark eyelashes as the guy she’d fought appeared. Shaved head, built like a linebacker, all muscle. Ripped off sleeves showed tattoos: eagle, globe, and anchor; bulldog; skull and crossed rifles.

“Hey, BeastieBoy.” The man walked to a metal kennel near the stairs. A naked teenager with shaggy blond hair huddled in the far corner of the cage. Shivering. Scared half to death. Eyes sunken, he was skinny, as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. Bruises and abrasions-even burns-marred his fair skin.

Vic’s breath hitched. Tortured?

Baldy slapped the top of the cage with his fist, making the kid jump. “You ready for another session, pussy cat? Just tell me how to make new beasts, and I won’t hurt you anymore.”

“I won’t tell you anything.” The boy’s voice cracked on the last word.

Brave kid. Vic cheered silently even as her stomach tightened in fear for him. And what did the asshole mean by making new beasts?