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slave trade. Women weren’t the only victims, and both Zak and the other man were strong and fit, and fairly good-looking.
    There was nothing for her to hold on to in the bare metal box. No way to see where they were being taken, and no way to escape. The ceiling was high enough for her to stand, and she’d tried pulling, kicking, and screaming at the doors, which were locked from the outside. The most she’d done was to make a dent in the metal with her boot heel. She sat back against the hot wall, the van jarring every bone in her body as it lurched along its trajectory.
    She’d always felt a faint disdain for women who needed a man to rescue them, but she’d be freaking ecstatic if either of the men sprawled on the rusted floor would wake the hell up and do something. Anything .
    They were not going to be happy when they discovered they’d been kidnapped because of her. But when shegave them all the kidnapping statistics, they’d see that even without her lottery winnings, there was an excellent chance that they would’ve suffered the same fate. Still, she was going to have to talk fast—presuming they’d have a chance to talk once they arrived at their destination. She shivered despite the heat building up inside the tin can on wheels.
    After the next pothole almost put her spine through the top of her head, she rearranged her clothing to give herself more padding between her behind and the unyielding metal of the floor, then dug a small box of mints out of one of the hidden pockets in her brandnew SCOTTeVEST gear. Dressed from head to toe in khaki, she looked ready for a safari—or a trek through the jungle. When she’d bought the vest and pants, the twenty-eight hidden pockets they boasted had amused her. Now, she mentally patted herself on the back for having splurged on the outfit.
    She shook out two of the tiny mints and popped them in her mouth. “Ha. That’s living on the wild side.”
    Hearing her own voice was small comfort. This sustained terror was a freaky thing. Having someone else to share her concerns with “would be nice,” she finished out loud as she stuck the small plastic container back into the same pocket as the Swiss Army Knife and a small first-aid kit. She’d considered trying her Army knife on the doors, but the tools were so small they wouldn’t make a dent. The soldiers had taken her watch, her St. Christopher medal, and her bag, but they hadn’t bothered to pat her down as they’d done with Zak.
    Lucky her. Because she’d spent considerable time the day before carefully packing all of the hidden pockets in her breathable cotton SCOTTeVEST and pants with everything she could think of in preparation for her five-day jungle adventure. The extra eighteen pounds had seemed overly cautious yesterday, even for her, but now she was grateful she’d had the foresight to be so prepared.
    The female soldier who’d shot the man attacking her hadn’t voiced her reasons for ordering the men to keep their hands off Acadia. The tires bounced over a series of violent bumps that made her bite her tongue, twice. She winced sympathetically as the men’s heads thumped on the ribbed metal floor.
    â€œAt the risk of being politically incorrect,” she muttered, crawling between them on her hands and knees, “aren’t you the ones supposed to be saving me? ” She carefully lifted Zak’s head, then maneuvered her body so that his head and neck were supported by her thigh. He wore the same lightweight khaki pants and pale blue dress shirt he’d tossed on the floor before ravishing her … and a spectacular and noteworthy ravish it had been. Acadia blushed at the vivid memory, then bit her lip because there was blood on his shirt from his head wound and this was no time to relive the pornographic memories.
    She wasn’t strong enough to drag the other man closer, so she spread her legs out