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It took Ryan less than ten minutes to walk back to his hotel room. He decided he didn't care what the CIA agent had said. He was going to call the island police. Then he would then call the newspapers in the States, the Philadelphia Inquirer or the Washington Post. He would tell them his story, maybe they'd listen. He would call DeNardo and Rojas, too. Hell, he'd even call his senators and representatives. It was obvious that the CIA didn't give a damn about the girl. They must have known he was beating and drugging her, and probably raping her. He wasn't going to leave the island without her! Ryan unlocked the door to his hotel room and started to walk in. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of something moving behind him, following him in the hallway, and turned to look back. The blow struck him across the right side of his head and sent him careening to the floor inside his room. He momentarily went blank and when he opened his eyes, Newcombe was sitting on top of his chest so that he could hardly breath, holding Ryan’s arms down at his sides. He struggled to get free but it was useless. The blond man was too strong. He started to yell but the man clenched a hand over his mouth, gripping his face so hard he thought his fingers would rip through his cheek flesh. “Bring it over!” the man shouted and Alana appeared above him holding a syringe. She leaned over him, until her eyes were only a foot away from his. Deep within those drugged green eyes, Ryan saw her terror; the terror he had seen in his dream. “Stick it in!” Newcombe ordered, still pinning him to the floor. The last thing Ryan remembered was a sharp sting as the needle punctured his skin.