Read Online Into the Shadow by Christina Dodd - Free Book Online

Americans, and he had taught her to assess a situation. This looked grim.
    This looked impossible.
    ‘‘What are you going to do? Run naked through the meadow while I chase you down with my motorcycle?’’ Her lover straddled the seat and placed his free hand on the starter. ‘‘Climb the rocks while I use you for target practice?’’
    A recent memory blazed through her fear-frozen mind.
    The child sacrificed to evil and buried beneath a rockfall with gold jewelry and a holy icon.
    Karen looked down at her hands. She held her coat clutched tightly in her fists, and she groped for the pocket. She felt the hard, small square . . . the child had passed the icon on to her for safekeeping.
    ‘‘I don’t want you to use me for target practice. ’’ Karen had to live to keep that icon safe. So she would have to wait for a propitious moment and surprise this monster with a kick that would knock him out or, better yet, kill him.
    ‘‘Then put on the clothes.’’ The gun remained steady on her. ‘‘And your coat and ...............boots. Leave the rest of that stuff here. You won’t need it again.’’
    She did as she was told, dressing in silence, knowing she’d had no choice but to let him rescue her, yet cursing herself for being such a fool and giving herself to him.
    The jeans were loose around her rear, and she rolled up the hems four times so she could walk. As she shrugged into her coat, she slipped her hand into the pocket and smoothed her fingers along the icon’s edge. The memory of the Madonna’s gentle face gave her the courage to ask, ‘‘Who are you?’’
    ‘‘Warlord. I’m Warlord.’’
    ‘‘You’re a warlord?’’ One of the ruthless murderers who preyed on the locals and the tourists?
    Could her situation get any worse?
    It could. He looked straight at her, his obsidian eyes empty of emotion. ‘‘Not a warlord. I am Warlord.’’
    As the sun set, the man who called himself Warlord drove his motorcycle up the steep, narrow path and straight toward a sheer rock face. Karen wanted to hide her eyes, but at the last second the path swerved, Warlord followed, and the motorcycle roared into a camp protected on three sides by cliffs and on the fourth by a dropoff that tumbled away into space.
    The smoke of a dozen campfires twisted into the clear air. A hundred men, dressed like Warlord, with hair and beards as wild and knotted, squatted in groups around the flames, cooking, chatting, playing video games on their handhelds, drinking, and reading.
    Every head turned in their direction. Silence fell. The men observed them—observed her— with acute interest. Then they turned back to their meals, their conversations.
    It was as if the couple on the motorcycle were invisible. As if . . . she were invisible.
    Warlord slowly drove the bike through the camp, twisting and turning among the men. They drove past a huge central fire pit, now cold and blackened with charcoal.
    Karen clutched Warlord’s leather jacket with sweaty palms. She heard snatches of English spoken with every accent, of French, of German, of Asian languages, and of languages she could not identify. In a low voice she asked, ‘‘What is this place?’’
    ‘‘Our base.’’
    ‘‘For what?’’
    ‘‘Our raids.’’
    Warlord. He said he was Warlord.
    ‘‘You can’t be the only warlord,’’ she said.
    ‘‘I’m successful. I’m brutal. I’ve vanquished all my rivals. I’m the only Warlord who matters in this part of the world.’’
    Like a dumb animal, she’d blindly run with him, trusted him to keep her safe, and she’d stumbled into this trap.
    ‘‘They’ve all seen you now,’’ Warlord said. ‘‘They know what you look like. They know that if you run, they’ll get to stop you. I would suggest that you not run. They would enjoy it too much.’’
    He made her sick with his threat, but she answered steadily enough. ‘‘When I run, I won’t let them catch me.’’
    For a second he let go of