rejects from the human race.
From the beginning, he'd seemed to command an inordinate amount of respect from all of the terrorists. Heads bowed all around when he spoke. Boys and men alike hopped to when he issued a quiet order.
And when she met his eyes—cave black, deep-set, and filled with disdain and judgment—she knew that her fate had just shifted to another set of hands.
He stalked toward her in his jungle fatigues, dragging the woman by the rope. He was tall and rail thin, his posture erect. His beard was ragged and unkempt, shot through with bits of gray. When Rahimulla filled him in on who Darcy was and why she was still alive, the slow, disgusted sneer curling his thin lips revealed broken, yellowed teeth.
There was no mistaking his opinion of Rahimulla's decision. Just like there was no mistaking that not only had the leader board changed, but her life expectancy had changed as well.
"Shut her up." His voice was whisper soft yet as deadly as the AK-47 he held in his scarred hand. "Or you both die today."
With a hard tug, he pulled the woman toward Darcy.
The woman stumbled, went down hard on all fours. Before Darcy could get to her she rolled to her side and curled into a fetal position, protecting her head with her arms.
Protecting herself. As she must have tried to protect herself from being beaten and kicked many times in the past.
"Sick son of a bitch," Darcy muttered under her breath, and walked on her knees to get to the fallen woman.
The butt of an assault rifle punched Darcy hard between her breasts and brought her up short.
The impact made her gasp and lose her balance. Steadying herself, she looked up and into the eyes of pure evil.
"You dare speak?"
She held his gaze defiantly.
"You do not speak, American infidel." He gave the rifle a hard shove that sent Darcy sprawling on her back, her sternum exploding with knifelike pain. "Shut her up," he repeated.
Darcy was still sprawled on her back, trying to catch her breath, when he walked away.
Gritting through the pain, she worked herself slowly to a sitting position. Rahimulla had turned his back to her.
Darcy understood. He was completely submissive to this new leader. She couldn't think about what that meant. She could only deal with the moment.
Back on her knees, she moved to the woman's side.
"Shhh," Darcy murmured gently, approaching her like she would a wounded animal. "Let me help you.
"Can you hear me?" she asked softly, leaning over the woman, who was little more than skin and bones. "I'm Darcy. I'm not going to hurt you. You're not alone anymore."
Darcy reached out, touched her hand to a frail shoulder. The woman flinched so violently that Darcy drew back, startled. And the keening grew louder.
"It's okay," Darcy said after a nervous glance toward the leader showed he was quickly losing patience. "I'm not going to hurt you," she repeated. "I'm not one of them. I'm an American. From Ohio," she added, thinking the more details she could provide, the better chance she had of reaching her. "What about you? American? German?" Darcy speculated, seeing up close that the woman's hair was a golden blond beneath the snarls and dirt.
And still she made those horrible sounds of despair.
Darcy looked across the camp where the terrorist leader now sat cross-legged in front of a group that had gathered around him. They had scared up some food and water for him. He drank and ate and talked, all the while sending threatening looks her way.
It was do-or-die, Darcy decided, looking back to the woman. She had to quiet her down or it was all over for both of them.
Gathering her breath and her courage, Darcy looped her bound wrists over the woman's head, then clamped her arms tightly around her slim figure.
The woman immediately flinched and fought to pull away. Darcy held on tight. In the end, the woman didn't have much fight in her.
From the beginning, he'd seemed to command an inordinate amount of respect from all of the terrorists. Heads bowed all around when he spoke. Boys and men alike hopped to when he issued a quiet order.
And when she met his eyes—cave black, deep-set, and filled with disdain and judgment—she knew that her fate had just shifted to another set of hands.
He stalked toward her in his jungle fatigues, dragging the woman by the rope. He was tall and rail thin, his posture erect. His beard was ragged and unkempt, shot through with bits of gray. When Rahimulla filled him in on who Darcy was and why she was still alive, the slow, disgusted sneer curling his thin lips revealed broken, yellowed teeth.
There was no mistaking his opinion of Rahimulla's decision. Just like there was no mistaking that not only had the leader board changed, but her life expectancy had changed as well.
"Shut her up." His voice was whisper soft yet as deadly as the AK-47 he held in his scarred hand. "Or you both die today."
With a hard tug, he pulled the woman toward Darcy.
The woman stumbled, went down hard on all fours. Before Darcy could get to her she rolled to her side and curled into a fetal position, protecting her head with her arms.
Protecting herself. As she must have tried to protect herself from being beaten and kicked many times in the past.
"Sick son of a bitch," Darcy muttered under her breath, and walked on her knees to get to the fallen woman.
The butt of an assault rifle punched Darcy hard between her breasts and brought her up short.
The impact made her gasp and lose her balance. Steadying herself, she looked up and into the eyes of pure evil.
"You dare speak?"
She held his gaze defiantly.
"You do not speak, American infidel." He gave the rifle a hard shove that sent Darcy sprawling on her back, her sternum exploding with knifelike pain. "Shut her up," he repeated.
Darcy was still sprawled on her back, trying to catch her breath, when he walked away.
Gritting through the pain, she worked herself slowly to a sitting position. Rahimulla had turned his back to her.
Darcy understood. He was completely submissive to this new leader. She couldn't think about what that meant. She could only deal with the moment.
Back on her knees, she moved to the woman's side.
"Shhh," Darcy murmured gently, approaching her like she would a wounded animal. "Let me help you.
"Can you hear me?" she asked softly, leaning over the woman, who was little more than skin and bones. "I'm Darcy. I'm not going to hurt you. You're not alone anymore."
Darcy reached out, touched her hand to a frail shoulder. The woman flinched so violently that Darcy drew back, startled. And the keening grew louder.
"It's okay," Darcy said after a nervous glance toward the leader showed he was quickly losing patience. "I'm not going to hurt you," she repeated. "I'm not one of them. I'm an American. From Ohio," she added, thinking the more details she could provide, the better chance she had of reaching her. "What about you? American? German?" Darcy speculated, seeing up close that the woman's hair was a golden blond beneath the snarls and dirt.
And still she made those horrible sounds of despair.
Darcy looked across the camp where the terrorist leader now sat cross-legged in front of a group that had gathered around him. They had scared up some food and water for him. He drank and ate and talked, all the while sending threatening looks her way.
It was do-or-die, Darcy decided, looking back to the woman. She had to quiet her down or it was all over for both of them.
Gathering her breath and her courage, Darcy looped her bound wrists over the woman's head, then clamped her arms tightly around her slim figure.
The woman immediately flinched and fought to pull away. Darcy held on tight. In the end, the woman didn't have much fight in her.
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