of it and stayed there on his own while she grabbed a kitchen towel and soaked it. When she pulled him away from the sink and aimed him at the cooler, she stuffed the towel into his hands and said, “Keep that over your eyes.”
He readily complied. Definitely one whipped terrorist. Not that Selena blamed him…she didn’t know if he’d taken corneal damage from the lye in the over cleaner, or even if he’d inhaled the fumes, soon to choke on the fluids of his damaged lungs. But while she’d offer him what ease she could, she couldn’t make herself be sorry. Not when she remembered the look in his eyes as he attacked her. Not when she had reason to wonder how many people he’d slaughtered in this one day alone.
Now he was out of that game.
She pulled the cooler door open with some caution—and a good thing, too, because Atif met her with a steadily aimed rifle. He quickly lowered it. “I was hoping that was you. You’ve been busy, I see.”
“Exercise keeps one young,” Selena told him. She prodded her captive into place beside the man already so carefully bound in plastic wrap, and proceeded to restrain his ankles and wrists—except she left his hands in front of him so he could hold the towel to his distinctly reddened face. Just for a moment she pulled it away; he looked at her through the slits of his swollen eyelids and she doubted he could actually see her. “If you cause trouble, any trouble at all, you lose the towel and I truss you up like a roast lamb. You got it?”
In testament to his misery, he only nodded.
When she returned to the kitchen, she checked the double doors again, found them still clear and dragged the dead terrorist’s bulk into the cooler, leaving him well to the side of Atif’s decently covered friends. He nodded firmly at that arrangement, and then again at her face. “Are you hurt?”
“Just my feelings.” Selena ran careful fingers over her cheek and the edge of her brow line, finding puffy, hot skin and a trickle of blood. The hefty one must have been wearing a ring. Jerk. “They made me feel downright unwelcome.”
Atif snorted. “And have you brought more weapons?”
“Let’s just see.” She pulled the bolt back on the first rifle, found it sticky, and took a much closer look. “We’re both lucky you didn’t pull the trigger on this one, kid. They didn’t give you much training on this thing, did they?” She wasn’t expecting an answer; she didn’t get one. She pulled the magazine out of place and handed it to Atif, then pulled the oval pin on the side of the stock to release the joint there and folded the stock back on itself. Storage and transport configuration—and in this case, a signal that the weapon wasn’t to be used, at least not until it was thoroughly cleaned. She set it aside to inspect the second weapon, which proved to be in much better shape. “There we go,” she murmured. Not much in the way of ammo, but she had an idea just how she’d use it.
Atif watched as she took a moment to remove the shirt from the dead terrorist, doffing her coat and pulling the shirt on over her turtleneck. “Lemon juice,” he advised as she pulled the shirt out to inspect the blood dot she herself had created. Amazingly small…all the bleeding had been internal.
“If they’re close enough to wonder about it, they’re already too close.” The olive-green shirt over her khaki cargo pants would merely allow her to draw less attention at a distance. They presented a color combination the terrorists were well trained to see as friendly—at least until they noticed her hair and the fact that she sported breasts. This particular shirt went a long way to hide those pesky giveaways, as ill-fitting as it was.
She would have cleaned up the mess in the kitchen, but the terrorists had already created plenty of their own blood trails and her own efforts barely added to them. So she left it alone, and rummaged in the cooler for things she’d seen here earlier.
He readily complied. Definitely one whipped terrorist. Not that Selena blamed him…she didn’t know if he’d taken corneal damage from the lye in the over cleaner, or even if he’d inhaled the fumes, soon to choke on the fluids of his damaged lungs. But while she’d offer him what ease she could, she couldn’t make herself be sorry. Not when she remembered the look in his eyes as he attacked her. Not when she had reason to wonder how many people he’d slaughtered in this one day alone.
Now he was out of that game.
She pulled the cooler door open with some caution—and a good thing, too, because Atif met her with a steadily aimed rifle. He quickly lowered it. “I was hoping that was you. You’ve been busy, I see.”
“Exercise keeps one young,” Selena told him. She prodded her captive into place beside the man already so carefully bound in plastic wrap, and proceeded to restrain his ankles and wrists—except she left his hands in front of him so he could hold the towel to his distinctly reddened face. Just for a moment she pulled it away; he looked at her through the slits of his swollen eyelids and she doubted he could actually see her. “If you cause trouble, any trouble at all, you lose the towel and I truss you up like a roast lamb. You got it?”
In testament to his misery, he only nodded.
When she returned to the kitchen, she checked the double doors again, found them still clear and dragged the dead terrorist’s bulk into the cooler, leaving him well to the side of Atif’s decently covered friends. He nodded firmly at that arrangement, and then again at her face. “Are you hurt?”
“Just my feelings.” Selena ran careful fingers over her cheek and the edge of her brow line, finding puffy, hot skin and a trickle of blood. The hefty one must have been wearing a ring. Jerk. “They made me feel downright unwelcome.”
Atif snorted. “And have you brought more weapons?”
“Let’s just see.” She pulled the bolt back on the first rifle, found it sticky, and took a much closer look. “We’re both lucky you didn’t pull the trigger on this one, kid. They didn’t give you much training on this thing, did they?” She wasn’t expecting an answer; she didn’t get one. She pulled the magazine out of place and handed it to Atif, then pulled the oval pin on the side of the stock to release the joint there and folded the stock back on itself. Storage and transport configuration—and in this case, a signal that the weapon wasn’t to be used, at least not until it was thoroughly cleaned. She set it aside to inspect the second weapon, which proved to be in much better shape. “There we go,” she murmured. Not much in the way of ammo, but she had an idea just how she’d use it.
Atif watched as she took a moment to remove the shirt from the dead terrorist, doffing her coat and pulling the shirt on over her turtleneck. “Lemon juice,” he advised as she pulled the shirt out to inspect the blood dot she herself had created. Amazingly small…all the bleeding had been internal.
“If they’re close enough to wonder about it, they’re already too close.” The olive-green shirt over her khaki cargo pants would merely allow her to draw less attention at a distance. They presented a color combination the terrorists were well trained to see as friendly—at least until they noticed her hair and the fact that she sported breasts. This particular shirt went a long way to hide those pesky giveaways, as ill-fitting as it was.
She would have cleaned up the mess in the kitchen, but the terrorists had already created plenty of their own blood trails and her own efforts barely added to them. So she left it alone, and rummaged in the cooler for things she’d seen here earlier.
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