Malik looked through the scope and lined up his shot.
* * *
Oh,God! Oh, God! Oh, God!
Jidda was dead.
Kristi clutched at Peter’s hand, his grip on her hair painful as he pulled her toward the hut, her cheek throbbing where he’d struck her, fear making her pulse pound. “No matter what you do to me, Peter, I will think only of Malik. It’s his face I’ll see. You arenothingcompared to him! You’re just a bandit, a criminal!”
“Shut up, whore!”
This was it.
Peter would rape her. He would hurt her. Then he would let every man in this encampment do the same.
The scalpel.
She could cut him, stab him in the groin, try to cut an artery.
But he would most likely get the blade away from her and use it against her. Even if she disabled or killed him, there were at least two dozen armed men here. No, she couldn’t use the scalpel on Peter. It would only make her suffering worse.
That meant she had no way to stop this.
Despair washed through her, dark and heavy.
They had just reached the doorway to the hut when she heard a buzzing sound, like a giant swarm of bees.
Men shouted.
Peter turned, and Kristi saw astonishment on his face. He shoved her toward the hut—hard.
She fell, pain exploding in her skull as she struck the side of her head on the brick wall. Darkness dragged at her, but she fought against it.
She blinked, saw something flying above the camp.
Not a bird. Not bees.
A drone.
It hovered near the center of the camp just beyond the men’s reach, then flew off when they tried to shoot it down.
Had someone come to rescue her?
Then Peter hovered above her, anger on his face. He pointed a pistol at her head. “I will not let them take you back.”
She managed a feeble protest. “No!”
Her parents’ and grandparents’ faces flashed through her mind. This would be so hard for them.
I’m sorry.
Peter fell in a spray of red.
Blood?
Had someone shot him?
It was so hard to think, her head throbbing.