- Matches -
Oct. 7th, 2010 06:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
notasuggestionHelga Sinclair
Atlantis: The Lost Empire
2740 words
Faced with a deadline and withheld information, harsh measures must be taken.
Nate Donovan looked out across the small village as it came alive with the rising of the sun. He watched women stoke contained fires in pits as men ground grain into paste for part of the morning meal. Small children chased goats about as the older ones tried to catch the animals. Their milk would be used in the meal, he knew. Everything about this trip fascinated the anthropologist, and he felt nothing could have compared to the last two weeks of his life. Of course, he was well aware that his companions were restless. They’d come seeking information on a mine that the British government had been forced to abandon decades ago, and the natives were none too trusting of white outsiders. Donovan knew his job. His understanding of primitive cultures was meant to assist the expedition in getting these people to tell them what they needed to know. They were beginning to open up, and he felt sure it wouldn’t be much longer. Besides, he had so much more to add to his book. The others would just have to be patient.
“Donovan!”
The man sighed. He loved the accents of Africa, the Arabian, and the Orient, but he could barely hide a wince whenever an American said his name. It sounded so unflattering, even worse than German. And from a woman! He turned and forced a smile. “Miss Sinclair. Did you sleep well?”
“I’d have slept better if we were on our way to the mine,” she answered.
An odd woman, even for an American. Donovan had decided that the first time he met Helga Sinclair. She wore riding boots, even though their trip offered no horses or mules. Rather than clothes suited to her sex, she wore tailored brown pants. Her military coat and long-sleeved shirt had been abandoned nearly the first day of the expedition, leaving only a loose, white undershirt as a mockery of modesty. Her hair was long, kept in a tight braid. Donovan felt sure he’d never seen her without her brown leather gloves to protect her hands. While the material did her no favors, he felt it was some small credit to her to have kept that one trace of feminine fashion about her. A beautiful woman once one got past the masculine traits she tried to adopt, but the Irishman felt her rough exterior hurt any chance she had of attracting a suitor, much less one who would be able to mold her into a proper lady.
“Any day now,” Donovan promised. “Don’t worry about it.”
“What?” the woman narrowed her eyes.
“No need for you to worry,” he said, offering Helga his most gallant smile. “They’ll tell us soon.”
“We don’t—”
“Donovan. Lieutenant.” A second man joined them. Donovan nodded to him while the woman straightened.
Where Helga Sinclair—Donovan could not believe that a woman had somehow joined the Army and earned the rank of lieutenant—was nothing a decent woman ought to be, Captain Lyle Rourke was everything a man could aspire to be. He was a tall man with wide shoulders. His thick stature was toned, pure muscle. Graying hair framed his square jaw, and he wore his Army field uniform with pride, despite being retired and the heat that climbed every minute. When he’d first met the commander, Donovan had been awed. He was not a short man. Even in her boots, Helga was an inch shorter than him, but Rourke dwarfed them both by over a head. His academic lifestyle meant he was nowhere near the fitness of the military-trained man. Having so obviously capable a man along had soothed any worries Donovan had harbored about the expedition.
“Commander,” Helga said.
Donovan smiled. “Rourke.”
“Think we’ll have any luck today, son?” Rourke asked, clapping Donovan on the shoulder.
“We can try talking to the chief again.”
“He’s put us off for two weeks,” Helga butted in. She glared at the men and tapped the holster on her hip. “It’s time to demand answers.”
“Threatening them won’t do anything!”
“Waiting hasn’t done anything, Donovan. It’s time to act.”
“Lieutenant.” Rourke removed his hand from the young man’s shoulder and looked at the woman. Donovan drew himself up, pleased at the admonishment in the commander’s voice. At least someone could make that woman listen.
“We don’t have time for this, Commander.” Her voice had changed. Fury was gone, replaced by a kind of desperation. She looked away, chastised but stubborn.
Rourke sighed. He looked at Donovan apologetically. “She has a point. We’re supplied for five weeks. One to get here, one to get back. We’ve spent two weeks here, waiting, and the mine’s probably at least a few days away.”
“Can’t we send for more supplies?” Donovan asked.
“If we can’t prove we’ve found anything, our backer’s not going to waste more money on us,” Helga snapped. “We’ve already cost him a million.”
Donovan looked between them. The woman narrowed her eyes at him while Rourke’s expression conveyed sympathy but a grudging admittance that the clock was, in fact, running down. “I—I’ll see what I can do.”
“Not good enough.” Helga touched her gun again. “We need answers. Today. One way or another, we’ll get them.”
Rourke chuckled and shook his head. “Let’s not be hasty, Lieutenant.”
“They’ve been jerking us around for two weeks. They’ll be lucky if they don’t have to answer for that.”
“There’s no luck involved,” her commander said. Donovan had to admire how calm the man kept. “You’ll follow orders, Lieutenant. Nothing more, nothing less. Is that understood?”
Donovan frowned. The woman nodded and bowed her head, perfectly docile. But the corners of her lips curled. She reminded him of a panther, stooping low to pounce on its prey. Her voice was smooth and inappropriately amused as she replied, “Yes, Commander.”
The captain looked her over and nodded once. “Good girl.”
Donovan cleared his throat. He had the brief, peculiar sensation that he was intruding on something far more intimate than a scolding. “Captain, we do have an invitation to join the chief for a breakfast.”
“Think you can behave, Lieutenant?”
Helga’s smirk unnerved Donovan. “I won’t do anything against your orders, Commander.”
He resisted the urge to grab her. He wanted to shake her, demand to know what she was thinking. He looked at Rourke, waiting for him to call her on it, make her confess what she was plotting. The soldier, however, just looked at him with a paternal smile.
“Lead the way, Mr. Donovan.”
*****
The meal was consumed in silence. Donovan and the chief ate voraciously and drank deeply. The chief’s young son spent more time watching the strangers than enjoying his meal. Rourke ate but without drive. Helga barely touched the meal before her and only sipped at the goat milk she’d been given.
“We thank you again,” Donovan said after draining his wooden cup, “for opening your village to us.”
The straw-thatched hut, modest in size as it was, contained a fair amount of luxury within. At least what passed for luxury in cultures such as this, Donovan considered. Finely woven mats, richly dyed, were set around the low table, and painted clay bowls held what remained of the food prepared. Ceremonial spears were inlaid with rough rubies. If not for those, he lamented, there would be no reason to assume these people knew anything about the lost mine.
The chief was a remarkable specimen. Donovan had written about him at length in his notes for his book. The man was nearly forty, quite an achievement without the boons of modern medicine. He was still healthy too, likely to live another ten years at least. His son, only five, was in training to be a hunter, as his father had been before him. “A leader must first prove he can provide for his people before he may guide them,” the chief had said once. In a place such as this, Donovan saw the wisdom of such a philosophy.
“You are welcome.” The chief’s English was halting. What little he knew, he had learned from caravans and explorers. Still, Donovan was pleased he knew any at all.
A quiet sound caught his attention. He and the chief glanced around for the source. It wasn’t hard to find.
Miss Sinclair had produced a book of matches. Rourke had one, and he held the wooden end between his teeth. A quaint habit Donovan had observed before in others from Texas, as the Army man was. Helga tore a second match out. Donovan could see five matches left from the look of the book. The woman drew the match head quickly down the table, and it flashed and sparked to life.
Donovan stared at her. If she dropped the match, the rugs and spattering of stalks on the ground would catch fire quickly. The sides and roof of the hut would go next. With the way the village was situated, one hut would pass to the others and reduce everything to ash. He resisted the urge to try and take the match from her. He didn’t dare jar her. The chief seemed to hold his breath as the flame devoured the small stick.
Just before the fingers of her glove might have been singed, Helga blew out the match. She discarded the harmless, charred end on the ground.
“We’ve been very patient.” Rourke’s low, calm voice broke the stunned silence. “However, my men and I are here for a job. We have a deadline to meet.”
The woman struck another match, and everyone but Rourke watched it burn. Like the one before, it was put out and discarded. This one, however, she flicked away from her, and it hit the wall of the hut before falling.
“I cannot help you,” the chief said. He shook his head and tried to focus on Rourke. His attention returned to Helga, though, when she tore off another match and struck it. She blew it out and met his eyes before dropping it.
Rourke frowned. “Now, I don’t like being lied to.” He leaned forward, focused only on the chief. “And my lieutenant here, well.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “She doesn’t like to be kept waiting, and you’ve already done that. If I were you? I wouldn’t test her.”
“Captain!” Donovan slammed his hand on the table as Helga let another match. “Control her! If she drops that, we’ll all be caught in the inferno!”
Helga shook the match until it went out and chuckled. “Not all of us, Mr. Donovan.”
“Captain!” Donovan shouted.
Compliantly, Rourke cleared his throat. “Lieutenant.”
Helga set down her remaining match. Quietly, she replied, “Yes, sir.”
Rourke chewed the wood in his mouth briefly before he removed it to speak again. “We’re not looking for trouble or make any, chief. We just want to know where the mine is. Simple.”
“When those mines were used, the people who had lived here for years were killed and taken as slaves.” The words came out rough, barely able to be understood, but the chief was passionate despite struggling with the language. “I am sorry. I cannot risk that coming here again.”
“Wrong answer,” Helga said. She lit her last match, dropped it to the ground, then crushed the small flame with her boot heel before it could spread. As Donovan and the chief let themselves breathe, the woman rose. Again, the Irishman was struck with the way she resembled a panther on the hunt.
He realized the danger a second too late.
Her hand clutched the small arm of the chief’s son, and she forced the boy to his feet. She drew her revolver, pulled back the hammer, and pressed the barrel against the child’s temple. What unsettled Donovan most was her expression. There was no trace of mania or desperation, no hesitation or tell to indicate a bluff. Instead, she stood calm and resolute. She knew precisely what she was doing.
“Yaw!” The pain and grief in the chief’s voice made Donovan wince.
He looked at Rourke, sure he would stop this madness. However, the captain simply looked between the chief and the woman. He bit the end of the match again.
“Rourke!” Donovan cried. “Do something!”
Rourke shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing I can do, son. All up to the chief now.”
“Release my son,” the chief said.
Helga tightened her hold. The terrified boy didn’t dare struggle. “Where is the mine?”
The chief sighed, defeated. “To the north.”
“How far?” Rourke prompted.
“Three hours. Please, release my son.”
“I will,” Helga answered. “When we find the mine.” She urged the boy forward, out of the hut. Her gun never lowered.
“Stay here,” Rourke ordered the chief.
Donovan followed Rourke out of the hut. His chest ached as the villagers watched them. The women covered their mouths, and the men looked angry. They seemed to know better than to endanger their chief’s son, though, as none made any moved to attack. The small group made its way north.
They passed an empty, harvested field. Only barren stalks remained where the grain had been cut away. Just beyond that was another field. Its harvest was a week away, Donovan had learned. Some native superstition called for separate harvests at different phases of the moon. He’d have to inquire further, he considered. That was the sort of custom that readers always found fascinating.
“Was this necessary?” he demanded as his thoughts returned to his present company and circumstances.
“You weren’t getting results,” Helga replied, urging her hostage on. “And we were out of time.” She shrugged her thin shoulders. “Besides, this worked, didn’t it?”
“You held a gun to a child’s head!” Donovan shouted. He turned to the older man. “Rourke! How can you let her do this?”
“Sometimes you have to be a little forceful, son,” Rourke replied. “Else they won’t take you seriously.” He stopped and glanced back at the village. “Speaking of that,” he muttered, half to himself.
“Rourke?” Donovan stared.
“Lieutenant.” It was a barked order, and Helga stopped. She released the boy and lowered her cocked gun. The child looked around, quivering.
Donovan shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Something made him uneasy. What it was, he couldn’t say. All he knew was that he was waiting for something. Something dangerous.
“Go on,” Helga said. She nudged the small boy in the direction of the village. As soon as he understood, he took off in a run.
“Oh God.” Donovan sighed in relief. “Thank the Lord. I knew you couldn’t be that heartless, Miss Sinclair. I mean, no woman could bring herself to hurt a child, of course.”
Helga continued to watch the boy. After a moment, she nodded. “Commander.”
Rourke followed her gaze, and Donovan followed his. The whole village was out, swarming around the freed captive. Donovan started to smile. It was heartwarming, seeing the community rally around to soothe a frightened child. The otherwise civilized world might do well to take a lesson in compassion and community from these baser societies. They had some things right.
“Time to make our point,” Rourke said.
His words jarred Donovan from his reverie and draw his attack back. He stared at the man. “Captain?”
Rourke removed the match from his mouth and knelt. He flicked the dry head against the side of his boot. He tossed the burning wood into the lush field that had yet to be harvested. The small flame spread fast, growing and devouring the crops. It raced through the grain as the villagers shouted and scrambled for water from their meager meal.
“What have you done?” Donovan cried. “They’ll starve without that food! If the fire spreads to the village—”
“Maybe they’ll learn to answer questions quicker,” Rourke replied.
“They could die!”
Helga shrugged. “Saves us the trouble of dealing with them next time.”
“Are you two insane?”
“Just practical,” the woman replied.
“You could try and help them,” Rourke said. “Looks like a lost cause. Or you can come with us and get rich.”
Donovan gaped at the pair before he took a slow step back from them. “You’re monsters. I’ll make sure people hear about this!” He turned and ran toward the village.
Behind him, he heard Rourke. “Lieutenant.”
Donovan looked in time to see Helga aim her gun. Fear paralyzed him as she pulled the trigger, and the bullet flew at him.
Atlantis: The Lost Empire
2740 words
Faced with a deadline and withheld information, harsh measures must be taken.
Nate Donovan looked out across the small village as it came alive with the rising of the sun. He watched women stoke contained fires in pits as men ground grain into paste for part of the morning meal. Small children chased goats about as the older ones tried to catch the animals. Their milk would be used in the meal, he knew. Everything about this trip fascinated the anthropologist, and he felt nothing could have compared to the last two weeks of his life. Of course, he was well aware that his companions were restless. They’d come seeking information on a mine that the British government had been forced to abandon decades ago, and the natives were none too trusting of white outsiders. Donovan knew his job. His understanding of primitive cultures was meant to assist the expedition in getting these people to tell them what they needed to know. They were beginning to open up, and he felt sure it wouldn’t be much longer. Besides, he had so much more to add to his book. The others would just have to be patient.
“Donovan!”
The man sighed. He loved the accents of Africa, the Arabian, and the Orient, but he could barely hide a wince whenever an American said his name. It sounded so unflattering, even worse than German. And from a woman! He turned and forced a smile. “Miss Sinclair. Did you sleep well?”
“I’d have slept better if we were on our way to the mine,” she answered.
An odd woman, even for an American. Donovan had decided that the first time he met Helga Sinclair. She wore riding boots, even though their trip offered no horses or mules. Rather than clothes suited to her sex, she wore tailored brown pants. Her military coat and long-sleeved shirt had been abandoned nearly the first day of the expedition, leaving only a loose, white undershirt as a mockery of modesty. Her hair was long, kept in a tight braid. Donovan felt sure he’d never seen her without her brown leather gloves to protect her hands. While the material did her no favors, he felt it was some small credit to her to have kept that one trace of feminine fashion about her. A beautiful woman once one got past the masculine traits she tried to adopt, but the Irishman felt her rough exterior hurt any chance she had of attracting a suitor, much less one who would be able to mold her into a proper lady.
“Any day now,” Donovan promised. “Don’t worry about it.”
“What?” the woman narrowed her eyes.
“No need for you to worry,” he said, offering Helga his most gallant smile. “They’ll tell us soon.”
“We don’t—”
“Donovan. Lieutenant.” A second man joined them. Donovan nodded to him while the woman straightened.
Where Helga Sinclair—Donovan could not believe that a woman had somehow joined the Army and earned the rank of lieutenant—was nothing a decent woman ought to be, Captain Lyle Rourke was everything a man could aspire to be. He was a tall man with wide shoulders. His thick stature was toned, pure muscle. Graying hair framed his square jaw, and he wore his Army field uniform with pride, despite being retired and the heat that climbed every minute. When he’d first met the commander, Donovan had been awed. He was not a short man. Even in her boots, Helga was an inch shorter than him, but Rourke dwarfed them both by over a head. His academic lifestyle meant he was nowhere near the fitness of the military-trained man. Having so obviously capable a man along had soothed any worries Donovan had harbored about the expedition.
“Commander,” Helga said.
Donovan smiled. “Rourke.”
“Think we’ll have any luck today, son?” Rourke asked, clapping Donovan on the shoulder.
“We can try talking to the chief again.”
“He’s put us off for two weeks,” Helga butted in. She glared at the men and tapped the holster on her hip. “It’s time to demand answers.”
“Threatening them won’t do anything!”
“Waiting hasn’t done anything, Donovan. It’s time to act.”
“Lieutenant.” Rourke removed his hand from the young man’s shoulder and looked at the woman. Donovan drew himself up, pleased at the admonishment in the commander’s voice. At least someone could make that woman listen.
“We don’t have time for this, Commander.” Her voice had changed. Fury was gone, replaced by a kind of desperation. She looked away, chastised but stubborn.
Rourke sighed. He looked at Donovan apologetically. “She has a point. We’re supplied for five weeks. One to get here, one to get back. We’ve spent two weeks here, waiting, and the mine’s probably at least a few days away.”
“Can’t we send for more supplies?” Donovan asked.
“If we can’t prove we’ve found anything, our backer’s not going to waste more money on us,” Helga snapped. “We’ve already cost him a million.”
Donovan looked between them. The woman narrowed her eyes at him while Rourke’s expression conveyed sympathy but a grudging admittance that the clock was, in fact, running down. “I—I’ll see what I can do.”
“Not good enough.” Helga touched her gun again. “We need answers. Today. One way or another, we’ll get them.”
Rourke chuckled and shook his head. “Let’s not be hasty, Lieutenant.”
“They’ve been jerking us around for two weeks. They’ll be lucky if they don’t have to answer for that.”
“There’s no luck involved,” her commander said. Donovan had to admire how calm the man kept. “You’ll follow orders, Lieutenant. Nothing more, nothing less. Is that understood?”
Donovan frowned. The woman nodded and bowed her head, perfectly docile. But the corners of her lips curled. She reminded him of a panther, stooping low to pounce on its prey. Her voice was smooth and inappropriately amused as she replied, “Yes, Commander.”
The captain looked her over and nodded once. “Good girl.”
Donovan cleared his throat. He had the brief, peculiar sensation that he was intruding on something far more intimate than a scolding. “Captain, we do have an invitation to join the chief for a breakfast.”
“Think you can behave, Lieutenant?”
Helga’s smirk unnerved Donovan. “I won’t do anything against your orders, Commander.”
He resisted the urge to grab her. He wanted to shake her, demand to know what she was thinking. He looked at Rourke, waiting for him to call her on it, make her confess what she was plotting. The soldier, however, just looked at him with a paternal smile.
“Lead the way, Mr. Donovan.”
*****
The meal was consumed in silence. Donovan and the chief ate voraciously and drank deeply. The chief’s young son spent more time watching the strangers than enjoying his meal. Rourke ate but without drive. Helga barely touched the meal before her and only sipped at the goat milk she’d been given.
“We thank you again,” Donovan said after draining his wooden cup, “for opening your village to us.”
The straw-thatched hut, modest in size as it was, contained a fair amount of luxury within. At least what passed for luxury in cultures such as this, Donovan considered. Finely woven mats, richly dyed, were set around the low table, and painted clay bowls held what remained of the food prepared. Ceremonial spears were inlaid with rough rubies. If not for those, he lamented, there would be no reason to assume these people knew anything about the lost mine.
The chief was a remarkable specimen. Donovan had written about him at length in his notes for his book. The man was nearly forty, quite an achievement without the boons of modern medicine. He was still healthy too, likely to live another ten years at least. His son, only five, was in training to be a hunter, as his father had been before him. “A leader must first prove he can provide for his people before he may guide them,” the chief had said once. In a place such as this, Donovan saw the wisdom of such a philosophy.
“You are welcome.” The chief’s English was halting. What little he knew, he had learned from caravans and explorers. Still, Donovan was pleased he knew any at all.
A quiet sound caught his attention. He and the chief glanced around for the source. It wasn’t hard to find.
Miss Sinclair had produced a book of matches. Rourke had one, and he held the wooden end between his teeth. A quaint habit Donovan had observed before in others from Texas, as the Army man was. Helga tore a second match out. Donovan could see five matches left from the look of the book. The woman drew the match head quickly down the table, and it flashed and sparked to life.
Donovan stared at her. If she dropped the match, the rugs and spattering of stalks on the ground would catch fire quickly. The sides and roof of the hut would go next. With the way the village was situated, one hut would pass to the others and reduce everything to ash. He resisted the urge to try and take the match from her. He didn’t dare jar her. The chief seemed to hold his breath as the flame devoured the small stick.
Just before the fingers of her glove might have been singed, Helga blew out the match. She discarded the harmless, charred end on the ground.
“We’ve been very patient.” Rourke’s low, calm voice broke the stunned silence. “However, my men and I are here for a job. We have a deadline to meet.”
The woman struck another match, and everyone but Rourke watched it burn. Like the one before, it was put out and discarded. This one, however, she flicked away from her, and it hit the wall of the hut before falling.
“I cannot help you,” the chief said. He shook his head and tried to focus on Rourke. His attention returned to Helga, though, when she tore off another match and struck it. She blew it out and met his eyes before dropping it.
Rourke frowned. “Now, I don’t like being lied to.” He leaned forward, focused only on the chief. “And my lieutenant here, well.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “She doesn’t like to be kept waiting, and you’ve already done that. If I were you? I wouldn’t test her.”
“Captain!” Donovan slammed his hand on the table as Helga let another match. “Control her! If she drops that, we’ll all be caught in the inferno!”
Helga shook the match until it went out and chuckled. “Not all of us, Mr. Donovan.”
“Captain!” Donovan shouted.
Compliantly, Rourke cleared his throat. “Lieutenant.”
Helga set down her remaining match. Quietly, she replied, “Yes, sir.”
Rourke chewed the wood in his mouth briefly before he removed it to speak again. “We’re not looking for trouble or make any, chief. We just want to know where the mine is. Simple.”
“When those mines were used, the people who had lived here for years were killed and taken as slaves.” The words came out rough, barely able to be understood, but the chief was passionate despite struggling with the language. “I am sorry. I cannot risk that coming here again.”
“Wrong answer,” Helga said. She lit her last match, dropped it to the ground, then crushed the small flame with her boot heel before it could spread. As Donovan and the chief let themselves breathe, the woman rose. Again, the Irishman was struck with the way she resembled a panther on the hunt.
He realized the danger a second too late.
Her hand clutched the small arm of the chief’s son, and she forced the boy to his feet. She drew her revolver, pulled back the hammer, and pressed the barrel against the child’s temple. What unsettled Donovan most was her expression. There was no trace of mania or desperation, no hesitation or tell to indicate a bluff. Instead, she stood calm and resolute. She knew precisely what she was doing.
“Yaw!” The pain and grief in the chief’s voice made Donovan wince.
He looked at Rourke, sure he would stop this madness. However, the captain simply looked between the chief and the woman. He bit the end of the match again.
“Rourke!” Donovan cried. “Do something!”
Rourke shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing I can do, son. All up to the chief now.”
“Release my son,” the chief said.
Helga tightened her hold. The terrified boy didn’t dare struggle. “Where is the mine?”
The chief sighed, defeated. “To the north.”
“How far?” Rourke prompted.
“Three hours. Please, release my son.”
“I will,” Helga answered. “When we find the mine.” She urged the boy forward, out of the hut. Her gun never lowered.
“Stay here,” Rourke ordered the chief.
Donovan followed Rourke out of the hut. His chest ached as the villagers watched them. The women covered their mouths, and the men looked angry. They seemed to know better than to endanger their chief’s son, though, as none made any moved to attack. The small group made its way north.
They passed an empty, harvested field. Only barren stalks remained where the grain had been cut away. Just beyond that was another field. Its harvest was a week away, Donovan had learned. Some native superstition called for separate harvests at different phases of the moon. He’d have to inquire further, he considered. That was the sort of custom that readers always found fascinating.
“Was this necessary?” he demanded as his thoughts returned to his present company and circumstances.
“You weren’t getting results,” Helga replied, urging her hostage on. “And we were out of time.” She shrugged her thin shoulders. “Besides, this worked, didn’t it?”
“You held a gun to a child’s head!” Donovan shouted. He turned to the older man. “Rourke! How can you let her do this?”
“Sometimes you have to be a little forceful, son,” Rourke replied. “Else they won’t take you seriously.” He stopped and glanced back at the village. “Speaking of that,” he muttered, half to himself.
“Rourke?” Donovan stared.
“Lieutenant.” It was a barked order, and Helga stopped. She released the boy and lowered her cocked gun. The child looked around, quivering.
Donovan shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Something made him uneasy. What it was, he couldn’t say. All he knew was that he was waiting for something. Something dangerous.
“Go on,” Helga said. She nudged the small boy in the direction of the village. As soon as he understood, he took off in a run.
“Oh God.” Donovan sighed in relief. “Thank the Lord. I knew you couldn’t be that heartless, Miss Sinclair. I mean, no woman could bring herself to hurt a child, of course.”
Helga continued to watch the boy. After a moment, she nodded. “Commander.”
Rourke followed her gaze, and Donovan followed his. The whole village was out, swarming around the freed captive. Donovan started to smile. It was heartwarming, seeing the community rally around to soothe a frightened child. The otherwise civilized world might do well to take a lesson in compassion and community from these baser societies. They had some things right.
“Time to make our point,” Rourke said.
His words jarred Donovan from his reverie and draw his attack back. He stared at the man. “Captain?”
Rourke removed the match from his mouth and knelt. He flicked the dry head against the side of his boot. He tossed the burning wood into the lush field that had yet to be harvested. The small flame spread fast, growing and devouring the crops. It raced through the grain as the villagers shouted and scrambled for water from their meager meal.
“What have you done?” Donovan cried. “They’ll starve without that food! If the fire spreads to the village—”
“Maybe they’ll learn to answer questions quicker,” Rourke replied.
“They could die!”
Helga shrugged. “Saves us the trouble of dealing with them next time.”
“Are you two insane?”
“Just practical,” the woman replied.
“You could try and help them,” Rourke said. “Looks like a lost cause. Or you can come with us and get rich.”
Donovan gaped at the pair before he took a slow step back from them. “You’re monsters. I’ll make sure people hear about this!” He turned and ran toward the village.
Behind him, he heard Rourke. “Lieutenant.”
Donovan looked in time to see Helga aim her gun. Fear paralyzed him as she pulled the trigger, and the bullet flew at him.
