Gerald—yes, it was definitely Gerald—set his jaw. “Just the ones with more dignity than you.”
Francis bit the inside of his cheek to stop from smiling. Foolish move, talking back to Clyde, but he had to admit, he liked Gerald’s spirit.
“George!”
A sharp cry split the air, and all Francis could wonder wasWho the dickens is George?
“Anya!” the archaeologist—Gerald, or George, Francis supposed—yelled.
The woman appeared at the edge of the rocks, her hair wild, her boots kicking up sand as she sprinted toward them.
She wasn’t armed. No rifle, no knife, nothing but fire in her eyes.
Fear pricked through Francis regardless.
George turned to him, Clyde, and Roy. “You’re all fucked now.”
Anya threw something small and metal, glinting silver in the moonlight. It landed with a clatter at Clyde’s feet. A coin? No. A pocket watch. Clyde’s pocket watch.
Cleo reared up, braying and thrashing against her tether. She must have been spooked, maybe by the watch, maybe by Anya’s sudden charge, but in the chaos, the rope snapped, and one thousand pounds of furious camel bolted straight for Clyde.
The salvagers shouted, scrambling back as the beast barreled forward.
Damn, she’s clever, Francis thought.
But where was the boy? Francis looked around, then spotted a smudge behind a nearby pillar. The little boy. There was something strange about him. He wore his dark hair too long, brushing his shoulders like a girl. And his eyes…they weren’t a color Francis’d ever seen before. Purple as a violet sunset.
Francis averted his gaze, a chill shuddering through him.
He should tell Clyde the boy kept hovering around…but what harm could a little kid do?
Anya darted toward George.
The gunshot cracked through the air before Francis saw Clyde raise the revolver.
Anya’s body jerked, then she collapsed to her knees. She pressed a hand to her side, fingers coming away dark with blood.
George screamed, the sound raw. Francis’s stomach twisted.
It just wasn’t right to shoot a woman, even a crazy one like her.
Clyde barely spared her a glance. “Damn fool,” he muttered. He kicked his watch aside, reloading his gun.
Francis swallowed hard, shifting on his feet.
The desert was still again.
Except for Anya, who closed her eyes, muttering to herself, hand clasped over her wound.
Clyde strode up to Anya, pressed the barrel of his rifle to her head. “Now, you gonna behave, broad? Let Roy put those ropes on your wrist, and we’ll think about letting you live.”
Anya heaved in a ragged breath, still clutching her wound. Roy marched forward, tugging a rope between two meaty hands.
“Get away from her.” A voice cut through the night air as the little boy stepped out from behind a pillar.
Fear curled through Francis. Fear he couldn’t explain. He dropped his bag and staggered back. It didn’t make sense. He was just a boy, younger than him.
Clyde and Roy didn’t appear afraid though. All they did was laugh. “Go sit like a good boy beside your father,” Clyde sneered, “and maybe you won’t experience your first beating.”
