The desert wind whispered, hot and dead, a weight nearly as oppressive as the old man blocking her path. Her companions were outside the tent, all of them forced to their knees at gunpoint. "Now, Miss Davison, just hand over the book and head back to England like a proper lady. Egypt is no place for pretty little things like you." The old man smiled, the expression slimy and cold. Thick glasses obscured pale eyes.
"It's Doctor Davison, Mr. Forde," she corrected tersely. "And you'll have my notes when the rest of the scientific community does." Her hand tightened on the bound notebook in her hand. Mr. Forde sighed, gesturing. The sounds of guns cocking cracked through the heavy air, the native workers shouting in alarm.
"Let's not make this difficult, Miss Davison. The book, or their lives." Her eyes narrowed as her lips thinned. The book wavered as it lowered into his hand. Reluctantly, she released it. Mr. Forde passed to a young man on his left, American by the accent she'd heard on their last visit.
"The leg, Boris," Forde ordered. The gunshot cracked through the heat of the Saharan desert, echoing. Naomi grabbed her pistol from her work table, crying out in pain as his cane came down on her hands. His lips were at her ear. "I told you, Egypt is no place for girls like you. Pleasure doing business with you, Miss Davison." He released her, turning on his heel. The three men he'd brought with him followed, two walking backwards with their weapons trained on her and her people.
"You will not get away with this!" she shouted, injured hand to her chest. He did not pause.
"I already have."
My characters: Dr. Naomi Davison, Mr. Forde
