The Australian shot Yorick a slightly incredulous look.
"She just murdered seven freedom fighters in cold blood out there. Think that constitutes as something." He said something to one of the Chechnans, casually, as if to confirm. A shadow passed over the man's face and he seemed to jump forward, and managed to strike Natalya across the face with a closed fist before one of his comrades and one of the ex-SAS could grab him by the shoulders and pull him back, with some yelling. Natalya kept her eye closed, not from swelling yet, but to keep blood from pooling in it from the open gash on her forehead.
"Hmm." The Australian dropped to a crouch and caught her chin, bringing her face up and peering into her eye.
"Might have addled something loose, there. You should tell me everything I need to know, sweetheart, before I let these boys take out their aggression on you without my supervision."
"The Americans are not hired guns," she said, struggling to form the words and construct the lies through the pain.
"They are escorts. I invite you to kill them. The retribution will be far more severe than that from my country. Though that will come to you as well."
"Eloquent," he murmured, letting go of her chin. "And when will that retribution be finding its way here."
"It depends on how long I was unconscious," she lied again.
"The emergency beacons on our gear go off if a kill code isn't administered within a cyclical time period." Did that sound like a real thing? She was pretty sure it sounded like a real thing. The Australian seemed to be weighing the possibility of it being true. He straightened up and said something sharply, and a few men headed for the stairs at the end of the room of cells.
"Sit tight," he told her, with no trace of irony, and headed off himself. Natalya watched him go, watched the militia trail him down the hallway some and then loiter at the place the stairs emptied into the hall, next to the door, and linger there. They were still being watched, of course, but now they'd be checking the radios and their radar. It was a reprieve. She didn't gasp but let out a harsh breath as her head collapsed forward, neck either unwilling or unable to hold it up. She might have been shaking. Her body was slipping toward shock, between the untended burns, the concussion and the cold.
"Let this be a dream," she whispered, willing it to be true, so that she could wake up.
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"She just murdered seven freedom fighters in cold blood out there. Think that constitutes as something." He said something to one of the Chechnans, casually, as if to confirm. A shadow passed over the man's face and he seemed to jump forward, and managed to strike Natalya across the face with a closed fist before one of his comrades and one of the ex-SAS could grab him by the shoulders and pull him back, with some yelling. Natalya kept her eye closed, not from swelling yet, but to keep blood from pooling in it from the open gash on her forehead.
"Hmm." The Australian dropped to a crouch and caught her chin, bringing her face up and peering into her eye.
"Might have addled something loose, there. You should tell me everything I need to know, sweetheart, before I let these boys take out their aggression on you without my supervision."
"The Americans are not hired guns," she said, struggling to form the words and construct the lies through the pain.
"They are escorts. I invite you to kill them. The retribution will be far more severe than that from my country. Though that will come to you as well."
"Eloquent," he murmured, letting go of her chin. "And when will that retribution be finding its way here."
"It depends on how long I was unconscious," she lied again.
"The emergency beacons on our gear go off if a kill code isn't administered within a cyclical time period." Did that sound like a real thing? She was pretty sure it sounded like a real thing. The Australian seemed to be weighing the possibility of it being true. He straightened up and said something sharply, and a few men headed for the stairs at the end of the room of cells.
"Sit tight," he told her, with no trace of irony, and headed off himself. Natalya watched him go, watched the militia trail him down the hallway some and then loiter at the place the stairs emptied into the hall, next to the door, and linger there. They were still being watched, of course, but now they'd be checking the radios and their radar. It was a reprieve. She didn't gasp but let out a harsh breath as her head collapsed forward, neck either unwilling or unable to hold it up. She might have been shaking. Her body was slipping toward shock, between the untended burns, the concussion and the cold.
"Let this be a dream," she whispered, willing it to be true, so that she could wake up.