Where the hell was Rick? He was supposed to provide protection for her, including evacuation if needed. Well, it sure looked to the beautiful daughter of the Ambassador as if evacuation was needed. And it would be needed pretty soon. Macho Rick, with his long blonde surfer locks and his carefully developed muscleman physique, had made a show of checking the load in his big magnum handgun, and then telling her to stay put while he got a car so they could leave the city. Sarah had locked the door behind him and watched the government-controlled television until the station suddenly went off the air. They had been playing public service announcements as if thousands of angry citizens were not at that very moment shooting the Palace guards and trying to oust a dictator. Then she took to watching the once-proud city go up in flames. The sharp crack of small arms fire provided the soundtrack.
With a nervous glance towards the suitcase sitting by the door, Sarah again wished that Rick would hurry back. Her hand tugged nervously at the string of pearls hanging down from her slender neck. When she caught sight of herself in the large mirror, she was surprised at the women who looked back. Her usual happy smile was gone, as were her usual bright colored clothes. Replacing them, at Rick’s insistence, was a black pants suit, low heels and a dark blue blouse, an outfit that would not stand out at night and would allow her to move quickly and unhampered. The cascade of golden hair around her shoulders stood out against the black material but she had no hat to hide it.
Yet again she cursed her decision to stay behind with her father when most of the Embassy staff had fled the country. At first it had been exciting to be an actual part of a revolution; the protests, the mobs, and skirmishes with police and troops. But that afternoon she had seen her first death and suddenly things were different. She had trouble ridding her mind of the image of a Marine guard standing only a few feet from her when a sniper’s bullet exploded his head and splattered her dress with his blood. She had screamed and fled back to their apartment. The revolution was suddenly not so very exciting at all.
The crack of handguns mixed with the staccato of automatic weapons fire masked the almost silent approach of the dark figure behind her, his footsteps further muted by the plush carpet. Only when he was directly behind her did she begin to turn. Suddenly a gloved hand clamped across her mouth, stifling the cry of surprise before it could form. She struggled, but male strength prevailed and she felt herself being forced down to the carpet. With his knee in the small of her back, he pinned her to the floor. His head came down close to hers, and he told her, “Make any noise and I’ll break your arm.”