"Who dares to touch the warlord?"
The silver-haired woman's voice cracked through the library like a gunshot, freezing the very air. The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light from the windows, illuminated by the fading thunder of helicopter blades.
For a moment, no one moved or breathed.
Then Janet let out a choked, disbelieving chuckle. "Warlord?"
Malik, bleeding on the floor, moved with startling speed. Pushing through obvious pain, he staggered to his feet, deliberately placing himself between the woman and the others. As he stumbled, he made contact with her arm—a brief, purposeful pressure. His good eye locked with hers in a fierce, silent command.
The woman, Director Crof, froze mid-stride, the deference in her posture vanis
