Condemned to Slavery Read Online Free Page B

was in Guenerros , a place currently regarded as a truly pernicious locale.
    Customs officials waited at the gates leading on into the country itself, the will of the pedantic guardians being enforced by the armed soldiers arrayed randomly about the scene.
    A little more accustomed to the heat, she wandered back outside, intending to gain a few pictures to back up her boasts of braving this nightmarish war-torn country, the images conjured by sensationalist headlines strong in her mind and quite contrary when placed against the tensed serenity about her.
    Peeking down the lens she filled the rectangular frame with a watchtower and captured the vision. Inspired to regarding herself as some sort of courageous photojournalist she continued taking in the military sights, snapping off shots until her entire roll of film was exhausted.
    With such evidence to back her claims she could gain attention and awe from those about her at work, and perhaps it would allow her to slot herself more easily into one of the social circles. Her feeble ability at conversation and interaction had left her fairly isolated throughout most of her life, and condemned her to craving attention and importance from afar. She didn’t mind being on her own, in fact she liked that sense of independence, but it would be nice to have people to talk to. Since changing jobs she had been an outsider at her new firm, ignored and spurned because of her timid quietness. These pictures would change all that, they would give her the opening she needed, to simply tell her story and show the shots, let people get to know her a little.
    A hand clamped to her shoulder and spun her about, bringing her face to face with the enraged countenance of a soldier. Rambling loudly in his native tongue, Lydia was left startled and confused, unable to discern what he wanted.
    When he made a grab for her camera she instinctively shied away. Trying again, he caught the flailing strap and in response she hauled at the instrument with a shout, determined not to give it up until she could explain what she had innocently been doing to someone who could actually understand her. For a few seconds they wrestled as she tried to keep her possession away from the soldier, while he sought to remove it from her grasp without employing the full brute force a male opponent could have expected.
    A pair of troops entered the fray, having been drawn by the sight of struggle. Before Lydia noticed them they each snagged an arm and drew it back, forcing her into relinquishing her hold. The soldier yanked away the camera with an irritated snarl, slipped it over his shoulder and drew a pair of handcuffs. Lydia suddenly found fresh energy to fight her captors, seeing herself being arrested for no more than failing to speak the local language.
    Images of all the horror stories she had ever heard about such imprisonment in fragile dictatorships flashed across her thoughts, prompting desperate flight and rash action.
    The kick she swept up into her assailant’s groin was more nervous spasm than intended attack, though its effects were just as debilitating. With a croaking cry the soldier doubled up, clutching his traumatized genitalia and sinking down onto his knees. The pinioning troops increased the strength of their hold, seeking to subdue her resistant mood.
    The pained soldier began to arise, a vindictive scowl playing across his curled lips. With a frantic lunge she attempted to fell him again but he was not to be fooled by the same mode of attack a second time. With a burst of speed he blocked her foot and swung the defending arm around in a wide arc, his backhand slap jerking her face aside and filling her cheek with throbbing heat.
    With a swift motion he drew his side arm, cocked the pistol, and put the muzzle to her temple. Lydia squeaked in mortal shock and closed her eyes, bracing for execution, petrified by this sudden application of deadly jeopardy. As the click of the hammer being drawn back