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Chapter 4: Diogo

I stare down at the woman, finally within my reach. The Desert Wren.

Named after the elusive prey animal because this mysterious woman is able to flit through my security with the speed and ease of a small bird and lead her flock to safety. She is also rumoured to be small and plain, like the wren. I believe the woman in front of me to be one and the same, though none of my people have managed to set eyes on her. A thorn in the side of both military and police for years, she's managed to avoid capture, her identity a complete mystery. Though we suspected she was rebel allied, she could've been an elite. Hell, she could've been an officer.

Not at all as I'd imagined her, this woman seems a pathetic creature. Shaking, barely lifting her eyes off the ground when I speak. Her face is purposely covered in dirt, her clothes are those of the poorer factions of the city, worn and frayed. She is small, not a characteristic that is highly regarded in a society that needs big, strong people to survive.

Yet when I hold her arm I sense a stiffening, a reserve, not the subservience she's trying to sell me.

My blood rushes in anticipation. After years of searching for this woman, this legendary enigma, I finally have her in my hands. I can detect her delicate scent, made more noticeable by the heat of the sun and the heavy clothes she's chosen to wear for protection.

"Give me the papers now."

She tilts her chin fractionally, her eyes lifting to mine for a second before dropping. That second was long enough for me to see fire, rage and defiance in those intriguing grey depths. I want to eat her alive, throw her in the dirt and show her how well-earned my brutal reputation is. I want to accept her as the prey animal I've caught in my trap and allow the savage hunter inside me free reign with this sweet little morsel.

"Do you know who I am?" Though I soften my voice slightly the menace is still there.

She doesn't speak.

I glance down her body. Though rough, her clothes are not ill-fitting. Thick, hardy and snug to her form, they are built to protect her from the wall and the blazing sun as she walks a distance into the desert.

Without warning, I drag the rifle from her and toss it away. Then I spin her around so she's facing away from me. She squeaks in protest and struggles, wriggling in my hold as I run my hands over her body. First her pants, looking for pockets. There are none. I run my fingers across her middle, running them inside her waistband to see if there's anything tucked away. She grips my wrist and tries to yank as I slide my hand down the front of her pants. Her strength against mine is negligible, like a child's.

"Stop it!" she hisses, her fingernails scrabbling at my skin.

I ignore her fight, turn her back around and reach for her vest, gripping the fabric at the neck. I tear down the front until the entire thing is shredded and laying open. As I bare her, papers tumble out, falling to the dirt at our feet.

I reach for them as she dives for her rifle. I catch her by the back of her hood, no doubt catching hair too, and drag her with me as I grab a fistful of papers. Some are caught by the wind and carried away. It doesn't matter. I have more than enough evidence right here to arrest and prosecute the little rebel. I keep a tight hold on her, ignoring her flailing arms while I flip quickly through the papers. Yes, these are exactly what I need.

I wave them in front of her face. "Explain," I demand, using my grip on her hood and hair to tip her face up.

The dirt smeared all over her creamy face bothers me. I can't tell what she truly looks like. Just the general features. Sharp chin and wide grey eyes that dominate a petite face. I shove her hood back and pull a handful of hair from where it's been tucked into the back of her vest dragging it foreword. It straggles down around her shoulders, a dull brown colour, but I can tell that it's dirty, filled with desert dust. It'll probably shine much brighter when it's clean. The curves of her small breasts are just visible from beneath the two halves of her torn vest. Her breastbone and ribcage are clearly visible. I have an urge to see her cleaned up. See what she really looks like.

"I was meeting some friends before my hunt. They asked me to hold onto their papers until we meet up, so they wouldn't be lost or destroyed." She's speaking fast, her voice is strong, though there is a quaver to her tone.

"You lie." The untruth makes me angry. I despise liars. I shake her by the hair. Her hands fly up to grip my wrist, but she can't loosen the hold.

"I'm not," she insists.

"These," I shove the papers in her face, "are a forgery. I know this because I set up the entire scenario. I made up the Puerto Ricans. Gave them names, lives, a past. Whatever you needed to play your little game."

Her mouth opens but she doesn't speak. She has nothing left to say. She's been caught red-handed. The look of horror that flashes across her face before she can smother it is sweet to behold. I have finally captured the illusive Desert Wren, the woman I've been seeking for so long I was starting to doubt she actually existed. Now she belongs to me.

Somehow this idea has taken on new meaning. I've wanted to get my hands on her for so long that my motivation to do so has grown unclear, fuzzy. Through the years, her daring and intelligence had morphed from annoying to intriguing. With each new report that she'd somehow managed to smuggle more people into the city, my anger had gradually turned to curiosity and finally pride. The police mandate has always been to capture and prosecute rebels involved in illegal activities. My plan should be to extract information on the growing rebel faction in the city. My methods are not nice and I don't soften for women, particularly criminals. If I deal with her as a traitor of the city, she will be tortured and then expelled or killed.

But even before I came here today, took on the task of capturing this rebel leader, I knew this wasn't going to be the plan. I've admired her from afar for years. Such a creature can't simply be torn apart by our city justice. It would be blasphemy to dispose of her once she's deemed no longer useful. Her bright spark, the daring and defiance, the steel core of morality that I've seen in her actions shouldn't be snuffed out by the heavy hand of the Authority. I won't allow it.

She still has vital information that I need. And though the idea doesn't sit well I know I'll have to hand her over for processing. She'll need to be charged and prosecuted. I am the highest representative of the very Authority I want to save her from.

"What is your name?"

She remains stubbornly silent, her eyes now fixed on the distant horizon, no doubt planning her next move.

I grip her neck and tip her head forward, looking for her marker. She gasps and stiffens under my harsh grip. No tattoo mars the flesh of her shoulder, only a small, pale scar. Not surprising as she's a suspected rebel and the first thing they do is find a way to get rid of their identification tattoo.

I'm deeply curious about her. I want to know everything. Her name, her place of origin, her placement in the rebellion. I will get these things out of her. But it appears I may have to be more patient than usual if I don't wish to damage her. Looking down at the delicate creature, I realize that harming her is the opposite of what I want from her.

"You will regret not giving me what I want now, Wren." She frowns, her lips parting as though she wants to say something, but then her face smooths out and she continues to stare away from me. Though she's no longer fighting me, I feel that this small act is a defiance. That she's placing herself above me by refusing to speak. She will regret this as well. I drag her face up to mine, forcing her onto her toes and growl, "By the time I'm done with you, I'll make you beg to give me the information I seek."

Her eyes finally move to mine. Instead of fear I see only fire. "And I will make you wish you'd never met me, Diogo Fuentes."

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