Chapter One –

No one ever dreamed we would lose the war.

No one ever thought the bad guys would win. Or that, possibly, we were the bad guys.

Even at our lowest, when our soldiers were outnumbered, our leaders had gone into hiding, our children defending their homes with the guns of the fallen, we thought we would persevere. When the order was given to release prisoners if they promised to fight we were scared but we thought we would win.

Until it happened.

It.

We huddled around TVs; we crowded around radios. We watched the news anchors and listened to the radio commentators deliver the final blow to our confidence.

"We have just learned the President has ceded to the demands of..."

Most called him a coward. Some called him a traitor. A few called him smart.

There was hope that things would get better. With no war, there could be a rebuilding of the country, a renaissance, much like after the second World War. We waited for the boon. We anticipated more jobs. Better pay. The good schools that had been closed down would open again. Our children would learn more than firearm safety and air raid drills.

The boon we waited for never came.

Those with money – the ones who had been smart and converted their fortune to gold and silver – fared best. Money begets power begets more money begets more power.

The ones in charge call themselves The Establishment. They've taken our land, our homes. They've raped, pillaged, and murdered in the name of the Greater Good. Whoever tries to fight is killed on the spot if they're lucky. The unlucky go to prison.

Given the choice, many would rather die.

There have been some who continue to fight. Legends abound of modern-day Robin Hoods that appear at night. They slay the foot soldiers of The Establishment and rescue those being mistreated. Then they steal away into the night. Into the shadows that have become the friend of those who refuse to bend.

No one knows their names. But everyone knows they're out there.

Watching.

Waiting.

The bindings on her wrists burned her flesh, but Amara Turner continued to pull at them. From the opposite corner she could hear the chuckle of the man. The sound made her stomach roil; her celebratory dinner earlier was now a regret. Jerking on the ropes, she cried out in frustration when they refused to budge.

"I love it when they fight." His voice was greasy, much like the used car salesmen her grandparents had once told her about. Slick, as though he could sell a plot of swamp land in Arizona to an unsuspecting customer.

Except this man was no salesman. He was a soldier, unless he had stolen the uniform he wore. He was pot-bellied, balding, and missing three of his front teeth. His tongue was as slimy as his voice and just the memory of his unwanted kiss made her gag. He smelled of cigarettes and liquor, and she could still taste the copper of his blood. She was glad she had bitten him even if it had resulted in a knee to the stomach.

"Such a pretty thing. I think I'll keep you around for a while." He advanced; the bare bulb swinging from the ceiling highlighted his pale face. Standing at the foot of the bed he licked his lips, grubby fingers unbuttoning the uniform jacket.

Amara grimaced. She knew what was going to happen. She'd heard the stories, seen the results when she'd done her rounds in the hospital. If she was lucky, he would kill her. She felt his hands on her ankles, making sure she was strapped down. The bed creaked, mattress dipping, as he climbed over her. The stench of his breath made her turn her head. Kill me, she thought, struggling beneath him.

"That's right, keep fighting. Make me work for it." He was laughing as he slapped her. Clammy hands pushed at her skirt, ragged nails scratching at her thighs. Amara closed her eyes, fighting nausea as she felt him settle between her legs.

She gave up her struggles when he pushed her thighs further apart. If he was going to do it, there was no way she could stop him. She focused on the burn of the ropes at her ankles and wrists. The steady thrum of rain on the roof. Anything but what he was going to do. The musty stench of the one-room shack. Opening her eyes she watched the light bulb, still swinging, cast shadows on the far wall. He'd left a cigarette burning in the ashtray and its smoke curled towards the ceiling.

The sharp pain of teeth in her flesh forced her attention back to him. The underside of her left breast throbbed in agony and she cried out.

"Go ahead. I want to hear you scream." Blood was on his lower lip. Her blood. Beads of perspiration trickled down his forehead, and revulsion welled up again when he loomed over her. His shirt was gone. "No one's going to hear you."

She pressed her lips together to keep from screaming, giving one more futile tug at her bounds when he began to unzip his pants. She couldn't see what he was doing but got the idea when she saw his arm moving in short, rapid thrusts. Then his hand was on her, clumsily yanking at her panties.

Even though he wanted it, even though she didn't want to give in, she screamed. She heard his pleased laugh, felt hot tears well in her eyes. And she waited for the inevitable.

He made a strange gasping sound. His body lurched then began to slump. Opening her eyes, Amara stared as he fell to the side. With the brunt of his weight over her thigh she could do nothing but look on as blood began to seep from his chest.

A gloved hand rested on his shoulder, pushing him to the floor. She slowly looked up to see a dark-haired man, dressed in black. The sword in his hand was smeared with blood. His lips were set in a grim line as he dropped the sword. Without speaking, he drew a knife from his belt and leaned to cut the ropes at her ankles. Rain drops glittered in his hair. When he turned to do the same to her wrists she saw the hair on the right side of his head was a contrasting blonde.

Once free, she scrambled back on the bed, numb fingers pulling her skirt down. There was blood on her leg. His?

From the floor came a gurgling noise, the scrape of metal against concrete. The man by the bed sighed and bent over. Still silent, he raised the knife then plunged it down. The resulting silence was welcome. He straightened, wiping the blade of his knife on the dirty sheet before tucking it away.

"Are you okay?" he asked. She nodded, struck dumb by his actions, and he moved to look at the items scattered over the small table.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He didn't acknowledge the words, picking up a glass. Wiping the inside with the soldier's handkerchief, he gave it a sniff then reached for the bottle on the table. He splashed some of the liquid into the glass, paused, then added more. Crossing the room, he held out the glass. "Water."

She cupped it in both hands, watching him over the rim as she sipped. He moved with ease, barely making a sound as he rummaged through the cabinet. What was he going to do? He picked up the soldier's jacket, checking the pockets, then squatted over the dead man. Amara finished the water but held onto the glass. Just in case.

"Come on." He was upright again, stuffing something into one of the pockets of his vest. "Let's go."

Slowly, she crawled from the bed. As she stood on shaky legs, the patter of rain was all she could hear. Small holes in the tin roof allowed the rain to drip in, where it splashed against the cement flooring. In the distance there were sirens, traffic, all the sounds of the city she had once loved. But here, now, everything was blotted out by the rain.

And him.

Even the smells were gone; those horrid odors that had plagued her since she had been dragged into the shack hours before. If she breathed deeply she may find them again so she kept her inhalations shallow. The faint, musky aroma of him was almost comforting.

He was almost comforting.

Her knees buckled and he clutched at the front of his black vest out of necessity and fear. Four little words had endeared him to her, made her realize he wasn't another predator. The one who had meant harm was dead – if she could turn her head she would see his body. The thought of him, though, made her think of what had almost happened. What would have happened, were it not for...

She felt stupid for crying. She was a grown woman, after all, and should be able to handle herself. The relief was too much, though, and she held onto the front of his black vest, the rough fabric scraping her cheek. When his hand touched her shoulder she tensed and began to draw away.

"Sorry," she whispered, wiping at her eyes with her fingers. In the low light she saw him looking at her strangely.

"You're a nurse?"

Instantly her hand covered the red cross on the right side of her neck. It was a required adornment. Upon completion of studies everyone was tattooed with emblem of their chosen field. Whoever refused was not given a employment. "Not officially. I'm supposed to start tomorrow."

"But you graduated."

"Yes."

"Good." He stooped, coming back up with her shoes in one hand. "I need someone with medical knowledge."

Sensing his urgency, she hurriedly stepped into the secondhand black pumps and took the jacket he found on the floor. Hers, she realized as she pushed her arms through the sleeves. "Why?"

"A friend of mine was hurt this afternoon." He looked around before facing her again. "Will you help him?"

"How was he hurt?"

"We can talk while we move." He seemed antsy now. "If you don't want to—"

"I'll help him." She didn't object when he gently grasped her arm. At the door, she whirled around to face him. "Thank you. I don't know if I told you that or not."

"You did." He reached past her to switch out the light, casting the shack into total darkness. "What's your name?"

"Amara." She brought her jacket closer around her when he opened the door, the rain sweeping in on them. "Yours?"

"Seth."

Hand on her arm, he guided her out into the rain. Into the shadows.

A/N: Yep. I know.

Special thank you to Nikki, Lou, and Amber for their support and encouragement in writing this. And to Jojo for her ongoing enthusiasm for my work. You four ladies are the best and I love you!