Sanctuary's Warlord (PAPERBACK)

“Hello,” I greet him as I approach, aiming for a disarming, light tone. Hoping my light, friendly attitude will give the lie I’m about to make some added authenticity. “Nice morning for a hunt, eh?”
Hunting fresh meat is one of the most common reasons to leave the city. Hunting is tough though. There isn’t much to hunt in the desert unless a person makes their way to the mountains and I’m not equipped for that lie. No bag, no back-up and only one weapon.
He doesn’t acknowledge my greeting. Says nothing until I’ve halted a few feet away from him. I stand with my arms loose at my side, my right hand near the base of my rifle, ready to fight if I have to. I’ve made it this long without capture, I’ve no intention of being taken now.
Finally, he speaks. “Give me the documents.”
Fuck.
Somehow he knows.
I widen my eyes innocently and reach into my vest, pulling out my city residency and re-entry papers. He takes them from me, glances over them and then drops them in the dirt. My mouth falls open. Those papers are worth more than clean water. They’re my passport to safety. Though fake, they’re still worth a lot.
I bend to pick up the papers before they can drift away in the hot breeze, but he steps forward and grabs my arm, stopping me. I gasp and become rigid in his hold. No one has taken hold of me without my permission in years. He’s close enough that I can feel the heat from his big body, smell the masculine sweat. His grip doesn’t hurt, but it’s solid. Probably unbreakable.
“The other documents.” His voice is menacing and rings with authority.
My mouth goes dry. Out here in the desert, away from the city, though we aren’t far, there is no law and order. And while the justice system in Sanctuary is fractured and vastly unfair, it’s something. This man could too easily snap my neck and walk away from my dying body. No one would know what happened or where to find me. The only people who would care about my disappearance are rebel friends.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whisper.
At first I don’t think he hears me, my voice carried away in the wind. But then he leans closer, until our faces are only inches apart. He lifts a hand, tugs his scarf down and removes his sunglasses revealing his entire face.
Diogo Fuentes.
I’ve only ever seen him at a distance, but recognition is as swift as a punch to the stomach. His strong, rugged features with grim lips and flat eyes are recognizable to every person held hostage within his city. This man has stolen the freedom of nearly 200,000 people, dictating their lives. He is the enemy in a world filled with despair and fear. He’s everything I despise.