He signaled to the other insurgent, who obeyed and moved forward, grabbing the dead man's ankles and hauling him out.
Brady wore PMF gray. He was one of them.
The laser gun was at his side. He stepped towards her, and she inched away. Her gaze went again to the pool of blood, then to the thick swath of red marking the trail of the dead man. She pushed herself away from him as he took another step towards her, a newfound horror creeping through her.
Beyond concerned, Brady crossed to the trembling woman and squatted. She shook like a leaf in a thunderstorm, her warm brown eyes wide and tears streaming down her cheeks. Donovan's blood was on her face and T-shirt, and her wrist was bleeding again. The idea of the idiot raping her infuriated him.
"Aw, hell," Dan said as he appeared in the doorway.
"She's okay," Brady said, not entirely convinced.
As a warrior who spent his adult life at battle, he wasn't really keen on how to comfort a woman who had seen three things she'd likely never witnessed before in the span of five minutes. He doubted she'd ever been in a situation where she'd barely escaped being raped, and he knew she'd never shot anyone or seen anyone's head get blown off in front of her.
Donovan had gotten pretty damn far, he admitted. She was down to her underwear and a T-shirt. A minute more, and he'd have been too late. She huddled against the trunk, too terrified to make a sound. He held out a hand to her, and she withdrew further.
Brady looked at Dan, who shook his head.
"Burn her clothes," he said. "Issue an order to the men. The girl's mine."
As the PMF commander of the Appalachia Branch, his word would hold, especially when his men heard he'd blown off Donovan's head for hurting her. In the paramilitary organization that relied on secrecy and loyalty to survive, the soldiers followed the man they trusted most. He'd gone from one world to the other easily; it was in his blood, the blood of his father and grandfather.
The woman before him had never known any other world but her own. She definitely wouldn't understand a world like this one.
He reached for her, as gentle as possible when she struggled. He picked her up and strode out of the tent and through the camp, ignoring the catcalls of the men around him. He took her to his tent. Though he did live in a tent, he liked to think he lived as comfortable as possible. It resembled a studio apartment with a real bed and dresser, a restroom cordoned off by opaque curtains in one corner, a small study where he kept his war docs, a kitchenette, rugs, and a small living area. He set her down on a rug.