Hidden Sanctuary
"Son of a—"
A sharp elbow in my side, courtesy of my right-hand man and lead technician, Pete Calandar, made me bite the whispered expletive in half.
It was two in the morning, and we hid in the shadows of the large maintenance tent that rested at the edge of our small, ten-member camp. I shivered in the night air, wishing I'd taken the time to slip on a pair of shoes. It was winter in the desert, almost December, which meant that while the days were hot but bearable, the nights were as cold as Massachusetts in the middle of a snowstorm.
I had bigger worries than frostbite. Beyond our hiding place and outlined by moonlight, some of the locals were sabotaging my oil rig and ruining my progress.
Technically, the destruction in front of me should not be happening. My company was allowed to drill on Nubian land due to mutual agreement—but not everyone in the local village felt we had the right to be in their desert.
Oddly enough, it was the younger people who were the least receptive to our presence. That, or they were the most bored and we were the easiest people to annoy. The distinctive sound of twisting ... read full excerpt from: Hidden Sanctuary ebook
