"Sons of bitches," she cursed, the words coming out in defiance of the guns and the wrist-binding. For what else was there for her to do but throw up her hands in surrender? That old survival instinct seemed to be alive, somehow, and pushing them to use those weapons was an option turned aside.
(Karen's awareness was still reeling—pushed off the solid ground, topsy-turvy. On the road one minute, smashed apart the next. Enemies swarming from the smoke.)
She gave the two men a glacial look. A distant awareness of cuts and blossoming bruises began to form at the back of her mind, but she ignored it. Karen stood straighter, with both boots planted firm on the ground.
"What now?" The question came out for no one particular man.