What greeted her was not likely what Ghanima was expecting.
The sound behind her was another series of sizzles and pops of electricity as the storm deposited another new arrival in the street behind her. A naked man. A wet and naked man.
James Ford had been in the middle of taking a bath in the ocean on the mystery island he'd been living on since Flight 815 had crashed, stranding him and the other forty-something survivors, when the storm had appeared suddenly and out of thin air only to disappear seconds later, depositing the con-man known as Sawyer in the middle of the hell-hole that was St. Croix.
His eyes narrowed as he scowled. Scowled at the fact that the world had, suddenly and inexplicably, changed around him. He'd wanted off the island, but a deserted city that looked like it'd been on the losing side of war was hardly what Sawyer would've called an upgrade. He scowled, especially, at his noticeable lack of clothes.
"Bite me, blondie," he snapped at the knife-wielding girl.