Africa

Lara stepped out on the tarmac on the airfield of Wadi Halfa, a town in northern Sudan not far from the Egyptian border.
Now, she had to travel east through the desert, through practically nothing.
She would set of as soon as she had passed through customs.
Walking over the tarmac, dressed in khaki pants and matching shirt to not show off too much of her body to the corrupt customs officials, Lara hoped that she could get through without too much trouble.
Not known to Lara, a mysterious stranger dressed in traditional Bedouin clothing stood in the tower and watched her, smiling calmly.
The British bitch would soon learn the cost of going up against the Hand.
The customs officers were also smiling when they saw Lara come walking towards them, for it was not often that such a fine-looking woman, especially a white one, came within their grasp.
And the dumb whore thought that she could avoid trouble through dressing in baggy clothes.
That would not help her, not if they played their cards right, it wouldn’t.