Mercenary's Honor. Sharron McClellan
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I could live without the constant leg-humping.”
Tony gave a feeble chuckle. “That was my favorite part.”
Shouting in the courtyard caught her attention. “Be right back,” Fiona said. Letting go of his hand, she crawled back to the edge of the balcony and peered over. Montoya was yelling. Pointing.
Seconds later, the sound of a door splintering made her tremble. Montoya’s men were in the building. They’d be on her in a few minutes. She’d have to hide Tony until she could come back with help. She crawled back to him. “I’ll be back soon,” she promised. “With Angel. I’m going to get you out of here.”
She froze.
Tony stared at the sky. His chest no longer rose and fell. She swallowed back a cry of despair. “Tony?”
Nothing. She touched him. “Anthony?” He was dead. For a moment, she stared at the corpse, oblivious to anything but his sightless eyes. Then shouts reached her ears.
Montoya’s men.
Panic roared through her body. She clenched her hands into tight fists. Focus, she told herself. Focus, Fiona. Focus or die.
Taking a deep, controlled breath, she forced the rising panic to the back of her mind then exhaled. Her pulse slowed. She unclenched her fists.
Time to run.
Wiping the blood off her palms and onto her denim-covered thighs, she closed Tony’s eyes with a shaky hand, popped the microtape out of the camera and stuck it in the front pocket of her jeans.
Retracing the route she and Tony had taken to break in to the ancient apartment complex, she hunched over to keep her profile low and hurried through the French doors and into the empty hotel room. The sound of feet echoed in the stairwell. The men were almost at her floor.
Although it was risky to enter the open hallway, Fiona hurried across the few feet of the narrow passage and into the opposite room, easing the door shut behind her.
Out in the hallway, the men reached the fourth-floor landing.
Fiona ran for the window and swung both feet over the ledge. Dropping to the roof a few feet below her, she landed on her toes for silence. Even though she stood outside and with the door closed, the soldier’s speech carried through the thin walls. She froze, listening.
“Esta vacío,” someone shouted.
It’s empty. They’d found the camera and checked.
“Encuentre a su socio.”
Find his partner. They knew about her. They knew. She put her hand over her mouth to keep from throwing up.
Angel Castillo stared at the shot of mescal in front of him, debating if it was too soon in the day to have a drink. Wasn’t it Alan Jackson who sang that it was “five o’clock somewhere”?
He picked up the shot glass and turned it around, letting the sunlight filter through the pale yellow liquid.
“Isn’t it a little early for that?” Juan asked as he wiped down the top of the bar.
“Then why did you serve me?”
“Because you tip well.”
Angel shrugged. His mother had been a waitress, working at a diner, and the nights she came home with little more than a few crumpled bills outnumbered the nights she came home with bulging pockets.
He knew the food business was difficult. Even more so when it was in a crap-hole like Bogotá, Colombia.
He set the glass down, and Juan slid a cup of coffee in front of him. “Try this.”
“I’ve tasted your coffee. It’s more lethal than any bullet.”
“Yeah?” Juan laughed. “At least you’ll be awake to hear the shot.”
Angel shrugged and took a sip. The brew was thick. Black. And possibly illegal in some countries. If not, it should be.
“Bad night?” Juan asked as he put away glasses from last night’s patrons, a combination of locals and tourists that never failed to amuse.
Angel glanced at Juan over the rim of the mug. A few weeks ago, when he’d come in at two in the morning, bleary-eyed and almost incoherent from lack of sleep, he’d told the bartender about the nightmares.
Mostly, Angel didn’t remember them. He wasn’t sure if that made them better or worse. What he did remember were the emotions they heaped on him. Anger. Remorse. The sense of helplessness.
“The dreams?” Juan pressed.
Angel raised a brow. This was the last time he confided in a bartender.
Juan shrugged. “Hey, if you need to talk, let me know.”
“You going to ask me about my feelings next?” Angel asked. The corners of his mouth turned up a notch to show there was jest beneath the words. “Should we bond? Perhaps do each other’s makeup, eat ice cream, and watch a Hugh Grant movie?”
Juan chuckled. “Kind of girlie to ask you if you want to talk, huh?”
Angel held his index and thumb an inch apart. “A notch.”
“Blame it on Maria,” Juan said. “She says we all should be more attuned to those around us.”
Angel chuckled and sipped the coffee. Juan was smitten with the freedom fighter. Hell, everyone was smitten with her, and it wasn’t just her beauty. It was true that her long wavy hair, dusky skin, and green eyes captured the attention of men, but her passion held it. Passion for her people. For her country. For the truth.
Maria was a force of nature, and while her enthusiasm for the RADEC cause wasn’t something he shared, he admired her for it. She inspired not just him but thousands of people.
He pushed the shot of mescal away. “I don’t think I’ll need this today.”
Fiona crouched in an alley, watching the doorway of Tierra Roja and surprised to see movement inside before noon. It was hard to believe anyone would drink at ten in the morning, but this was Colombia. Sometimes, the only way to get through the day was with the edges of life a little blurred.
She looked up and down the street. Cars. People. Men with large guns. It was a day like any other in Bogotá.
Running her hands over her bloodstained jeans, she wished she could change clothes, but she didn’t dare go back to her hotel. Montoya might not know who Anthony was—or his partner—but he’d figure it out. With her luck, sooner rather than later.
She stood, knees shaking. “Come on, Fiona,” she whispered to herself. “Just get across the street, and you’ll be safe.”
Trying to appear nonchalant, she waited until the road was clear of traffic and hurried across. Without breaking pace, she pushed her way into the bar then slammed the door behind her. Taking a deep breath, she leaned against the scarred wooden slab.
“Are you well, señorita?” the bartender asked.
She glanced around the room. Other than the bartender, there was one other patron. Dressed in jeans, a black T-shirt and black boots, he had a cup of coffee and a shot of something in front of him.
He sipped the coffee, not showing any awareness she’d entered.
Great, a drunk, she thought, heading toward the far end of the bar. However, as she drew closer, she scrutinized him with a reporter’s observational skills and had to admit he looked good for a drunk. Big. Muscled and in shape. Black hair clipped neat and short, but not military tight. A professional of some sort.
Angel perhaps? But he could just as easily be one of Montoya’s men. She stopped short, then realized she’d have to take a chance either way. She continued across the floor and leaned against the bar a few feet away. Closer still, she noticed there were circles beneath the man’s eyes, and