Mercenary's Honor. Sharron McClellan
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himself. Grief could wait. So could anger. “Did Montoya see you?”
She hesitated then shook her head. “I don’t think so, but he knows someone was there. I heard his men talking. I won’t have long until they put it all together.”
Damn it.
“Juan.” He grasped the sobbing man’s shoulder. “I need you to check the perimeter. We need to know if she was followed. Can you do that?”
Juan nodded, wiped his eyes and left through the front door, shutting it firmly behind him.
Fiona watched Juan leave. “He loved her, didn’t he?”
“He did.”
“I’m so sorry,” Fiona whispered.
“Me, too,” Angel said. “But I need you to tell me what happened. Everything.” Maybe there was something she’d forgotten. Something he could use to get her out of the mess she’d created.
“I’ve told you everything,” Fiona said.
“Everything?” Angel asked. “I need more details.”
“There is nothing else.” Her eyes darted to the left and she reached up, twirling a strand of hair. “They died, and I ran until I walked through those doors.”
Liar. He heard it in her voice and saw it in the physical tells she unconsciously displayed.
Of course, it was possible that whatever information she was hiding meant nothing of consequence. But he couldn’t take that chance. His gut told him to get all the information. Most people ignored gut instinct. He wasn’t one of them.
“You’ve left something out of your story.” Elbows on the table, Angel templed his hands in front of his mouth. “In fact, when I think about it, you’ve left out quite a bit.”
“Like what?” Fiona picked at a sliver of wood that stuck up from the table.
“Like why. Why were you two there? Spying for RADEC?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
He didn’t believe her. “Tony worked with RADEC, and you know it.”
Fiona’s hand stilled. “He was a member of RADEC?”
The surprise was real. She wasn’t lying, at least not about that. Damn. But she was lying about something. “Fiona, I need you to talk to me. Tell me everything, or I can’t help you.”
Her gaze shot up. “There’s nothing more to tell. Tony died. The last thing he told me was to come to you for help.”
“Then he trusted me, and you’d do well to do the same. If you can’t do that then leave. Now.”
The fact that he meant it surprised him. He wasn’t one to get involved, not anymore, but if he did, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be under false pretenses.
Not even for Tony.
Fiona buried her head in her hands. “I’m sorry.” When she looked up, she still appeared calm, but the guilt beneath the surface was almost tangible. “I was afraid if you knew, you might take the tape.”
“Tape?” An unwelcome and unwanted déjà vu rippled up his spine.
“Yes. A tape. I’m a TV reporter,” Fiona explained. “Tony and I were filming a story. Our big break.” She laughed, but it was hollow and almost hysterical. “We got it, too. We recorded Maria’s execution.”
His hazel eyes wide, Angel stared at her. For a minute, Fiona wasn’t sure if he was going to slap her or kiss her. “Tony died for a story?” he asked, though she didn’t think it was a question but more of a private confirmation.
She waited.
“You’re a reporter?”
Definitely a question this time. “I don’t do local news. Nothing like the weather, or traffic reports.” He still seemed confused, suspicious and, if she wasn’t imagining it, hurt.
“Well, I did,” she said, continuing to explain, “but not anymore. I report on stories that matter.” She realized how lame and trite the statement sounded and shut up before she said any more.
Too late, she realized as Angel’s hazel eyes darkened. She’d hit a nerve. A big nerve. He looked into her. Fiona swallowed down the rising panic. “I take it that you have a problem with reporters?” she asked, dragging the question out.
“You take it right,” Angel said. “Makes me wonder why Tony sent you here.”
“Makes me wonder why you like Tony if you don’t like reporters,” Fiona shot back, hackles rising.
“I didn’t know he was in the business,” Angel said.
“I thought you were friends.”
“We were,” Angel said. “But even friends keep secrets.”
Fiona straightened. That was an interesting comment.
“Besides, it’s not all reporters. Just some of them,” Angel said. His lips thinned, and Fiona braced herself for a verbal onslaught. “The ones that lack common sense and put themselves into danger, never thinking beyond the story. The ones that never consider that they might be killed, leaving others behind.”
She didn’t respond. Whoever Angel was ranting about, it wasn’t her. Not anymore. But who? She wanted to ask but given the circumstances, prying into Angel’s past seemed like a bad idea.
He continued. “What really pisses me off are the ones that get someone else killed.”
Now they were talking about her. Fiona dropped her gaze to her hands, unable to meet Angel’s hot gaze any longer. “I didn’t think it would be dangerous,” she said. “Not like that.”
“Proving my point,” Angel said.
He was upset. She understood that. But so was she. “If you’re trying to make me feel guilty, don’t bother. I already feel responsible.”
Angel hesitated then raked a hand through his hair. “Don’t. It’s not your fault.”
Fiona shook her head. “I wish I could believe that.” She didn’t need to close her eyes to see Tony on the cold tiles, demanding she save herself even as he bled to death in front of her.
Angel reached over and took her hand, surprising her with his abrupt tenderness. “Tony knew what he was doing. My guess is that he wanted to catch Montoya doing something illegal. Something that would force the government to take action.”
Fiona nodded. It made sense, and her head knew Angel was right. But her heart wasn’t there yet. “Thanks.”
He squeezed her fingers and held them tight. Fiona met his gaze. It was still hot. Still burned. But the heat was changing into something more.
Something that frightened her.
She yanked her hand from his. Shaking, she smoothed back her hair. “How did you know Tony? He must have trusted you a lot to send me here.”
Angel clasped his hands on the tabletop. “He was a mercenary, once upon a time. We worked together on a few jobs.”
“Tony, a mercenary? He couldn’t have been,” she said, incredulous. That was unbelievable.
“Why not?”
“Because mercenaries are just killers for…” Her voice faded as she realized what she was saying and who she was saying it to.
“Killers for hire?” Angel finished. “Cold-hearted bastards who would shoot their mothers for a buck?”
That was exactly what she’d thought. Heat bloomed on her cheeks. “No,” she said. “It’s just that he was a cameraman. A journalist.”
“And