Mercenary's Honor. Sharron McClellan
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wasn’t anyone else.
“Okay, sleep it is,” she said. “Where to?”
“My place is a few buildings down.”
“Fiona, here.”
Fiona turned to see Juan toss her a bundle. She caught it in midair. She unrolled the cloth. There was an army-green floppy hat and a tan jacket. She put both on. The jacket reached past her thighs and helped hide the bloodstains. She tucked her hair inside the hat. “I’m ready,” she said.
Angel assessed her from boot-clad feet to the top of her head. “It’ll do,” he said.
Like she had a choice.
“And this,” Juan said, holding out a white bundle wrapped around a few clunky objects. “It’s some bread and cheese,” he explained. “A few bottles of water.”
Fiona clung to the package, grateful for the gesture. It warmed her to know there were people out there who supported her. Who trusted her to do the right thing.
It was unfortunate that Angel thought so little of her, but she suspected it would take an act of God to convince him to trust her. She wished she knew why.
Fiona kissed Juan on the cheek. “Take care of yourself,” she whispered in his ear.
“Don’t worry about me.” Juan said. “I’m closing up for a few weeks.”
Fiona nodded. “Where will you go?”
He shrugged. “I am not sure. But there is little doubt that Montoya will track you here. It might be today. Perhaps tomorrow. Either way, I will not be here when he arrives.”
Juan squeezed her hand. Hard. “And you need to go, as well,” he said. “The longer you stay in the open, the greater the danger.”
“He’s right,” Angel said.
Fiona nodded and broke away, following Angel out the door. The lock clicked after Juan shut the door behind them. She turned to see him glance out the window. She waved.
He flashed a small smile then put a sign in the window. Cerrado. Closed.
“Will he be okay?” she asked. She didn’t know Juan, but she knew grief.
“He’ll survive,” Angel said, taking her arm and pulling her into motion. Fiona walked fast to stay by Angel’s side as he led her down the sidewalk.
Though the street wasn’t crowded, it wasn’t empty, and Fiona lowered her head, trying not to call attention to herself.
“We’re here,” Angel said, stopping at the gate to his apartment building.
More like a condemned building, she thought when he opened the iron gate and let her in. Flaking yellow paint covered pitted stucco walls. The small courtyard was a riot of half-dead plants, and the dirt-filled fountain looked like it hadn’t contained water in a decade. “Lovely,” she said.
“It’s a place to sleep,” Angel replied. “And it’s safe. Mostly.”
That was all that mattered, she told herself. Keeping close, she followed Angel up three flights to a hallway lit with twenty-watt bulbs and smelling of burnt tortillas, sweat and mold. His door was the third down on the right. As he opened it, she dreaded what she’d find on the other side.
To her surprise, it was sparse but neat and smelled better than the hallway. She scooted inside and breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s not horrible,” she said.
“Gee. Thanks,” Angel said, obviously not pleased with her comment.
Fiona scrubbed at her face, mentally kicking herself for being rude. What was it about Angel that gave her foot-in-mouth syndrome? “I’m sorry. That sounded ungrateful, and I’m not. You didn’t have to do this, any of this, and I appreciate the chance you’re taking in helping me.”
“It’s okay. We’re both a little punchy.” His expression softened, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Just don’t get too comfortable. We’re not staying.”
“Why not?” A shiver of goose bumps ran up Fiona’s spine. “Were we followed?”
“No, but this is Bogotá. We’re staying in another room. One that backs up to a fire escape.”
“Won’t the occupant notice?”
“No. It’s mine. I rent it under another name.”
He kept an extra room for escape? And she thought she was paranoid. “Why stay at all?” she asked. “If it’s that dangerous, shouldn’t we keep moving?”
“We will when it’s dark,” he explained. “Even with the hat, you stick out. So for now, we minimize risk, get rest, and hope we get lucky.”
He went to the dresser, pulled out military-perfect, folded navy-blue T-shirts and black cargo pants. “Wearing those jeans is like wearing a bull’s-eye,” he said, handing her the clothes.
She held them up. The shirt reached midthigh, and the pants were a joke. “You don’t think this will set me apart?”
“It’ll do until we can get better,” Angel said, pulling a gun from the dresser. Flat black in color, it looked lethal as hell.
Perfect.
“Change,” he said, pulling another gun out. “I want to be out of here in sixty seconds.”
He was serious. Dead serious. She ran into the small, dingy bathroom. The oversize shirt was manageable, but the pants were wide in the waist and pulled across her hips.
At least they’d stay on, she mused. After transferring the tape of Maria’s death to one of the zippered cargo pockets, she pushed open the door as she tried to adjust the fit. “Got a—”
Fiona stopped midstep.
Angel stood with his back to her. With the exception of a pair of black boxers, he was naked. The muscles on his back flexed and moved. Every shadow perfect. Every line tight. But what caught her attention were the scars. A few were thin and white, as if made from a knife or a whip. Others were larger. Ugly.
He really was a mercenary, she realized. She’d known it before, but that was in her head. Now she knew—deep down knew—this man killed for a living. Or had.
Despite that, she longed to run her fingers over his battle scars. Test the texture of his skin and make the wicked lines disappear. To offer him the solace she craved.
Mesmerized, she stepped closer. A board squeaked beneath her feet. He glanced over his shoulder. “Do I have a what?” he asked without a hint of body consciousness as he slid a black T-shirt over his head.
“Belt?” she asked, tugging at the pants and staring at her feet. “Got a belt?”
“In the drawer.” He grabbed a second set of black cargo pants and put them on, removing a few items from the pants on the floor and placing them in the various pockets. “Stuff your jeans and the other clothes under the covers.”
She did as she instructed, making two long lumps side by side as she realized what he was trying to do. “That’s not going to fool anyone,” she said, shaking her head at the obvious decoy.
“It’s not supposed to,” Angel said. “If someone followed you, or if someone sells the info, Montoya will come in and shoot ‘us’ up.” He sat on the bed and put on his boots. “Consider it an early warning system.”
The goose bumps returned, and Fiona found herself speechless. A part of her mind wondered what she’d gotten herself into, but she knew the answer.
She’d crossed Ramon Montoya, and until she got the footage of Maria’s death out of Colombia, her life was in danger.
Hers, and anyone she spoke to.
Juan.
“Will they come after Juan?”