Mercenary's Honor

“Thanks,” she said, adding the milk.

He patted her hands. “I’ll get you something to eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” she said, her voice strangled as she fought back tears.

His eyes widened. “I insist,” he said, disappearing into a back room.

It was the tears, Fiona thought as the door swung shut. It didn’t matter the nationality, men freaked when a woman cried.

Fiona took a deep breath, shut her eyes, and assessed the situation. She was on the run. It was a matter of hours, at best, before Montoya figured out who she was. She needed Angel. If she couldn’t find him, she’d have to make her own way out of the country. For now, she’d assume the worst.

That she was on her own.

Okay. What do you do? she asked herself.

First, a disguise, she decided. She needed to hide herself. She touched the scarf that covered her head and realized it had slipped. She tried to fix it, but her shaking hands refused to cooperate. Frustrated, she yanked it off, wishing her hair was anything but blond. Dye would help, but there was no way she could conceal her fair skin and blue eyes. Hell, her height alone, just shy of six feet, made her an object of curiosity amongst the people in South America.

“Why do you want Angel?” the dark man asked, interrupting her thoughts.

Startled, Fiona spilled her coffee. The hot liquid spread across the bar and dripped onto her lap, making her hiss in pain. Great. “I was told he could help me,” she said as she grabbed a handful of cocktail napkins to clean the mess.

“Help with what?” He turned to face her.

The dark circles beneath his eyes drew her initial attention, and she wondered if he ever slept. Her eyes slipped upward, past the smudges to his clear hazel eyes. He held her gaze, then his attention slid down her body, taking in everything from her head to her feet, including her bloody jeans. She let the wad of napkins drop to her lap, but no amount of coverage could hide the dark stains that soaked her from thigh to knee. Touching her hair, she brought his attention back to her face and away from her clothes. “I’ll only talk to him,” she replied, her tone aloof. “So unless you can tell me where he is, I can’t say a word.”

The man shrugged. “I might know. He doesn’t like to be bothered. What happened? Domestic problem?” His eyes went to her jeans again.

Domestic problem? Fiona swallowed back a hysterical giggle. “An accident.”

“That’s a lot of blood for an accident,” he said. Rising from the barstool, he walked toward her.

He was tall, just over six feet three inches, and broad. Like a linebacker.

And as intimidating as one of Montoya’s enforcers.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She nodded. “It’s not mine.”

“Don’t cry,” he said.

“I’m not,” she said, then realized she was doing exactly that. Tears slid down her cheeks, dripping onto the napkins covering her lap. She wiped her face with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry, it’s just—” She stopped herself. What was she going to say?

That she’d watched a man, a friend, die?

Her eyes felt hot. Itchy. She willed the dark man to stop staring at her.

But he refused to turn away. “Tell me why you want Angel, and I’ll see if I can find him.”

She pressed her hand against the dark man’s chest to steady herself. His heart beat strong against her palm. Warm. Alive.

The burden, the pain, was too great to bear any longer. She had to trust someone. Just a little. “I can’t tell you, but if you find Angel, tell him that Anthony Torres sent me.”

“Tony?” Recognition flashed across his eyes.

“You know him?”

The man nodded. For the third time, his eyes slid to her clothes. “Is Tony okay?”

Fiona tried to answer, but all that came out was a stuttered gasp as she tried to breathe.

It seemed to be enough of an explanation for the stranger. His eyes darkened, and she prayed he didn’t direct his anger in her direction. Because if he did, she was dead. “Juan,” he barked, “bring me another shot.”

“No,” came the muffled answer from behind the door.

The dark man leaned over the bar and grabbed the bottle of mescal.

Fiona shook her head. “I have to stay sober. They’re after me.” She clamped her hand over her mouth at the slip.

“Who? The men who killed Tony?”

Her head jerked up, and fear roared through her. He knew. Had she misjudged the man? Was he one of them? One of Montoya’s men? She pushed away from him and stumbled from the chair, backing up toward the front door. “What do you mean? Who are you?” Her back met the painted cinderblock wall.

The man came toward her. Dark. Menacing. She couldn’t move, no matter how much adrenaline pulsed through her blood. He reached for her, and she shut her eyes.

He pressed something into her hand.

She opened her eyes. Another shot. It was half full this time.

“Drink it,” he insisted, taking her elbow and leading her back to the bar. “Then tell me what happened.”

She’d said too much already. Given away too much. “I can’t. I have to talk to Angel.”

“You are.”

Her breath caught in her throat. This was Angel? “Why didn’t you say something?”

He didn’t shrug. Nod. Or offer an explanation. But his expression softened. Angel leaned closer, and she saw a glimmer of something in his eyes.

Compassion. And it made her want to cry all over again.

“Tell me who killed Tony,” he said.

Fiona rolled the shot between her palms. “Who killed him?” Montoya had pulled the trigger. Fired the bullet.

But she’d put Tony in danger. Pushed him. Talked him into doing something stupid. She straightened her shoulders. “For all practical purposes, it might as well have been me.”

Chapter 2

He didn’t believe her dramatic claim for a moment but Angel recognized the emotion behind it—guilt.

“It wasn’t you,” he said, taking the shot from her hand. “I know what killers look like.” She didn’t have it in her. Not even an iota. “And you’re not it.”

“It might as well have been,” she whispered, but even as she argued, fatigue replaced the panic in her blue eyes as the adrenaline wore off. She wavered on her feet. Angel dropped the half shot, not caring that mescal sprayed across his boots.

Her eyes rolled backward, and he caught her in his arms before she hit the ground, one arm under her knees and the other across her back. While she was Amazon tall, she was lighter than she appeared, and carrying her across the room and laying her on one of the long tables was akin to zero exertion.

Leaning over her, he wondered what had happened. Gently, his fingertips skimmed her forehead as he pushed her hair away from her face. She was beautiful, with that perfect skin usually reserved for china dolls and airbrushed cover models.

She also knew Tony, which made her important. What was she to him? Friend? Revolutionary? Killer? Co-worker? Lover?

The last thought made him frown.

“Is she okay?” Juan asked, coming out from the back room.

“She’s fine,” Angel said. But what about Tony? He touched her bloodstained jeans. Her panic and fright told him that she wasn’t a professional soldier, so if it was Tony’s blood on her clothes, she might be wrong in her assessment of the situation. Tony might be hurt and nothing more.

Still, it was a helluva lot of blood.

Her eyelids fluttered.

“Give her this.” Juan pressed a cup into his hand.

“What’s in it?”

“More coffee. Black.”

“Thanks.”

“There’s breakfast on the bar.” He gave the woman a deliberate once-over. “A little food would do her good.”

Angel wasn’t so sure. She was thin, but in an athletic way. Not an underfed, someone-please-give-her-a-sandwich kind of way.

Before he could respond, the woman’s eyes opened, and she pushed her elbows under her, sitting up halfway. “What happened?”

“You fainted.”

“I fainted?” Her brows pressed toward each other, creating a furrow between them. “I’ve never fainted in my life.”

“Tough morning,” Angel said.

She squeezed her eyes shut, and for a moment, he thought she might cry. Again. “You have no idea,” she said, her voice tight.

“But I’d like to,” he replied.

She opened her eyes. With careful deliberation, as if fearing she might faint again, she sat up. Hesitating, she slid off the table and took a seat on one of the rickety wooden chairs. Angel handed her the coffee. Her hands shook, and the hot liquid sloshed over the edges and onto her skin. She grimaced. “Hell, I keep doing that.”

“Give it here—” Angel unwrapped her fingers from around the mug and took the ceramic container, handing it to Juan “—before you do some serious damage.”

“I am not a child.”

Angel nodded in acquiescence. “I don’t think you are, but you’ve been through something traumatic.” He pulled a chair closer and sat across from her, leaning with his elbows on his knees. “First, who are you?”

Her blue eyes widened. “Fiona. Fiona Macmillan.”

“Tell me what happened, Fiona,” Angel said.

“Tony and—” Her voice caught in her throat, and for a moment he thought she might break down. Instead, she continued, “Tony and I were at a hotel, the Luz del Bogotá.”

Angel gave a short, curt nod. He knew the place. It had been a four-star hotel until a few years ago. Now, the stucco walls were pitted with bullet holes, and the only people who stayed there were lovers who couldn’t afford better or the occasional turistas who were unfortunate enough to get a crappy travel agent.

She continued, “We were on the fourth floor, watching Montoya—”

“Ramon Montoya?” He tensed at the name. Montoya was not a man to cross, and as far as being a public servant…public enemy was closer to the truth.

She nodded. “Montoya was interrogating a woman, Maria Salvador. Do you know her?”

“Yes,” Angel said. His gut tightened, not liking where this was going.

“What did he want?” Juan interrupted. Angel turned to see the bartender watching them, his hands twisted in a bar towel.

“He wanted names. People in the resistance. In RADEC,” Fiona said. Her hands shook harder now. “He beat her.”

“Is she—”

Fiona held up her hand, signaling silence. “Please let me finish,” she said. Her eyes squeezed shut again, reminding Angel of a frightened child in a dark room, believing that if she opened her eyes, it would make the monsters real.

“We were watching Montoya and his men interrogate Maria. She refused to give up the names. To give that bastard anything. We thought he was letting her go. He told her to leave. Maria walked away.

“They shot her. Right there. Right in the courtyard. They shot her in the back.” Fiona’s voice broke, and for a heartbeat, the only sounds in the room were her sobs.

He wished there was something he could do to assuage her pain, but there was no fixing the situation. No bringing back the dead and reversing time. They had to move forward and act on the problems at hand.

“Maria’s dead?” Juan whispered.

Fiona continued as if she hadn’t heard him, her eyes still closed tight. “Tony jumped up and shouted. Montoya shot him, too. He died on the balcony in a pool of blood.”

She opened her eyes. Liquid blue, they zeroed in on Angel. “The last thing he said was to find you.”

Angel turned away from her stare, his fists tight. Tony was a good man, and he was dead by Montoya’s hand. Both him and Maria.

Behind him, Juan broke into violent sobs.

A grip on Angel’s arm caught his attention. Fiona’s fingers squeezed, digging into the muscle. “So, here I am,” she said, her calm, contained voice a sharp contrast to the tears of just seconds ago. “Can you help me?”

First things first, Angel reminded 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 a revolutionary and a mercenary,” Angel finished.

“Tony killed people.” It was hard to wrap her head around the thought. He was funny. Smart. Dedicated.

Or had been.

Angel was right—sometimes friends did have secrets.

“Yes. Sometimes. We did what we had to do. What we were paid to do,” Angel said. “And some people need killing.”

The matter-of-fact way he delivered the last sentence made her shiver. “I find that hard to believe,” Fiona said.

“How about Montoya?” Angel challenged. “Do you think the fact that he’s breathing makes the world a better place?”

She couldn’t honestly say yes. “Point taken.”

Angel took her hand again, his touch firm. Comforting. “If it makes you feel better, Tony didn’t just kill people. He saved them. Hell, he saved me.”

Now that sounded like Tony. “Is that why you’re helping me?” she asked.

“One of the reasons,” Angel replied.

Before she could ask about the others, the door opened and Juan came back in. His eyes were red. “No one is here, but it won’t last,” he said, his voice wavering.

“I’m a little obvious, aren’t I?” she said, pulling a long blond strand of hair over her shoulder.

“Yes,” Angel said. “And there are informants everywhere.”

“So you’ll help me?” Fiona said, latching on to hope for the first time since Tony died.

“You are sure Maria is dead?” Juan asked before Angel could reply.

She nodded. “Positive.”

“Then we have no choice,” he said.

Despite his impassioned words, the anguish in his eyes was unmistakable, and Fiona regretted the callous way she’d announced Maria’s death. “I am so sorry,” she said.

The bartender’s brown eyes blackened as fury drowned sorrow. “Her killers shall pay with suffering.” He wiped his eyes with the heel of his hands and turned his attention to Angel. “I will have my revenge.”

“No, you will not,” Angel replied.

“You are saying that I cannot do this?” Juan stepped closer to Angel, daring him. Fiona tensed, not sure what she’d do if the two men came to blows. She might be able to stop Juan, but there was no chance of stopping Angel from doing anything he wanted.

“I’m saying that overzealousness will get you killed,” Angel explained. “Training is what keeps men alive. Not passion.”

“Then you help her,” Juan snapped, jerking his head toward Fiona.

Angel rose. Fiona didn’t miss the controlled way he stood, every move purposeful and directed. “I plan to. I owe Tony my life.” He turned to Fiona. “What do you want?” he asked.

“I want to get this tape to my editor in the U.S.”

He gave a slow nod and pulled his eyes away from the bartender. “Easy enough. I have a laptop in my room.”

“Won’t work,” she said. “It’s not digital.”

“Not digital? Why?”

She blinked, remembering that she’d asked Tony the same question. Digital was so much easier, she’d argued. Faster. E-mailable. Instead of convincing Tony, her argument had sent him into a diatribe about how tape was classic. Richer. “He said tape was better.”

“Tape?” Angel groaned. “What the hell was he thinking?”

“He said that if I wanted an award-winning story, I would need award-winning, quality footage.”

“Sounds like Tony,” Angel said. “Anal-retentive pain in the ass.”

“Yeah, he was damned good.” Her eyes watered as she realized she was talking about Tony in the past tense. “He wanted to make a difference. Wanted to break the story that put Montoya away. We didn’t expect anyone to die.”

“Please. Stop crying,” Angel said, sounding desperate.

“Sorry,” she said with a sharp laugh, noting the frantic edge to her voice. “It’s been a bit of a Monday.”

Once again, Angel wiped a tear from her cheek, and she tried not to sigh at the unexpected tenderness in his touch. She needed touch. Needed to feel safe. And for all his gruffness, Angel made her feel as if nothing bad could touch her again. “I need to get to a television studio,” Fiona whispered. “They can transfer the footage to digital format, and then I can e-mail it to whoever we want.”

“That won’t keep you safe,” Angel said. “Even if you send the story out, Montoya will come after you as long as you’re in Colombia.”

“Let’s deal with the tape,” she said. If she thought about the future beyond the tape, she’d start crying again. That, or go screaming down the street. “I want the world to see this man for what he is. Then we can discuss the next move.”

Juan took her hand and squeezed her fingers. “Thank you for telling me about Maria,” he said. “If we can put Montoya behind bars, she will not have died without purpose.”

“You loved her, didn’t you?”

He nodded, his eyes tearing again.

“If I could have saved her, I would have,” Fiona said. “No one was supposed to die.”

“It’s not your fault. You are a brave woman.”

“Brave?” Fiona laughed at the phrase. She wasn’t brave. Numb was more like it.

“Yes,” Juan said.

She didn’t laugh again. Perhaps she didn’t believe in herself as much as Juan did, but it didn’t matter. She had the images of Tony’s and Maria’s deaths and the burning need to set things right to motivate her.

Courage meant little when compared to justice. “I’ll get their story out,” she vowed.

“Just finish Montoya,” Juan said. “Make him pay for what he has done.”

“I will,” Fiona said. For Tony. For Maria.