Mercenary's Honor

“No, we will,” Angel corrected.

“Thank you,” Fiona said. Standing so close, he realized that darker circles, almost purple in color, ringed her blue eyes.

They were mesmerizing.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he said, reminding himself that her appearance was part of the job description and that pretty didn’t equate with moral or good or smart. She was a reporter, and that meant she had more curiosity than common sense.

Just like Isabel.

Isabel. The woman he’d loved and buried. It was the millionth time he’d thought of her and the millionth time he pushed her memory away. Beautiful as Fiona, passionate as Maria, and a journalist in search of her big break, she’d died for her curiosity, leaving him behind to pick up the pieces of the past and bury the future.

What had Tony been thinking in sending Fiona—another Isabel in the making—to him when there were plenty of guns for hire in Bogotá? If the cameraman had lived, he’d be tempted to kill him himself. But Tony was dead and had left it to him to help Fiona. Angel scraped a hand through his hair, torn between the urge to shove the reporter out the door and live up to his duty by helping her.

“Ignore his temper,” Juan said, changing the topic. “There is an independent television station just outside the El Parque de la 93 sector. They are friendly to RADEC and are eager to see Montoya stopped. Will that do?”

“Maybe,” Fiona said.

“It’ll have to do,” Angel said. He needed to get this blond nuisance out of his hair as fast as possible. Unfortunately, El Parque de la 93 was north of the city, which was hell and gone from where they were.

“Even though Juan didn’t see anyone, we’re going to assume you were followed, which means that we need to get you out of here. To someplace safe while I take the tape to the station.”

Fiona’s full lips turned downward. “You’re taking the tape? I don’t think so.”

“I’m sure that since you’re a TV reporter, you know that the El Parque de la 93 sector is dangerous,” he said, not bothering to hide his derisive feelings regarding her profession.

She didn’t appear to notice. “It’s a wealthy area. Good shopping. Popular clubs—”

“Kidnappings,” Angel interrupted.

“—and muggings,” Fiona interrupted back. “I know all that. The wealth brings in more than the tourist trade.”

Maybe she wasn’t a total waste, Angel decided. She knew the region and its pitfalls, but book knowledge wasn’t the same as street smarts. “There are also spies. People who would do anything for money. Including turning you over to Montoya.” He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “You don’t exactly blend.”

“Ya think?”

He tried not to smile at her unexpected sarcasm.

“I can’t let this tape out of my sight,” she continued. “Tony trusted you, so I do, too. Kinda,” she added with a slightly mocking half smile. “Besides, two people are better than one.”

“Not when one is a tall blond reporter on the run,” Angel countered.

Fiona took a step toward him, all defiance and determination. “I have the only tape. What if you’re caught? I have to make sure this tape gets into the right hands.”

Angel sighed in exasperation. He had two sisters and knew that tone. She wasn’t going to back down, and there was no time to argue. He needed to get her to safety and get the footage to the public. And he was going to have to do it with her in tow. “Fine. But a few things first.”

She relaxed, her shoulders dropping from their tense position. “Like what?”

“We wait until dark to head to the district.”

“Isn’t that when most robberies happen?”

“Yes, but Montoya won’t expect you to travel then, and as for muggers, I can take care of them.”

“No doubt,” she said, her eyes traveling from his feet to his mouth. When she reached his eyes, her cheeks turned a bright red.

Angel chuckled. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Fiona gave a tentative smile, but her cheeks remained bright. “I just meant that since you’re a mercenary, you can take care of yourself.”

“I know what you meant,” he said.

Juan squeezed her arm. “Angel is more than a mercenary. He is a hero. He will protect you.”

Fiona nodded. “A hero? Who did you save?” she asked.

“He saved a busload of children from bandits,” Juan said. “And another time, a village—”

“Shut up,” Angel said. He didn’t need the bartender telling Fiona his business.

“So, a bit more than a paid killer,” Fiona said, her voice warm.

The thought of her admiring him, seeing him as a hero, rankled him. Admiration meant obligation, and he was up to his neck in responsibility. “No. I was paid. And I killed,” Angel said. That was all she needed to know. Anything else was for friends, and Fiona was not on his friends list.

Her skin returned to its normal shade of pale, pink china. “Fair enough,” Fiona said, the warmth gone from her voice. “I suppose I should pay you, then.”

“Money’s good,” Angel said. He felt like an ass, but it was too late to back down now.

“So why help me?” she asked, staring at him with narrowed, curious eyes. “I can’t pay you. Not yet.”

“You can owe me.”

“Agreed,” she said. “Once the footage is safe, I’ll get you your money. Somehow.” Her eyes distant, she smiled for the first time. “And if this story wins an Emmy, I’ll invite you to the party.”

“An Emmy party?” Isabel had talked of the same thing the morning she left to get her big story.

He’d teased her about party aspirations as she’d walked out the door. Painful hindsight told him that he should have gone with her, but she hadn’t told him the truth about the danger. If she had, he’d have kept her in bed. Safe in his arms.

Instead, she died for a story and a stupid award.

“Is winning the biggest prize all you people think about?” he asked, lashing out and not bothering to hide his contempt.

Fiona took a step back, her small smile fading. “I was making a joke. Kidding.”

“There’s truth in every joke,” Angel said. “Who are you trying to fool? Me or yourself?”

Her cheeks turned pink again, and she returned his glare. “Forget I said anything,” she said after a few seconds.

“Forgotten,” he said, knowing it wasn’t.

“Whatever,” Fiona said, breathing so hard she trembled. “You know what? I don’t need you, your mental baggage, or your attitude. I’ll deal with this myself.”

Despite her brave words, he didn’t miss the fear and uncertainty beneath her anger. She couldn’t do this alone, and they both knew it. “No. You won’t,” Angel said.

“Watch me,” she said. Her eyes darkened, and she turned on her heel.

Angel sighed. Damn, she was determined to make him pay before she gave in to common sense. He watched her walk toward the door. He didn’t think she’d actually try to solve her situation on her own, but when egos were involved it was hard to judge what someone might do.

Especially a reporter with a reputation at stake.

Still, if she wanted to play head games, he’d be happy to oblige. “I can’t say that I’m surprised that you’re a selfish pain in the ass,” he commented when she was halfway across the room.

“Selfish?” She stopped midstep and turned to face him, her hands on her hips. “How can you say that?”

“You’d put the only evidence that we have against Montoya in danger because I’m not nice to you? Because I pissed you off?”

She bit her lower lip, thinking, and the unexpected urge to kiss her full, defiant mouth overwhelmed Angel. This was going to be harder than he thought, he realized. Much, much harder.

He followed her steps, not stopping until he was in her space. “We don’t have to like each other to do this, do we?” he asked.

She tilted her head upward until her mouth was inches from his. The tension between them grew with each beat of Angel’s heart. He crossed his arms over his chest, putting the barrier between them for both their sakes.

“I suppose not,” she said.

“Good.” Angel breathed a sigh of relief and stepped back.

“Yeah, good.” She rocked back on her heels then forward again. “What now? We have hours to kill before nightfall. What do we do until then? Hide? Drink? Banter? Try not to kill each other?”

“We go to my apartment,” Angel said. “And we go to bed.”

Chapter 3

Fiona’s jaw dropped as she stared at Angel, unable to believe he’d suggest sex after all she’d been through. She wanted comfort, but screwing a virtual stranger wasn’t the path to solace. “I am not having sex with you,” she squeaked.

He raised a brow. “I didn’t say anything about sex. I said go to bed, and that’s all I meant. We’re going to have a long night ahead of us. We need to sleep when we can.”

Once again, Fiona’s cheek flushed with heat. Angel brought out the worst in her, and a part of her wished she had the option of walking away.

But she wasn’t going anywhere. He might be irritating, and there were questions as to his sobriety, but Tony trusted him to protect her and that was enough.

Besides, there 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?” she asked, panicked at the thought. “If someone saw me go into the bar, they might.”

Angel’s hands stilled, and there was something new in his hazel eyes. Something she hadn’t seen before and wasn’t sure how to interpret.

Angel went back to lacing his boots. “He’s already gone. He’ll be fine.” He finished and picked up his guns. “Take this,” he said, holding one out.

It was for her? She eyed it. She’d shot a rifle before but only a few times. She took the gun. It was lighter than she expected.

“Can you shoot it if you have to?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. She put the weapon in a pocket then grabbed the small bag of food, the jacket and her hat.

Angel pressed a key into her hand. “End of the hallway. Last door on the left.”

Slowly, he opened the door and edged into the hallway. “All clear. Go!”

The sun sank below the horizon, casting shadows and gold light over Fiona’s sleeping body. She seemed much too innocent to be a reporter, Angel decided as he watched her sleep. She frowned, and her eyelids flickered, betraying the fact that she dreamed.

Bad dreams, he was sure.

He knew what those were like.

“Anthony,” she mumbled, the dead man’s name almost incoherent.

Yep, bad dreams. His back against the wall, a Glock on his lap and another tucked at the back of his waist, he touched a long, pale blond curl that had turned the color of honey in the setting sun.

Isabel’s opposite, he mused. Isabel with her black hair, chocolate eyes and olive skin. He shut his eyes. Though it was over two years since her death, she still haunted him.

Fiona mumbled again. Whimpered. Kicked. Angel opened his eyes and stroked her hair, careful not to wake her. “Shhh,” he whispered. “It’s all right.”

Her whimper turned into a sigh, and she turned over, sticking a leg out from the unzipped side of the sleeping bag.

She slept in her clothes in case they had to bug out, but even seeing her in boots and pants, he didn’t miss the perfect curve of her thigh.

Looking at her, with her pale hair and a body that would make a monk question his vows, he knew he had nothing but trouble on his hands. Angel let his head fall back against the wall with a dull thud. When she’d asked for help, he should have told her to move on. To find someone else. But no, instead he had to play the hero.

Play being the operative word. He was a mercenary, dammit. Not a knight. And he would do well to remember that. He had a head full of memories to keep him in line. And if that wasn’t enough, there was always Isabel’s engagement ring to remind him about what happened to people who put themselves in situations better left alone. He touched the zippered pants pocket where he’d transferred it earlier.

“Crap, what a mistake,” he muttered.

“What is?” Fiona turned over, blinking at him and yawning.

He stared at her, irked that she’d overheard his comment but more irked at himself for not keeping his mouth shut.

“Well?” she asked.

He ran a hand through his hair, not sure what to say other than the truth. “You. Me. Running from the law.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.”

She looked sorry. And helpless.

She sat up, crossing her legs beneath her. “If it makes a difference, I’ve thought about what you said earlier. About me putting people in danger for a story.”

“And?” he asked, curious.

“I like to think that when it comes to humanity versus the story, I’d choose humanity. I’d save a life over getting a good story.” Her voice trembled with uncertainty.

“You’re not sure though, are you?” he asked, knowing that Isabel would have gone for the story every time. She couldn’t help herself, even when it meant putting herself in danger.

Fiona shook her head. “In this case? No. Montoya needs to be stopped. That’s not in question. Maria’s death gave me the means to do just that. It isn’t fair, but I’m glad I was there to capture it. And as for Tony…” Fiona ran her fingers through her hair. “I’ll regret that for the rest of my life.”

“Me, too,” Angel said.

“But you need to know that despite what happened, I can’t start questioning the morality of my job. What I can do is make sure that Montoya pays for his actions. That he goes to jail.”

“I understand,” he replied.

She managed a weak smile then stood, letting the sleeping bag drop to her feet, and went to the bathroom.

Angel watched her walk away from him, and his mouth went dry. He’d thought her legs were good. Her ass was better.

“I’ll just be a minute,” she said, closing the door.

Angel rose, asking himself again what he was doing. Then muffled sobs caught his ear. Fiona. She was sobbing in the bathroom, and not the fake crying that most women did. The kind that meant they wanted someone to comfort them but wanted the man to initiate the effort so they gave a half-hearted attempt to be quiet.

No. Her cries were almost silent. If the room hadn’t been so quiet, he wouldn’t have noticed.

It seemed she wasn’t as emotionally distant from the day’s events as either of them liked to pretend.

On the other side of the door, Fiona turned on the water, the splashing water covering the sound of her sobs.

Angel let his head fall back again. He should go in there. Comfort her. But what could he say? Tony and Maria were dead, and nothing he said or did would change the past.

“This is what I meant by mistake,” he said to no one. Everything she did, everything she was, made her a distraction. The water stopped, and silence reigned again.

Angel rose, stretching, and peeked out the front window. People going to and from the market filled the streets along with cars that were comprised more of rust than metal. Children played. Men stood in groups, smoking cheap cigarettes and talking to each other.

No one glanced his way or did anything that appeared the least suspicious, but that meant nothing. Any one of them would sell Fiona out. They were poor and putting food on the table took precedence over a gringa with a supposed tape of Montoya killing a rebel leader.

The sound of gunshots reverberated in the room.

Montoya. They’d found the dummies. Damn, he’d hoped they’d have more time. It was at least thirty minutes until dark.

“It’s him!” Fiona barreled out of the bathroom, running into Angel.

“I know,” he said, taking a deep breath and controlling the sudden rush of adrenaline that surged through his blood. They had thirty seconds. Maybe.

There were shouts, and then the sound of doors splintering as Montoya’s men made their way down the hallway, checking the rooms.

Angel ran to the window that faced the alley and the fire escape. The window slid up on well-oiled tracks. He might not live in the room but he made sure he maintained it since there was no point in having an escape route that was ineffective.

“Climb up.” He stood aside, his weapon trained on the door.

To her credit, Fiona didn’t argue but clambered out onto the rickety metal steps and headed toward the roof.

Angel followed, sliding the window shut. Not that their escape would fool the thugs for long, but if he and Fiona made the roof before they arrived, the men might assume they’d gone down.

It was what most people would do.

Above him, Fiona climbed onto the roof, her booted feet disappearing over the edge. In the room below, he heard the door splinter. He pushed himself and in seconds joined Fiona on the roof.

The sound of breaking glass followed. In the dimming light, Fiona’s eyes widened. “What do we do?” she asked, her voice low and shaky.

“We jump.”

“Excuse me?”

There was no time to explain. Grabbing her arm, he hurried her to the far side of the building. The next building was five feet away. “Jump to the next roof.”