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Mercenary's Honor
Sharron McClellan
Keep your friends close and your enemies closerIn Bogotá, it could be difficult to tell which was which. Since witnessing a brutal murder, Fiona had been on the run. The reporter's only shot at survival was tracking down the notorious mercenary "Angel."As skilled with weapons as Fiona was with words, the dark, sullen merc thought her naive and foolhardy, yet he agreed to get her out of Colombia even at his own peril. But Fiona desired more than safety she wanted justice. And soon, she realized, she wanted Angel….
This is the worst idea ever, a voice in the back of her head whispered.
She ignored the voice. There was no time for second-guessing or doubt or making another choice. There was only trust that Angel would get her out of this mess with her skin intact.
He’d done it so far.
He gunned the bike, and she clutched at him as they roared through the open doorway. Behind them, men yelled and gunfire sounded over their shouts. Fiona flinched, expecting to feel a bullet in the back with each passing heartbeat. She glued herself to Angel until there wasn’t even air between them and prayed their luck would last.
“Hang on!” he shouted.
As if she needed to be told.
Dear Reader,
I am a bit of a traveler. In fact, I have a hard time staying put in one geographical region for more than a year at a time. For me, travel is a way to learn about other cultures, ideas, world events and more. It also influences me as a writer. Archaeological sites, places, people and even tension in the air are fodder for my imagination.
The seed for Mercenary’s Honor came from my time in Oaxaca, Mexico. In 2006, I wanted to get away. I picked Mexico because my Uncle Jim lives there, and I thought it would be nice to have someone close on foreign soil. So off I went. Just in time for the riots.
Yes—riots.
I touched down just as teachers marched on the city (it’s how they get their raise each year), and then the Mexican presidential election began. I saw burning buses, got caught up in a peaceful demonstration—and managed to cross a metal barrier just before a non-peaceful demonstration broke out.
A few months into this chaos, a reporter was killed. A stray bullet, I believe. I began to think about reporters who typically go into areas in conflict. How do they do it? What if they see something they shouldn’t—what would they do?
Thus, Mercenary’s Honor was born. I hope you enjoy the book, and if you look, I think you’ll see a little bit of my adventures in the pages.
—Sharron
Mercenary’s Honor
Sharron McClellan
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
SHARRON MCCLELLAN
began writing short stories in high school but became sidetracked from her calling when she moved to Alaska to study archaeology. For years, she traveled across the United States as a field archaeologist specializing in burials and human physiology. Between archaeological contracts, she decided to take up the pen again. She completed her first manuscript two years later, and it was, she says, “A disaster. I knew as much about the craft of writing as Indiana Jones would know about applying makeup.” It was then that she discovered Romance Writers of America and began serious study of her trade. Three years later in 2002, she sold her first novel, a fantasy romance. Sharron now blends her archaeological experience with her love of fiction as a writer for the Silhouette Romantic Suspense line. To learn more, visit her at www.sharronmcclellan.com. She loves to hear from her readers.
To my mom and dad. For instilling a love of reading
in me and encouraging my writing. I appreciate
the time, the help, but mostly, I appreciate your belief
that I would be a success.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to James McClellan (Uncle Jim!) and
Antonio Reyes of Casa Adobe B&B (Oaxaca, Mexico)
for the Spanish translations.
Chapter 1
“He won’t kill her,” Fiona whispered, adjusting the dark scarf that covered her bright blond hair. “He can’t.”
It was early morning with the sun barely over the horizon. She and her cameraman, Anthony Torres, lay flat on a fourth-floor balcony with only blooming bougainvillea and an ancient black wrought-iron railing for cover.
Peeking through the cover of leaves, thorns and purple blossoms, they watched the courtyard below where Ramon Montoya, head of Colombian National Security, was interrogating Maria Salvador. According to rumor, she was one of the leaders of Revolucionarios Armados de Colombia—RADEC—a rebel group dedicated to freeing Colombia from the iron grip of the current regime—of which Montoya was the worst.
“It’s not like it would be his first execution.” Tony kept the small camera focused on the scene.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really,” Tony said, not taking his eyes off the scene below. “But he usually doesn’t kill women. Not often.”
Small comfort, Fiona thought, stifling a yawn.
“Do not tell me you’re bored,” Tony said.
“Not a chance,” Fiona whispered. “But I could use a cup of espresso.” They’d been hitting the sketchier bars for the past few nights searching for the story, the one that would make them both famous. Then, last evening, their diligence plus a fistful of American dollars had brought them here.
Fiona was thrilled to have the chance to report something worthwhile, but she would have been more thrilled if she’d had a few hours of sleep.
Beneath them, Montoya backhanded Maria across the face, the sound echoing against the brick enclosure. Maria fell to the ground in a small heap, her long black hair spreading across the broken pavement.
A shot of adrenaline surged through Fiona, dissipating her need for rest. “We have to stop him,” Fiona whispered even as the reporter in her told her to stay put. To watch with dispassion and do her job.
“With what? Harsh words?”
Fiona rolled her eyes. “How about calling for help?”
“Call who? The police?” Tony asked with a hint of sarcasm.
She frowned, since the men below them were in charge of the police. “Someone. Anyone,” she said with a scowl.
“See if my cell works,” Tony said, rolling to his side a few inches but never losing the shot. “Front right pocket.”
Fiona dug into his jeans pocket and wrapped her fingers around the phone.
“Farther down,” he whispered with a wicked grin. “And firmer.”
“Pervert.” She pulled the cell out and flipped it open. It blinked at her, showing no coverage. Sometimes, she hated Third World countries. Granted, they had all the best stories, but at times like this she missed the United States and the convenience of a cell tower on every corner.
She shoved the phone back into Tony’s pocket. “No signal.”
“Not a sur—”
Maria screamed, cutting off Anthony. Fiona froze. Squinting in the sunlight, she watched as Montoya pulled the woman to her feet by her hair.
Bastard.
“¿Dónde están, Maria?” Montoya screamed the question—where are they—loud enough that Fiona was sure the neighboring country heard his shout. Yet none of the curtains in the windows surrounding the courtyard so much as fluttered. People didn’t want to get involved, and she couldn’t blame them. When the men in charge were the bad guys, there was no one to turn to.
That was why she was here, she reminded herself. To uncover the truth and help make changes in a country run by a government that was as corrupt as the Mafia and twice as dangerous. If she won an Emmy, or perhaps a Pulitzer, that was icing on the cake and nothing more.
Or so she told herself, even as she envisioned herself giving an acceptance speech.
The air in the courtyard tightened, became electric with tension. Montoya’s men straightened.
Something was about to happen, she realized. Fiona pushed thoughts of a Pulitzer to the back of her mind and strained to listen.
Maria said something, but her husky voice carried no farther than Montoya’s ears. He drew closer. She spat on him. He wiped her spit off his cheek.
“Good for her,” Fiona whispered, but she hoped that Maria’s small act of defiance wouldn’t cost her.
“I’m not so sure,” Tony replied. He tweaked the directional microphone and adjusted his earpiece. It wasn’t large, but Fiona knew it was the most powerful sound device on the market and it picked up sounds that she couldn’t hear.
“What’s he saying?” she asked.
“That if she tells him where the rebels are he will make sure they are imprisoned but not killed.”
“She doesn’t buy that, does she?”
Tony hesitated. “No. She’s still denying any involvement.”
“What do you think?” Fiona asked, wondering if the woman was as innocent as she claimed. Not that it mattered. No one should be subjected to such brutality by the hands of those who were sworn to protect the public. “Is she uninvolved?”
“No,” Tony whispered. “According to my contacts, she’s at the top of that particular food chain.”
Fiona’s blood chilled. If Tony was so certain, it was a sure bet that Montoya was, as well. “Damn it.”
“Exactly, but as long as she doesn’t confess to anything, I think she’ll be fine,” Tony said.
Montoya hit Maria again, the force of the blow making her take a step back.
Fiona winced, wishing she was as sure as her cameraman. “I hope you’re right,” she whispered. “Because in a few seconds, I am going to have to say or do something.”
“Hold your horses, Don Quixote,” Tony cautioned. “I think something’s happening.” He adjusted the camera and zoomed in on the scene.
Below them, Montoya pushed Maria away and pointed toward a door on the far side of the courtyard. “Is he letting her go?” Fiona’s heart pounded with fear and anticipation.
“It looks that way,” Tony said, but his tone suggested the same lack of sureness that pulsed through Fiona.
Maria adjusted her tiered skirt, dusted the leaves from her hair and headed for the doorway with her head held high. The men moved aside to let her pass.
Fiona’s pounding heart slowed, and she breathed a sigh of relief, letting her head drop to her hands. “Thank God,” she whispered. Maria was going to be all right. They had the story, and she’d be able to sleep at night.
A barrage of gunshots sounded from the courtyard below, and Fiona snapped to attention, swallowing her shout of horror.
Through the bougainvillea, she saw Maria on the pavement. Bullet holes riddled her lithe body. Blood spattered the pavement around her.
Even as Fiona gaped in horror, Tony jumped to his feet. “No!”
Below, Montoya whirled, and even at forty feet, Fiona saw his eyes widen in surprise at the cameraman’s appearance. In less time than it took her to realize what was happening, Montoya raised his gun and fired. Tony fell backward, striking the wall behind them as blood bloomed on his chest. His camera clattered to the tiled floor, still filming.
For a heartbeat, Fiona stared at him, stunned. Not sure whether he was alive or dead and not sure what to do in either case.
