Sharron McClellan - Mercenary's Honor

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.

“Fiona,” Tony whispered, his voice thick with pain.

His voice brought her back to reality. “Oh, my God, we’ve got to get you out of here.”

He coughed and blood stained his lips. “Not going anywhere.” Tony grabbed for the camera, missing. “Run. Take the film to Angel.”

“Angel?” Hands shaking, Fiona moved the camera aside to check the wound. The entrance wasn’t bad, she realized, but blood poured from beneath him from an exit wound she suspected was monstrous.

Tony grabbed her wrist. “Get to Angel. Mercenary. Friend.” He strained to talk, his words clipped and tight. “He can protect you. The film.”

Film? Who cared? “Screw the film.” Fiona shook her head. “What the hell were you thinking? I have to get you to a doctor.” Remaining low and out of sight, she pressed one hand to his chest and another against his back. The feel of his blood, warm and sticky on her palms, made her nauseous.

Tony’s eyelids fluttered and a whimper escaped his lips. “Stop,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “Please. Stop.”

“Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God,” Fiona muttered. They’d hopped across rooftops to get to the building. How was she going to get him out if he couldn’t walk?

“Angel. Get to Angel,” Tony insisted.

“No.” She pressed harder, but the blood refused to stop.

“Leave me or die.”

“Fine. I’ll go,” she agreed, even though she did not intend to leave him alone. “Stubborn, butt-headed drama queen.”

Though he labored to breathe, Tony managed a weak smile. “Not me. You,” he said, his voice faint.

With the back of her hand, Fiona wiped away tears she’d been unaware of until they’d blurred her vision. Maybe if she found this Angel person, she could convince him to help her with Tony. “Where do I find him?”

“Tierra Roja.”

The bar on the zocalo? It wasn’t a surprise. What better place to find a mercenary? “I’ll hurry,” she said.

“Good.” Tony touched her hand, his grip weak. “This makes me miss dog shows.”

She twined her fingers through his. When she’d met Tony a few months ago, she was covering a dog show in Los Angeles, and he was her new cameraman. They’d bonded over the fact that they both thought their talents were wasted. Then he’d suggested they come to Colombia, his country, and find a story, make things happen instead of playing the game.

Some story.

“Me, too,” she replied. “Though I could live without the constant leg-humping.”

Tony gave a feeble chuckle. “That was my favorite part.”

Shouting in the courtyard caught her attention. “Be right back,” Fiona said. Letting go of his hand, she crawled back to the edge of the balcony and peered over. Montoya was yelling. Pointing.

Seconds later, the sound of a door splintering made her tremble. Montoya’s men were in the building. They’d be on her in a few minutes. She’d have to hide Tony until she could come back with help. She crawled back to him. “I’ll be back soon,” she promised. “With Angel. I’m going to get you out of here.”

She froze.

Tony stared at the sky. His chest no longer rose and fell. She swallowed back a cry of despair. “Tony?”

Nothing. She touched him. “Anthony?” He was dead. For a moment, she stared at the corpse, oblivious to anything but his sightless eyes. Then shouts reached her ears.

Montoya’s men.

Panic roared through her body. She clenched her hands into tight fists. Focus, she told herself. Focus, Fiona. Focus or die.

Taking a deep, controlled breath, she forced the rising panic to the back of her mind then exhaled. Her pulse slowed. She unclenched her fists.

Time to run.

Wiping the blood off her palms and onto her denim-covered thighs, she closed Tony’s eyes with a shaky hand, popped the microtape out of the camera and stuck it in the front pocket of her jeans.

Retracing the route she and Tony had taken to break in to the ancient apartment complex, she hunched over to keep her profile low and hurried through the French doors and into the empty hotel room. The sound of feet echoed in the stairwell. The men were almost at her floor.