Sharron McClellan - Mercenary's Honor

“Suit yourself.” He went back to his coffee.

She eyed the liquid. Though it was pale yellow in color, it still looked like something someone had made in their bathtub. And she was not much of a drinker, in any case. Still, she picked it up.

Tony flashed through her thoughts. His quick wit. His laugh. His bloody death. “Screw it,” she whispered. Tipping her head back, she downed the shot.

Mescal, she realized as it burned a path down her throat. She put her hand over her mouth, a coughing fit doubling her over.

“Drink this.” The bartender’s voice cut through the hacking sound of her cough. After she caught her breath, she noticed the cup of coffee, with milk and sugar on the side, on the bar in front of her.

“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.”

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?