Sharron McClellan - Mercenary's Honor

“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.”