Sharron McClellan - Mercenary's Honor

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

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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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.

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

Many thanks to James McClellan (Uncle Jim!) and

Antonio Reyes of Casa Adobe B&B (Oaxaca, Mexico)

for the Spanish translations.

“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.