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

MILLS & BOON

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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.

“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.

Although it was risky to enter the open hallway, Fiona hurried across the few feet of the narrow passage and into the opposite room, easing the door shut behind her.

Out in the hallway, the men reached the fourth-floor landing.

Fiona ran for the window and swung both feet over the ledge. Dropping to the roof a few feet below her, she landed on her toes for silence. Even though she stood outside and with the door closed, the soldier’s speech carried through the thin walls. She froze, listening.

“Esta vacío,” someone shouted.

It’s empty. They’d found the camera and checked.

“Encuentre a su socio.”

Find his partner. They knew about her. They knew. She put her hand over her mouth to keep from throwing up.

Angel Castillo stared at the shot of mescal in front of him, debating if it was too soon in the day to have a drink. Wasn’t it Alan Jackson who sang that it was “five o’clock somewhere”?

He picked up the shot glass and turned it around, letting the sunlight filter through the pale yellow liquid.

“Isn’t it a little early for that?” Juan asked as he wiped down the top of the bar.

“Then why did you serve me?”

“Because you tip well.”

Angel shrugged. His mother had been a waitress, working at a diner, and the nights she came home with little more than a few crumpled bills outnumbered the nights she came home with bulging pockets.

He knew the food business was difficult. Even more so when it was in a crap-hole like Bogotá, Colombia.

He set the glass down, and Juan slid a cup of coffee in front of him. “Try this.”

“I’ve tasted your coffee. It’s more lethal than any bullet.”

“Yeah?” Juan laughed. “At least you’ll be awake to hear the shot.”

Angel shrugged and took a sip. The brew was thick. Black. And possibly illegal in some countries. If not, it should be.

“Bad night?” Juan asked as he put away glasses from last night’s patrons, a combination of locals and tourists that never failed to amuse.

Angel glanced at Juan over the rim of the mug. A few weeks ago, when he’d come in at two in the morning, bleary-eyed and almost incoherent from lack of sleep, he’d told the bartender about the nightmares.

Mostly, Angel didn’t remember them. He wasn’t sure if that made them better or worse. What he did remember were the emotions they heaped on him. Anger. Remorse. The sense of helplessness.

“The dreams?” Juan pressed.

Angel raised a brow. This was the last time he confided in a bartender.

Juan shrugged. “Hey, if you need to talk, let me know.”

“You going to ask me about my feelings next?” Angel asked. The corners of his mouth turned up a notch to show there was jest beneath the words. “Should we bond? Perhaps do each other’s makeup, eat ice cream, and watch a Hugh Grant movie?”

Juan chuckled. “Kind of girlie to ask you if you want to talk, huh?”

Angel held his index and thumb an inch apart. “A notch.”

“Blame it on Maria,” Juan said. “She says we all should be more attuned to those around us.”

Angel chuckled and sipped the coffee. Juan was smitten with the freedom fighter. Hell, everyone was smitten with her, and it wasn’t just her beauty. It was true that her long wavy hair, dusky skin, and green eyes captured the attention of men, but her passion held it. Passion for her people. For her country. For the truth.

Maria was a force of nature, and while her enthusiasm for the RADEC cause wasn’t something he shared, he admired her for it. She inspired not just him but thousands of people.

He pushed the shot of mescal away. “I don’t think I’ll need this today.”

Fiona crouched in an alley, watching the doorway of Tierra Roja and surprised to see movement inside before noon. It was hard to believe anyone would drink at ten in the morning, but this was Colombia. Sometimes, the only way to get through the day was with the edges of life a little blurred.

She looked up and down the street. Cars. People. Men with large guns. It was a day like any other in Bogotá.

Running her hands over her bloodstained jeans, she wished she could change clothes, but she didn’t dare go back to her hotel. Montoya might not know who Anthony was—or his partner—but he’d figure it out. With her luck, sooner rather than later.

She stood, knees shaking. “Come on, Fiona,” she whispered to herself. “Just get across the street, and you’ll be safe.”

Trying to appear nonchalant, she waited until the road was clear of traffic and hurried across. Without breaking pace, she pushed her way into the bar then slammed the door behind her. Taking a deep breath, she leaned against the scarred wooden slab.

“Are you well, señorita?” the bartender asked.

She glanced around the room. Other than the bartender, there was one other patron. Dressed in jeans, a black T-shirt and black boots, he had a cup of coffee and a shot of something in front of him.

He sipped the coffee, not showing any awareness she’d entered.

Great, a drunk, she thought, heading toward the far end of the bar. However, as she drew closer, she scrutinized him with a reporter’s observational skills and had to admit he looked good for a drunk. Big. Muscled and in shape. Black hair clipped neat and short, but not military tight. A professional of some sort.

Angel perhaps? But he could just as easily be one of Montoya’s men. She stopped short, then realized she’d have to take a chance either way. She continued across the floor and leaned against the bar a few feet away. Closer still, she noticed there were circles beneath the man’s eyes, and he drank the coffee as if it were the one thing keeping him alive.

He had to be Angel. He looked like the kind of man who might kill—or protect—for cash.

She shifted toward him. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t acknowledge her. “Excuse me?” she said again, raising her voice and taking another step in his direction. “Angel?” she whispered, taking the chance he was the mercenary.

He sipped his coffee, showing no sign of recognition of the name. The pit in her stomach deepened.

“We are not open yet, señorita,” the bartender said as he continued to hand-wash the bar glasses.

“Oh.” She turned away from the dark man. “I don’t want a drink.” She went to the bartender. They were supposed to know everything. “I need a man,” she whispered

He grinned. “Who do you want?”

Judging by the goofy expression on his tanned face, he thought she meant sex. Now was not the time for jokes. A vision of Anthony flashed across her eyes.

For what seemed like the millionth time since she ran away, she pushed the bloody image out of her mind and blinked back tears. Later, when the film was safe, she’d mourn. “Not like that. I need a specific man. He’s called Angel. I was told he came here. A lot.”

“Angel? I don’t know him.” The bartender shook his head, and his eyes remained on her, not sliding toward the dark man. Not even for a second.

Fiona’s heart dropped. “I was told he came here,” she insisted. Almost as if she floated outside her body, she heard her voice grow higher, more frightened and shaky. She didn’t care. “I was told.”

“You were told wrong,” the bartender said, disentangling her hands from his shirt. “Let me get you a cup of coffee.”

She hadn’t realized she’d grabbed him. Fiona stuffed her hands into her pockets. Her fingertips touched Tony’s footage, and she yanked that hand back out.

Taking a deep breath, she sat on a barstool and let her head drop to the wooden bar. This was not going well. Not at all.

“Here, you need this more than me,” a deep voice said.

She raised her head in time to see the dark man slide his shot glass toward her. She stopped it before it sailed over the end of the bar. “It’s not even noon.”

“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.”

Chapter 2

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?

The last thought made him frown.

“Is she okay?” Juan asked, coming out from the back room.

“She’s fine,” Angel said. But what about Tony? He touched her bloodstained jeans. Her panic and fright told him that she wasn’t a professional soldier, so if it was Tony’s blood on her clothes, she might be wrong in her assessment of the situation. Tony might be hurt and nothing more.

Still, it was a helluva lot of blood.

Her eyelids fluttered.

“Give her this.” Juan pressed a cup into his hand.

“What’s in it?”

“More coffee. Black.”

“Thanks.”

“There’s breakfast on the bar.” He gave the woman a deliberate once-over. “A little food would do her good.”

Angel wasn’t so sure. She was thin, but in an athletic way. Not an underfed, someone-please-give-her-a-sandwich kind of way.

Before he could respond, the woman’s eyes opened, and she pushed her elbows under her, sitting up halfway. “What happened?”

“You fainted.”

“I fainted?” Her brows pressed toward each other, creating a furrow between them. “I’ve never fainted in my life.”

“Tough morning,” Angel said.

She squeezed her eyes shut, and for a moment, he thought she might cry. Again. “You have no idea,” she said, her voice tight.

“But I’d like to,” he replied.

She opened her eyes. With careful deliberation, as if fearing she might faint again, she sat up. Hesitating, she slid off the table and took a seat on one of the rickety wooden chairs. Angel handed her the coffee. Her hands shook, and the hot liquid sloshed over the edges and onto her skin. She grimaced. “Hell, I keep doing that.”

“Give it here—” Angel unwrapped her fingers from around the mug and took the ceramic container, handing it to Juan “—before you do some serious damage.”

“I am not a child.”

Angel nodded in acquiescence. “I don’t think you are, but you’ve been through something traumatic.” He pulled a chair closer and sat across from her, leaning with his elbows on his knees. “First, who are you?”

Her blue eyes widened. “Fiona. Fiona Macmillan.”

“Tell me what happened, Fiona,” Angel said.

“Tony and—” Her voice caught in her throat, and for a moment he thought she might break down. Instead, she continued, “Tony and I were at a hotel, the Luz del Bogotá.”

Angel gave a short, curt nod. He knew the place. It had been a four-star hotel until a few years ago. Now, the stucco walls were pitted with bullet holes, and the only people who stayed there were lovers who couldn’t afford better or the occasional turistas who were unfortunate enough to get a crappy travel agent.

She continued, “We were on the fourth floor, watching Montoya—”

“Ramon Montoya?” He tensed at the name. Montoya was not a man to cross, and as far as being a public servant…public enemy was closer to the truth.

She nodded. “Montoya was interrogating a woman, Maria Salvador. Do you know her?”

“Yes,” Angel said. His gut tightened, not liking where this was going.

“What did he want?” Juan interrupted. Angel turned to see the bartender watching them, his hands twisted in a bar towel.

“He wanted names. People in the resistance. In RADEC,” Fiona said. Her hands shook harder now. “He beat her.”

“Is she—”

Fiona held up her hand, signaling silence. “Please let me finish,” she said. Her eyes squeezed shut again, reminding Angel of a frightened child in a dark room, believing that if she opened her eyes, it would make the monsters real.

“We were watching Montoya and his men interrogate Maria. She refused to give up the names. To give that bastard anything. We thought he was letting her go. He told her to leave. Maria walked away.

“They shot her. Right there. Right in the courtyard. They shot her in the back.” Fiona’s voice broke, and for a heartbeat, the only sounds in the room were her sobs.

He wished there was something he could do to assuage her pain, but there was no fixing the situation. No bringing back the dead and reversing time. They had to move forward and act on the problems at hand.

“Maria’s dead?” Juan whispered.

Fiona continued as if she hadn’t heard him, her eyes still closed tight. “Tony jumped up and shouted. Montoya shot him, too. He died on the balcony in a pool of blood.”

She opened her eyes. Liquid blue, they zeroed in on Angel. “The last thing he said was to find you.”

Angel turned away from her stare, his fists tight. Tony was a good man, and he was dead by Montoya’s hand. Both him and Maria.

Behind him, Juan broke into violent sobs.

A grip on Angel’s arm caught his attention. Fiona’s fingers squeezed, digging into the muscle. “So, here I am,” she said, her calm, contained voice a sharp contrast to the tears of just seconds ago. “Can you help me?”

First things first, Angel reminded himself. Grief could wait. So could anger. “Did Montoya see you?”

She hesitated then shook her head. “I don’t think so, but he knows someone was there. I heard his men talking. I won’t have long until they put it all together.”

Damn it.

“Juan.” He grasped the sobbing man’s shoulder. “I need you to check the perimeter. We need to know if she was followed. Can you do that?”

Juan nodded, wiped his eyes and left through the front door, shutting it firmly behind him.

Fiona watched Juan leave. “He loved her, didn’t he?”

“He did.”

“I’m so sorry,” Fiona whispered.

“Me, too,” Angel said. “But I need you to tell me what happened. Everything.” Maybe there was something she’d forgotten. Something he could use to get her out of the mess she’d created.

“I’ve told you everything,” Fiona said.

“Everything?” Angel asked. “I need more details.”

“There is nothing else.” Her eyes darted to the left and she reached up, twirling a strand of hair. “They died, and I ran until I walked through those doors.”

Liar. He heard it in her voice and saw it in the physical tells she unconsciously displayed.

Of course, it was possible that whatever information she was hiding meant nothing of consequence. But he couldn’t take that chance. His gut told him to get all the information. Most people ignored gut instinct. He wasn’t one of them.

“You’ve left something out of your story.” Elbows on the table, Angel templed his hands in front of his mouth. “In fact, when I think about it, you’ve left out quite a bit.”

“Like what?” Fiona picked at a sliver of wood that stuck up from the table.

“Like why. Why were you two there? Spying for RADEC?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

He didn’t believe her. “Tony worked with RADEC, and you know it.”

Fiona’s hand stilled. “He was a member of RADEC?”

The surprise was real. She wasn’t lying, at least not about that. Damn. But she was lying about something. “Fiona, I need you to talk to me. Tell me everything, or I can’t help you.”

Her gaze shot up. “There’s nothing more to tell. Tony died. The last thing he told me was to come to you for help.”

“Then he trusted me, and you’d do well to do the same. If you can’t do that then leave. Now.”

The fact that he meant it surprised him. He wasn’t one to get involved, not anymore, but if he did, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be under false pretenses.

Not even for Tony.

Fiona buried her head in her hands. “I’m sorry.” When she looked up, she still appeared calm, but the guilt beneath the surface was almost tangible. “I was afraid if you knew, you might take the tape.”

“Tape?” An unwelcome and unwanted déjà vu rippled up his spine.

“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.”

“Please. Stop crying,” Angel said, sounding desperate.

“Sorry,” she said with a sharp laugh, noting the frantic edge to her voice. “It’s been a bit of a Monday.”

Once again, Angel wiped a tear from her cheek, and she tried not to sigh at the unexpected tenderness in his touch. She needed touch. Needed to feel safe. And for all his gruffness, Angel made her feel as if nothing bad could touch her again. “I need to get to a television studio,” Fiona whispered. “They can transfer the footage to digital format, and then I can e-mail it to whoever we want.”

“That won’t keep you safe,” Angel said. “Even if you send the story out, Montoya will come after you as long as you’re in Colombia.”

“Let’s deal with the tape,” she said. If she thought about the future beyond the tape, she’d start crying again. That, or go screaming down the street. “I want the world to see this man for what he is. Then we can discuss the next move.”

Juan took her hand and squeezed her fingers. “Thank you for telling me about Maria,” he said. “If we can put Montoya behind bars, she will not have died without purpose.”

“You loved her, didn’t you?”

He nodded, his eyes tearing again.

“If I could have saved her, I would have,” Fiona said. “No one was supposed to die.”

“It’s not your fault. You are a brave woman.”

“Brave?” Fiona laughed at the phrase. She wasn’t brave. Numb was more like it.

“Yes,” Juan said.

She didn’t laugh again. Perhaps she didn’t believe in herself as much as Juan did, but it didn’t matter. She had the images of Tony’s and Maria’s deaths and the burning need to set things right to motivate her.

Courage meant little when compared to justice. “I’ll get their story out,” she vowed.

“Just finish Montoya,” Juan said. “Make him pay for what he has done.”

“I will,” Fiona said. For Tony. For Maria.

“No, we will,” Angel corrected.

“Thank you,” Fiona said. Standing so close, he realized that darker circles, almost purple in color, ringed her blue eyes.

They were mesmerizing.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he said, reminding himself that her appearance was part of the job description and that pretty didn’t equate with moral or good or smart. She was a reporter, and that meant she had more curiosity than common sense.

Just like Isabel.

Isabel. The woman he’d loved and buried. It was the millionth time he’d thought of her and the millionth time he pushed her memory away. Beautiful as Fiona, passionate as Maria, and a journalist in search of her big break, she’d died for her curiosity, leaving him behind to pick up the pieces of the past and bury the future.

What had Tony been thinking in sending Fiona—another Isabel in the making—to him when there were plenty of guns for hire in Bogotá? If the cameraman had lived, he’d be tempted to kill him himself. But Tony was dead and had left it to him to help Fiona. Angel scraped a hand through his hair, torn between the urge to shove the reporter out the door and live up to his duty by helping her.

“Ignore his temper,” Juan said, changing the topic. “There is an independent television station just outside the El Parque de la 93 sector. They are friendly to RADEC and are eager to see Montoya stopped. Will that do?”

“Maybe,” Fiona said.

“It’ll have to do,” Angel said. He needed to get this blond nuisance out of his hair as fast as possible. Unfortunately, El Parque de la 93 was north of the city, which was hell and gone from where they were.

“Even though Juan didn’t see anyone, we’re going to assume you were followed, which means that we need to get you out of here. To someplace safe while I take the tape to the station.”

Fiona’s full lips turned downward. “You’re taking the tape? I don’t think so.”

“I’m sure that since you’re a TV reporter, you know that the El Parque de la 93 sector is dangerous,” he said, not bothering to hide his derisive feelings regarding her profession.

She didn’t appear to notice. “It’s a wealthy area. Good shopping. Popular clubs—”

“Kidnappings,” Angel interrupted.

“—and muggings,” Fiona interrupted back. “I know all that. The wealth brings in more than the tourist trade.”

Maybe she wasn’t a total waste, Angel decided. She knew the region and its pitfalls, but book knowledge wasn’t the same as street smarts. “There are also spies. People who would do anything for money. Including turning you over to Montoya.” He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “You don’t exactly blend.”

“Ya think?”

He tried not to smile at her unexpected sarcasm.

“I can’t let this tape out of my sight,” she continued. “Tony trusted you, so I do, too. Kinda,” she added with a slightly mocking half smile. “Besides, two people are better than one.”

“Not when one is a tall blond reporter on the run,” Angel countered.

Fiona took a step toward him, all defiance and determination. “I have the only tape. What if you’re caught? I have to make sure this tape gets into the right hands.”

Angel sighed in exasperation. He had two sisters and knew that tone. She wasn’t going to back down, and there was no time to argue. He needed to get her to safety and get the footage to the public. And he was going to have to do it with her in tow. “Fine. But a few things first.”

She relaxed, her shoulders dropping from their tense position. “Like what?”

“We wait until dark to head to the district.”

“Isn’t that when most robberies happen?”

“Yes, but Montoya won’t expect you to travel then, and as for muggers, I can take care of them.”

“No doubt,” she said, her eyes traveling from his feet to his mouth. When she reached his eyes, her cheeks turned a bright red.

Angel chuckled. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Fiona gave a tentative smile, but her cheeks remained bright. “I just meant that since you’re a mercenary, you can take care of yourself.”

“I know what you meant,” he said.

Juan squeezed her arm. “Angel is more than a mercenary. He is a hero. He will protect you.”

Fiona nodded. “A hero? Who did you save?” she asked.

“He saved a busload of children from bandits,” Juan said. “And another time, a village—”

“Shut up,” Angel said. He didn’t need the bartender telling Fiona his business.

“So, a bit more than a paid killer,” Fiona said, her voice warm.

The thought of her admiring him, seeing him as a hero, rankled him. Admiration meant obligation, and he was up to his neck in responsibility. “No. I was paid. And I killed,” Angel said. That was all she needed to know. Anything else was for friends, and Fiona was not on his friends list.

Her skin returned to its normal shade of pale, pink china. “Fair enough,” Fiona said, the warmth gone from her voice. “I suppose I should pay you, then.”

“Money’s good,” Angel said. He felt like an ass, but it was too late to back down now.

“So why help me?” she asked, staring at him with narrowed, curious eyes. “I can’t pay you. Not yet.”

“You can owe me.”

“Agreed,” she said. “Once the footage is safe, I’ll get you your money. Somehow.” Her eyes distant, she smiled for the first time. “And if this story wins an Emmy, I’ll invite you to the party.”

“An Emmy party?” Isabel had talked of the same thing the morning she left to get her big story.

He’d teased her about party aspirations as she’d walked out the door. Painful hindsight told him that he should have gone with her, but she hadn’t told him the truth about the danger. If she had, he’d have kept her in bed. Safe in his arms.

Instead, she died for a story and a stupid award.

“Is winning the biggest prize all you people think about?” he asked, lashing out and not bothering to hide his contempt.

Fiona took a step back, her small smile fading. “I was making a joke. Kidding.”

“There’s truth in every joke,” Angel said. “Who are you trying to fool? Me or yourself?”

Her cheeks turned pink again, and she returned his glare. “Forget I said anything,” she said after a few seconds.

“Forgotten,” he said, knowing it wasn’t.

“Whatever,” Fiona said, breathing so hard she trembled. “You know what? I don’t need you, your mental baggage, or your attitude. I’ll deal with this myself.”

Despite her brave words, he didn’t miss the fear and uncertainty beneath her anger. She couldn’t do this alone, and they both knew it. “No. You won’t,” Angel said.

“Watch me,” she said. Her eyes darkened, and she turned on her heel.

Angel sighed. Damn, she was determined to make him pay before she gave in to common sense. He watched her walk toward the door. He didn’t think she’d actually try to solve her situation on her own, but when egos were involved it was hard to judge what someone might do.

Especially a reporter with a reputation at stake.

Still, if she wanted to play head games, he’d be happy to oblige. “I can’t say that I’m surprised that you’re a selfish pain in the ass,” he commented when she was halfway across the room.

“Selfish?” She stopped midstep and turned to face him, her hands on her hips. “How can you say that?”

“You’d put the only evidence that we have against Montoya in danger because I’m not nice to you? Because I pissed you off?”

She bit her lower lip, thinking, and the unexpected urge to kiss her full, defiant mouth overwhelmed Angel. This was going to be harder than he thought, he realized. Much, much harder.

He followed her steps, not stopping until he was in her space. “We don’t have to like each other to do this, do we?” he asked.

She tilted her head upward until her mouth was inches from his. The tension between them grew with each beat of Angel’s heart. He crossed his arms over his chest, putting the barrier between them for both their sakes.

“I suppose not,” she said.

“Good.” Angel breathed a sigh of relief and stepped back.

“Yeah, good.” She rocked back on her heels then forward again. “What now? We have hours to kill before nightfall. What do we do until then? Hide? Drink? Banter? Try not to kill each other?”

“We go to my apartment,” Angel said. “And we go to bed.”

Chapter 3

Fiona’s jaw dropped as she stared at Angel, unable to believe he’d suggest sex after all she’d been through. She wanted comfort, but screwing a virtual stranger wasn’t the path to solace. “I am not having sex with you,” she squeaked.

He raised a brow. “I didn’t say anything about sex. I said go to bed, and that’s all I meant. We’re going to have a long night ahead of us. We need to sleep when we can.”

Once again, Fiona’s cheek flushed with heat. Angel brought out the worst in her, and a part of her wished she had the option of walking away.

But she wasn’t going anywhere. He might be irritating, and there were questions as to his sobriety, but Tony trusted him to protect her and that was enough.

Besides, there wasn’t anyone else.

“Okay, sleep it is,” she said. “Where to?”

“My place is a few buildings down.”

“Fiona, here.”

Fiona turned to see Juan toss her a bundle. She caught it in midair. She unrolled the cloth. There was an army-green floppy hat and a tan jacket. She put both on. The jacket reached past her thighs and helped hide the bloodstains. She tucked her hair inside the hat. “I’m ready,” she said.

Angel assessed her from boot-clad feet to the top of her head. “It’ll do,” he said.

Like she had a choice.

“And this,” Juan said, holding out a white bundle wrapped around a few clunky objects. “It’s some bread and cheese,” he explained. “A few bottles of water.”

Fiona clung to the package, grateful for the gesture. It warmed her to know there were people out there who supported her. Who trusted her to do the right thing.

It was unfortunate that Angel thought so little of her, but she suspected it would take an act of God to convince him to trust her. She wished she knew why.

Fiona kissed Juan on the cheek. “Take care of yourself,” she whispered in his ear.

“Don’t worry about me.” Juan said. “I’m closing up for a few weeks.”

Fiona nodded. “Where will you go?”

He shrugged. “I am not sure. But there is little doubt that Montoya will track you here. It might be today. Perhaps tomorrow. Either way, I will not be here when he arrives.”

Juan squeezed her hand. Hard. “And you need to go, as well,” he said. “The longer you stay in the open, the greater the danger.”

“He’s right,” Angel said.

Fiona nodded and broke away, following Angel out the door. The lock clicked after Juan shut the door behind them. She turned to see him glance out the window. She waved.

He flashed a small smile then put a sign in the window. Cerrado. Closed.

“Will he be okay?” she asked. She didn’t know Juan, but she knew grief.

“He’ll survive,” Angel said, taking her arm and pulling her into motion. Fiona walked fast to stay by Angel’s side as he led her down the sidewalk.

Though the street wasn’t crowded, it wasn’t empty, and Fiona lowered her head, trying not to call attention to herself.

“We’re here,” Angel said, stopping at the gate to his apartment building.

More like a condemned building, she thought when he opened the iron gate and let her in. Flaking yellow paint covered pitted stucco walls. The small courtyard was a riot of half-dead plants, and the dirt-filled fountain looked like it hadn’t contained water in a decade. “Lovely,” she said.

“It’s a place to sleep,” Angel replied. “And it’s safe. Mostly.”

That was all that mattered, she told herself. Keeping close, she followed Angel up three flights to a hallway lit with twenty-watt bulbs and smelling of burnt tortillas, sweat and mold. His door was the third down on the right. As he opened it, she dreaded what she’d find on the other side.

To her surprise, it was sparse but neat and smelled better than the hallway. She scooted inside and breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s not horrible,” she said.

“Gee. Thanks,” Angel said, obviously not pleased with her comment.

Fiona scrubbed at her face, mentally kicking herself for being rude. What was it about Angel that gave her foot-in-mouth syndrome? “I’m sorry. That sounded ungrateful, and I’m not. You didn’t have to do this, any of this, and I appreciate the chance you’re taking in helping me.”

“It’s okay. We’re both a little punchy.” His expression softened, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Just don’t get too comfortable. We’re not staying.”

“Why not?” A shiver of goose bumps ran up Fiona’s spine. “Were we followed?”

“No, but this is Bogotá. We’re staying in another room. One that backs up to a fire escape.”

“Won’t the occupant notice?”

“No. It’s mine. I rent it under another name.”

He kept an extra room for escape? And she thought she was paranoid. “Why stay at all?” she asked. “If it’s that dangerous, shouldn’t we keep moving?”

“We will when it’s dark,” he explained. “Even with the hat, you stick out. So for now, we minimize risk, get rest, and hope we get lucky.”

He went to the dresser, pulled out military-perfect, folded navy-blue T-shirts and black cargo pants. “Wearing those jeans is like wearing a bull’s-eye,” he said, handing her the clothes.

She held them up. The shirt reached midthigh, and the pants were a joke. “You don’t think this will set me apart?”

“It’ll do until we can get better,” Angel said, pulling a gun from the dresser. Flat black in color, it looked lethal as hell.

Perfect.

“Change,” he said, pulling another gun out. “I want to be out of here in sixty seconds.”

He was serious. Dead serious. She ran into the small, dingy bathroom. The oversize shirt was manageable, but the pants were wide in the waist and pulled across her hips.

At least they’d stay on, she mused. After transferring the tape of Maria’s death to one of the zippered cargo pockets, she pushed open the door as she tried to adjust the fit. “Got a—”

Fiona stopped midstep.

Angel stood with his back to her. With the exception of a pair of black boxers, he was naked. The muscles on his back flexed and moved. Every shadow perfect. Every line tight. But what caught her attention were the scars. A few were thin and white, as if made from a knife or a whip. Others were larger. Ugly.

He really was a mercenary, she realized. She’d known it before, but that was in her head. Now she knew—deep down knew—this man killed for a living. Or had.

Despite that, she longed to run her fingers over his battle scars. Test the texture of his skin and make the wicked lines disappear. To offer him the solace she craved.

Mesmerized, she stepped closer. A board squeaked beneath her feet. He glanced over his shoulder. “Do I have a what?” he asked without a hint of body consciousness as he slid a black T-shirt over his head.

“Belt?” she asked, tugging at the pants and staring at her feet. “Got a belt?”

“In the drawer.” He grabbed a second set of black cargo pants and put them on, removing a few items from the pants on the floor and placing them in the various pockets. “Stuff your jeans and the other clothes under the covers.”

She did as she instructed, making two long lumps side by side as she realized what he was trying to do. “That’s not going to fool anyone,” she said, shaking her head at the obvious decoy.

“It’s not supposed to,” Angel said. “If someone followed you, or if someone sells the info, Montoya will come in and shoot ‘us’ up.” He sat on the bed and put on his boots. “Consider it an early warning system.”

The goose bumps returned, and Fiona found herself speechless. A part of her mind wondered what she’d gotten herself into, but she knew the answer.

She’d crossed Ramon Montoya, and until she got the footage of Maria’s death out of Colombia, her life was in danger.

Hers, and anyone she spoke to.

Juan.

“Will they come after Juan?” she asked, panicked at the thought. “If someone saw me go into the bar, they might.”

Angel’s hands stilled, and there was something new in his hazel eyes. Something she hadn’t seen before and wasn’t sure how to interpret.

Angel went back to lacing his boots. “He’s already gone. He’ll be fine.” He finished and picked up his guns. “Take this,” he said, holding one out.

It was for her? She eyed it. She’d shot a rifle before but only a few times. She took the gun. It was lighter than she expected.

“Can you shoot it if you have to?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. She put the weapon in a pocket then grabbed the small bag of food, the jacket and her hat.

Angel pressed a key into her hand. “End of the hallway. Last door on the left.”

Slowly, he opened the door and edged into the hallway. “All clear. Go!”

The sun sank below the horizon, casting shadows and gold light over Fiona’s sleeping body. She seemed much too innocent to be a reporter, Angel decided as he watched her sleep. She frowned, and her eyelids flickered, betraying the fact that she dreamed.

Bad dreams, he was sure.

He knew what those were like.

“Anthony,” she mumbled, the dead man’s name almost incoherent.

Yep, bad dreams. His back against the wall, a Glock on his lap and another tucked at the back of his waist, he touched a long, pale blond curl that had turned the color of honey in the setting sun.

Isabel’s opposite, he mused. Isabel with her black hair, chocolate eyes and olive skin. He shut his eyes. Though it was over two years since her death, she still haunted him.

Fiona mumbled again. Whimpered. Kicked. Angel opened his eyes and stroked her hair, careful not to wake her. “Shhh,” he whispered. “It’s all right.”

Her whimper turned into a sigh, and she turned over, sticking a leg out from the unzipped side of the sleeping bag.

She slept in her clothes in case they had to bug out, but even seeing her in boots and pants, he didn’t miss the perfect curve of her thigh.

Looking at her, with her pale hair and a body that would make a monk question his vows, he knew he had nothing but trouble on his hands. Angel let his head fall back against the wall with a dull thud. When she’d asked for help, he should have told her to move on. To find someone else. But no, instead he had to play the hero.

Play being the operative word. He was a mercenary, dammit. Not a knight. And he would do well to remember that. He had a head full of memories to keep him in line. And if that wasn’t enough, there was always Isabel’s engagement ring to remind him about what happened to people who put themselves in situations better left alone. He touched the zippered pants pocket where he’d transferred it earlier.

“Crap, what a mistake,” he muttered.

“What is?” Fiona turned over, blinking at him and yawning.

He stared at her, irked that she’d overheard his comment but more irked at himself for not keeping his mouth shut.

“Well?” she asked.

He ran a hand through his hair, not sure what to say other than the truth. “You. Me. Running from the law.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.”

She looked sorry. And helpless.

She sat up, crossing her legs beneath her. “If it makes a difference, I’ve thought about what you said earlier. About me putting people in danger for a story.”

“And?” he asked, curious.

“I like to think that when it comes to humanity versus the story, I’d choose humanity. I’d save a life over getting a good story.” Her voice trembled with uncertainty.

“You’re not sure though, are you?” he asked, knowing that Isabel would have gone for the story every time. She couldn’t help herself, even when it meant putting herself in danger.

Fiona shook her head. “In this case? No. Montoya needs to be stopped. That’s not in question. Maria’s death gave me the means to do just that. It isn’t fair, but I’m glad I was there to capture it. And as for Tony…” Fiona ran her fingers through her hair. “I’ll regret that for the rest of my life.”

“Me, too,” Angel said.

“But you need to know that despite what happened, I can’t start questioning the morality of my job. What I can do is make sure that Montoya pays for his actions. That he goes to jail.”

“I understand,” he replied.

She managed a weak smile then stood, letting the sleeping bag drop to her feet, and went to the bathroom.

Angel watched her walk away from him, and his mouth went dry. He’d thought her legs were good. Her ass was better.

“I’ll just be a minute,” she said, closing the door.

Angel rose, asking himself again what he was doing. Then muffled sobs caught his ear. Fiona. She was sobbing in the bathroom, and not the fake crying that most women did. The kind that meant they wanted someone to comfort them but wanted the man to initiate the effort so they gave a half-hearted attempt to be quiet.

No. Her cries were almost silent. If the room hadn’t been so quiet, he wouldn’t have noticed.

It seemed she wasn’t as emotionally distant from the day’s events as either of them liked to pretend.

On the other side of the door, Fiona turned on the water, the splashing water covering the sound of her sobs.

Angel let his head fall back again. He should go in there. Comfort her. But what could he say? Tony and Maria were dead, and nothing he said or did would change the past.

“This is what I meant by mistake,” he said to no one. Everything she did, everything she was, made her a distraction. The water stopped, and silence reigned again.

Angel rose, stretching, and peeked out the front window. People going to and from the market filled the streets along with cars that were comprised more of rust than metal. Children played. Men stood in groups, smoking cheap cigarettes and talking to each other.

No one glanced his way or did anything that appeared the least suspicious, but that meant nothing. Any one of them would sell Fiona out. They were poor and putting food on the table took precedence over a gringa with a supposed tape of Montoya killing a rebel leader.

The sound of gunshots reverberated in the room.

Montoya. They’d found the dummies. Damn, he’d hoped they’d have more time. It was at least thirty minutes until dark.

“It’s him!” Fiona barreled out of the bathroom, running into Angel.

“I know,” he said, taking a deep breath and controlling the sudden rush of adrenaline that surged through his blood. They had thirty seconds. Maybe.

There were shouts, and then the sound of doors splintering as Montoya’s men made their way down the hallway, checking the rooms.

Angel ran to the window that faced the alley and the fire escape. The window slid up on well-oiled tracks. He might not live in the room but he made sure he maintained it since there was no point in having an escape route that was ineffective.

“Climb up.” He stood aside, his weapon trained on the door.

To her credit, Fiona didn’t argue but clambered out onto the rickety metal steps and headed toward the roof.

Angel followed, sliding the window shut. Not that their escape would fool the thugs for long, but if he and Fiona made the roof before they arrived, the men might assume they’d gone down.

It was what most people would do.

Above him, Fiona climbed onto the roof, her booted feet disappearing over the edge. In the room below, he heard the door splinter. He pushed himself and in seconds joined Fiona on the roof.

The sound of breaking glass followed. In the dimming light, Fiona’s eyes widened. “What do we do?” she asked, her voice low and shaky.

“We jump.”

“Excuse me?”

There was no time to explain. Grabbing her arm, he hurried her to the far side of the building. The next building was five feet away. “Jump to the next roof.”

She leaned over the edge. “That’s a helluva drop.”

“Would you prefer a bullet?”

She paled but shook her head, walked back a few feet and barreled toward the edge. It’s just five feet, he told himself as she launched herself into the air and over the alley. She landed on the other side, feet solid on the flat, tarred surface. Facing him, she motioned for him to hurry.

Good girl.

He leapt and landed next to her. “Again,” he said, gesturing toward the next building.

“If they come up here, we’ll be sitting ducks on these flat roofs,” Fiona said.

“I know. So quit talking and get moving. Get to the next building, then we go down on the far side.”

She frowned but ran, clearing the five-foot span with ease, and headed across the roof without a glance back.

He hurried, not breaking stride and staying on her heels. They reached the ladder as a gunshot rent the air, ripping into the graveled tar paper a few inches from Angel’s feet. Fiona froze.

The goons were smarter than he thought, and he had the suspicion that in better light, they’d have hit him. “Hurry!” he shouted.

Fiona slid down the ladder, using her feet and hands on the outside edges to push inward on the rails and create a controlled fall.

Gravel peppered his legs, and Angel turned, firing back. There was a cry, and in the growing shadows, one of the men fell to the ground.

He hoped it hurt. A lot. Sticking his gun into the back of his pants, he slid down the ladder, as well, dropping the last few feet.

“What do we do?” Fiona asked, already edging toward the entrance to the alley and the crowds that offered some protective anonymity.

“We walk,” Angel said. Taking her arm, he pulled her close, and they entered the crowd. It took less than thirty seconds to realize his mistake. Fiona was close to six feet tall, making her stand out. Where was her hat? Her blond hair stood out like a beacon.

Men were already turning heads, gawking at her. They wouldn’t proposition her since she had him as an escort, but if Montoya’s men questioned anyone, there would be no doubt that they’d remember the exotic blonde.

Damn it. He walked faster

“What are you doing? Slow down.”

“You’re too damned pretty. I knew it would be a problem,” Angel muttered.

“Well, excuse me,” Fiona whispered. “It’s not like I do it on purpose. You want to complain? Take it up with my parents for giving me the good genes.”

He glanced at her, too worried and focused to give her points for being right. “We’ve got to cover your head,” he said. Entering the outdoor market, he worked his way in through the crowds. “Wait here,” he said, leaving Fiona in front of a booth crammed with spices and dried fruit.

“Wait?” Her eyes were dark in the dim lights, but her pale skin glowed. “Where are you going?”

“I need to buy a few things, and I do not want anyone to remember that I bought them for you.”

“Are you coming back?” she asked, clutching at his arm.

Under any other circumstances, he’d be insulted at the insinuation he would abandon someone under his protection, but the fear in her voice negated any insult. He gripped her shoulders and met her uneasy stare. “I am coming back. I promise.”

She swallowed and gave him a tight nod. “Okay. Just hurry.”

Almost running, Angel stopped at the first booth that sold clothes. There was no time for haggling. He grabbed a red shawl and a hat, pressing pesos into the vendor’s hand.

“That was more than thirty seconds,” Fiona said, as she took the garments, gripping them like a lifeline.

“So sue me,” Angel said.

She put on the large hat, stuffing her hair inside, and wrapped the shawl around her, hunching over. “How’s this?” she asked.

The disguise wasn’t great. Nothing short of hair dye and a sudden drop in height would make her blend in with the locals.

Behind him, there were shouts. Montoya’s men. They couldn’t be far behind.

Taking her hand, he pulled her back into the throng of people. “Good enough.”

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