The Mercenary

by Cherry Adair

  His breath was a choppy whisper. He could hear the goons thrashing about in the trees a hundred feet away. Not nearly far enough. It was mercifully dark, the tall trees and thick ornamental shrubs hiding them. But for how long?

  Tory pulled his T-shirt over her head, then gave him a horrified once-over. “You’re hurt!” Her cool hand moved over his face, as if she could fix him with her fingertips. “Oh, God, Marc. You’re bleeding.”

  “Yeah, bullet wounds have a tendency to do that.” He dug in his pocket and then grabbed her wrist as she tried to use the hem of the shirt to stanch the flow. “Here. It’s the ignition key to a Vespa parked off the main road up there. Go.”

  With a jerk of his head he indicated the direction through the trees. “The moped is behind the barn. Drive it to where I picked you up in the truck, and get yourself to the grotto. There’s no way we can get to the helicopter now. Alex is waiting for my signal. He’ll pick you up.”

  “I’m not leaving without you.”

  “You’ll damn well do as I tell you! Move your butt out of here. Now!” The crashing of small branches drowned out his whispered words as men ran within feet of their hiding place. Marc put his hand over her mouth as she started to protest.

  But she shook her head, her eyes huge over his hand. She wasn’t leaving without him.

  When the noise moved away, he dropped his hand and said furiously, “You’re no goddamned hero. You’ll get me killed if you stick around.”

  She flinched, but she answered flatly, “Then we go together. I’m not leaving. Warm up to the idea.”

  Marc thought quickly and put a sneer in his voice. “Just because I screwed you doesn’t give you the right to hang around like a frigging leech. Have some pride, Victoria. I only wanted your body, not a lifetime commitment.”

  He heard the sharp hiss of her breath and pushed harder. “At least Krista was trained. She would have been some help.”

  He wished she wouldn’t look at him like that and squinted off into the trees. “When I want a woman, it sure as hell wouldn’t be some mousy little bookkeeper from the sticks.” He looked her straight in the eye. “Get lost, lady. Your brother’s waiting for you and I have things to do.”

  Ignoring the way her eyes narrowed and her chin tilted, Marc moved away from her, crawling deeper into the trees without a backward glance. Laying a track of firepower as he started to run, he was misdirecting their attention to himself. Away from Tory.

  In moments he was swallowed by the dense underbrush. He continued as fast as his leg allowed until he was sure he was far enough away from her. He leaned back, using a tree trunk to rest his leg for a moment, hoping to God she could figure out where the hell the Vespa was.

  He knew the only way to draw their fire was for them to follow him. Find him. Firing in the general direction of the palace, he crashed through the undergrowth, making enough noise for a deaf man to follow. He didn’t have long to wait.

  Mario came around a tree trunk, his eyes darting from side to side, an AK-47 assault rifle cradled in his arms like a baby. Marc took advantage of the man’s surprise at seeing him just standing there in the glade.

  Swinging his leg up in an arc, the side of his boot hit the rifle, sending it somersaulting into the bushes.

  Mario’s hands were now free, and he managed to get a glancing blow to Marc’s face. He sidestepped, bringing the butt of his Uzi up and ramming it against the other man’s cheek. Mario screamed in pain, his eyes feral as he swung again.

  The blow landed on Marc’s forehead, exactly where the bullet had creased him. Damn. Marc exploded, blocking the other man’s blows and striking out in a flurry—left elbow to the throat, right fist to the gut. He swung his leg again, but the bullet wound made his arc too low and he hit Mario’s shoulder this time.

  Mario staggered back, blood pouring from his nose. He looked around frantically for help. There was none. Marc gave him a shove with the butt of the Uzi.

  “How do you like feeling helpless, you useless piece of shit?” Marc punched him in the solar plexus. “This is for touching Tory.” He swung again, knocking the other man’s head to the side.

  Finally he dropped Mario with a vicious uppercut to his jaw. The sound of bone crunching was extremely satisfying. Mario lay still, and Marc used the back of his free hand to wipe the blood out of his eyes. He was starting to feel a whole lot better. His adrenaline was pumping, he didn’t even notice the blood on his face, and his leg was numb. One down and—

  “Drop your weapon, Sir Ian. Or should I say Phantom?”

  Marc’s heart skipped a half beat, then he obediently dropped the Uzi as Ragno emerged from the tree, flanked by Giorgio and another man. Ragno held a .45 Magnum semiautomatic—no match for the Uzi, but that was on the ground at his feet. Ragno’s two goons held AK-47’s pointed at his bare chest.

  He figured Tory needed another ten minutes to get away. He shifted his weight off his bad leg and waited, looking deceptively relaxed. When Ragno yelled for the rest of the men, Marc relaxed even more. Right now, all he could do was stall.

  “You have proved a great inconvenience to my operation for many years,” Ragno said coldly. The tips of his jutting ears were pink, and his uniform of U.S. Army fatigues looked ridiculously out of place on his bulky frame. “I should shoot you where you stand.”

  Nice to know that despite almost three years retirement they still missed him. Marc shrugged. “That’s what I’d do if the tables were turned.”

  “You are very cocky for a man who might well bleed to death,” Ragno continued coldly. “Move over there.” He indicated a stout tree. Marc dragged his game leg more than it warranted and shuffled in the general direction indicated.

  How far had she gotten? Had she found the Vespa? Was she even now on her way to Lynx and safety? Christ, he hoped so. Because the alternative didn’t bear contemplating.

  “Tie him up.” Ragno pulled a cloth out of his breast pocket and swiped it down his face as he watched his men dispassionately. “Test those bonds to make sure he can’t get loose.”

  Two men, using thin wire, bound his hands and feet and stood at attention on either side of him. Marc leaned back against the knotty bark and tested the strength of his bonds. Tight and efficient. Shit. His vision was problematic. Now that he was standing still the blood ran unrelentingly into his eye, and he suspected a concussion was encroaching on his vision.

  Damn and double damn.

  “Before I kill you slowly, Phantom, you will tell me how many of your operatives know of my whereabouts.” Ragno moved closer now that Marc was tied, still flanked by his small army.

  “Operatives?” Marc mocked. “I don’t know what you mean, old chap.”

  At a nod from Ragno, a fist landed on Marc’s cheekbone, snapping his head back. Pain sliced through him and his stomach heaved as a series of blows landed—on the ribs a couple of times, then his face. Yeah, the guy was definitely a pro.

  “What happened to your pal, Tweedledee?” Marc managed.

  “I will ask the questions.”

  “Have at it. I’m a little tied up right now, so my time is all yours.”

  Ragno’s eyes blazed. “You insolent fool. Answer me.” He nodded to the guard on Marc’s left. The man used his full strength to punch him in the solar plexus. Nothing like a fair division of labor. Marc’s breath whooshed out of his lungs and he slumped back against the tree.

  “I like games, Phantom. Very much.” Ragno’s breath stank as he pushed his face close to Marc’s. “But I much prefer to play by my own rules. We enjoyed a little game with your slut this morning.”

  He stroked the side of his perspiring face with his handkerchief and smiled. “She’s quite feisty, isn’t she?” A nod of his head and the guard on his right punched Marc again. “She will screw anyone.”

  With effort, Marc kept his expression bland. Ragno returned to his original question. “How many of your people know of our whereabouts?”

  “Let’s just say that enough people
know who and what you are to effectively eliminate you and your group.” Marc managed to press his body upright against the tree, as he looked at Ragno contemptuously. “You don’t for a moment think I’d come in alone, do you?”

  “We will find them and eliminate every one.”

  “You and what army?” Marc sneered, blinking into the flashlights trained on his face. Where the hell was Tory? Safe? He strained to hear the putt-putt of the moped. Other than the wind ruffling the treetops and Ragno’s uneven breathing, the forest was silent.

  Ragno stepped closer still, and Marc wrinkled his nose at his stench. Christ, did this ass never take a bath? “I have an army,” Ragno said smugly, fingering the collar of his fatigues.

  “Yeah, the Salvation Army. Get real. What are you going to do? Talk us to death?”

  Ragno snapped Marc’s head back with an open-handed blow.

  Hidden in the trees, Tory winced. All she could see was the back of Marc’s head as it slammed to the side. But she could see Cristoph Ragno’s face and torso quite clearly.

  Sweat stung her eyes and she used her good arm to blot her face. The sound of the men’s voices was almost obliterated by the thundering of her heart. Her hand, around the gun, felt slick and shaky. Oh, God, could she do it?

  Not giving herself time to think, she edged closer. Something snapped under her left foot and she froze, her heart in her mouth. No one seemed to notice. She was as close as she dared. If she reached out her arm she could have touched Marc’s shoulder. The gun suddenly seemed to weigh a ton. What did she know about guns, for heaven’s sake? What if she shot Marc by mistake? The what-ifs buzzed in her head—but for only a second. Krista would have done it without blinking an eye.

  Carefully Tory eased the gun firmly into her left hand, using the cast for balance, just as Marc had shown her. She turned on the laser and aimed. A red dot, the size of a dime, wavered on Ragno’s shoulder. Then crawled, very, very slowly. Across his chest, his collar, his throat, and then paused. Tory held her breath trying to steady the beam.

  How could the man not see the beam of red light? Tory moved the red beam unsteadily up the sweat glistening on Ragno’s neck, up and up until it was aligned between his close-set eyes. For a moment she hesitated…

  Then squeezed the trigger.

  A second later she heard the pop. Then there was pandemonium. She refused to look as she ran from behind the cover of the trees, brandishing her gun.

  She heard Marc’s, “Hot damn!” but couldn’t look at him. Suddenly calm, she lifted the weapon in steady hands and did a slow arc with the barrel.

  Marc rubbed his face on his shoulder as Victoria came through the trees. The men stood stupefied, watching the small woman with the gun step into the clearing. Her hair swung wildly around her, the sleeves of the white silk blouse stuck out below the short sleeves of his black T-shirt, and there was a rip in the knee of her black slacks.

  She looked magnificent.

  She looked furious. “Drop your weapons,” she snapped, the infrared dot moving from one to the other.

  Marc’s heart did a tango in his chest. Hell. They’d kill her before she could draw another breath. Straining at his bindings he prayed harder than he’d ever prayed in his life. Crazy woman, what the hell did she think these guys would do? Obey her?

  Clearly surprised by her appearance, disheveled, one arm in a cast, bruises and lacerations on her face, the men took a nanosecond to train their weapons on her. The sound of a bullet being chambered sounded incredibly loud. The man hesitated. Probably never shot a woman at almost point-blank range before.

  His hesitation cost him. Because Tory didn’t hesitate. She pulled the trigger. Her bullet struck the man in the fleshy part of his thigh, and he went down screaming, trying to staunch the blood flow with both hands.

  Every vestige of color drained from Tory’s face, but she stared down the others. “Throw your guns over here.”

  Throw—Marc almost choked.

  To his stunned amazement, they obeyed, tossing their weapons in Tory’s general direction without mishap. Marc frowned, which hurt like hell. For these goons to be this compliant meant they had back-up. Somewhere. His eyes flickered to the surrounding trees, but he didn’t see a sniper skulking in the undergrowth. Didn’t mean there wasn’t one.

  He braced himself for the kill shot, even as he worked at his bindings.

  “Get closer together,” Tory told them, her tone tough and no nonsense. “Good. Now take down your pants.” In case they didn’t understand, she motioned her order with her free hand. After a blank few seconds they complied but, man, were they unhappy. Marc bit back a grin.

  He didn’t for a moment think these macho guys were going to let her get away with this, but for the moment it was damn funny seeing this petite woman holding off a gang of tangos.

  The men unbuckled and unzipped, then dropped trow. Not a pretty sight, but an effective hobble.

  “Now everyone lie face down—except you.” Tory used the muzzle to indicate the man standing closest to Marc. “Now.”

  The men dropped to the ground.

  Keeping her attention on the men lying face down in the dirt, Tory jerked her chin at the guy standing beside him. “Untie him.”

  As he felt the wire loosen, Marc brought his hands in front of him, rubbing his wrists. The man bent to free his feet. As soon as the bonds were loose, Marc kicked out with his good leg. The man flipped to the side and lay still on the ground next to his dead boss.

  Tory hadn’t turned the weapon off so the red dot made a small target on the man’s chest.

  “He’s unconscious, sweetheart. Don’t worry about this one.”

  Marc caught a movement out of the corner of his eye as someone tried to get up. “Victoria! Left!”

  She raised the gun and pinned the other man in place. He dropped the pistol.

  “Hurry up.” Her voice rose. Marc noticed the fine tremor in her hands and hoped that the men didn’t. He stepped over the unconscious man, his game leg numb, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to wait around for Tory to be rushed by seven men. Limping, he came quickly to her side and relieved her of the weapon.

  “Strip,” he ordered the men on the ground. Much as he’d like to finish the job himself, he didn’t have the time. He had to get Victoria to safety while he still could. By now Lynx would have called in the garbage detail. They’d remove the prisoners and interrogate them further. For now, his job was to secure them and get the hell out of there.

  They looked at him blankly.

  “Get naked, gentlemen, and don’t mind the lady.” Over his shoulder he said grimly, “Find the Uzi—I dropped it back over there.” He wished his damned leg had stayed numb. He could feel warm blood seeping out of the wound.

  She came back as the last man peeled off his underwear. She averted her eyes as Marc said, “Drop.” They all fell in the dirt, facedown. “Grab their belts and whatever else you can find and start tying them up.”

  He knew he needed to get her moving so she wouldn’t have time to think about what she’d just done. She was white-faced and glassy-eyed. Shock. But she did as he said, stripping belts from loops and shoelaces out of their shoes. He gave her top marks as she tied their hands and feet so that their legs were bent up at an unnatural angle, pointing at their heads.

  “You’re doing fine.” He was going to pass out soon and he resisted with everything in him. She’d come this far. He needed at least to see her safely to the grotto.

  He gave the seven trussed-up men one more glance, assessing their chances of breaking free, and took her arm.

  After several yards he knew that there was no way that he was going to walk out of there on his own two feet. He’d lost too much blood, his vision was next to useless, and his leg wouldn’t support his weight. He stopped to lean against a tree. “Princess, you have to get to the grotto and meet up with Lynx. Tell him where I am and he’ll send someone back for me when you’re safe.”

  She didn’t bother answeri
ng him; she just pushed her shoulder under his arm and held tightly to his hand dangling between her breasts, forcing him to walk. The forest wasn’t thick; it was more ornamental than wild. But the going was still rough. Thick shrubbery had grown between the trees, and the pathways were obliterated by years of debris, fallen leaves and branches.

  It could have been hours but it was probably no more than forty minutes when Victoria slowed her pace. They had come to the road.

  Marc was tortured by the fact that she’d practically carried him all this way. He could feel the sweat making her clothes stick to her slender back.

  Tory’s breathing was labored as she spoke—“I’ll g-get…the Vespa.” She moved from under his arm and steadied him against the side of a rusted tractor that had been abandoned at the side of the road. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Tory…” But she didn’t have time to listen to what he had to say. Every muscle in her body burned, she didn’t want to pause long enough to think. If she paused for even a second, she would be lost. Her legs pumped faster as she rounded the barn and saw the scooter, partially hidden.

  Marc tossed his good leg over the back of the seat as Victoria pulled up. “Go,” he said tersely, settling his hands in front of her to grip the pommel.

  She went. The moped didn’t go more than thirty-five miles an hour, but they were moving in the right direction and hopefully had enough leeway for a clean getaway.

  Tory angled her body to take a curve. This was suicide and she knew it. She was riding the unsteady scooter with a total disregard for their safety. The rearview mirror showed no headlights. But that could be as temporary as the next curve.

  “Keep it steady,” Marc warned, his hands holding on tightly to her hips.

  The wind stung her cheeks and made her eyes water, but she concentrated on keeping them upright. The noise of the little moped was so loud. She wanted to look behind to see if they were being followed, but she didn’t dare.

  The moon came out from behind the clouds. It was almost as bright as daylight as they rounded the outside wall of Pavina, heading toward the beach and the grotto. The narrow wheels slithered on the cobblestones before hitting the tarred road.