Page 27 of Her Mercenary

“Why did he choose her, specifically? Do you know?”

“She’s beautiful. Not much deeper than that. She’s young, and Conor has a thing for American women.”

I contemplated the pros and cons of being blessed with beauty. In America, women pay thousands of dollars to enhance their appearance, as this is valued almost as much as health. However, in most third world countries, women hide their beauty from the evil men who live among them, and some even consider it a curse.

The day Samantha was taken, the day her picture was sent to Conor to add to his files as one of his new slaves, her beauty was her curse.

Lucas hit the brakes, easing over a large rock in the road. “I guess you realize what a huge deal it is that Conor is willing to meet you.”

“He doesn’t want to meet me, Lucas; he wants to work with me. I have ties to both the Irish and US markets. Of course he wants to work with me.”

“You also have a bottomless bank account.”

Money. It was always about money. The entire world revolved around money.

Lucas slowed around another hairpin corner, this one half obstructed by a fallen tree.

Checking my GPS, I said, “Pull over.”

“Wh— Here?”

“Yes, pull over.”

Lucas steered off the dirt road, pulling next to a thriving fern bush, its massive leaves dwarfing the Jeep.

I glanced at my wristwatch.

For a time, we sat in silence.

One minute became ten, then twenty. Finally ...

“Jesus Christ.”

A man dressed in full army fatigues fought his way through the brush, the blade of a K-Bar gripped between his teeth, a massive pack on his back, a gun in each hand. Face paint covered every inch of his skin.

I grinned, opening the door.

13

ROMAN

The six-foot-three special ops Marine stopped on a dime the moment I unfolded myself from the Jeep.

Scowling down at my suit and shiny wingtips, he said, “Oh, fuck you,” in a thick Southern accent.

We shook hands.

“Bear, you look like shit.”

“And you look like you just walked off the set of Miami Vice. What the hell is this shit?” He flicked the collar of my suit. “Who is this? Jorge Armani?”

“It’s Giorgio, you half-baked hillbilly.”

“This coming from a guy who grew up in the dumpsters of Dublin.” Bear inspected Lucas, still seated behind the steering wheel, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. “I thought it was supposed to be just us.”

“That’s Lucas Ruiz, with the Mexican CNI.”

“Mexican intelligence agency?”