Page 31 of Her Mercenary
The guards stilled, hesitating.
“I said,” the King repeated, his voice low and menacing. “Give me her.”
One of the men said something in Spanish. He spoke timidly, and I caught the name Conor Cussane.
The King reached into his pocket, and without a word, began doling out stacks of Mexican money to the men.
The guards snatched the paper like starving children, stuffing them into their pockets.
“Five minutes,” the King said, then turned on his heel and disappeared upstairs.
15
SAM
I was removed from my cage and, with a rifle to my head, taken upstairs, retracing the same path I’d marched the day before. My hands remained cuffed in front of my body.
While keeping my head down, I took in as much as I could.
The lights were on, which meant it was dark outside. Nighttime. The smell of a microwave dinner lingered in the air, mixing with the pungent scent of pot. A TV or a radio droned on somewhere in the distance. The evening news, I noticed, and tried desperately to make out the words in the hope of learning my exact location. No luck.
I was guided down a dimly lit long, wide corridor. Walls of windows lined the sides, black with night. A full moon hung low in the sky, washing a silver glow over endless treetops. Dust bunnies coated the trim along the floor, and piles of trash had gathered in the corners.
The corridor split. The barrel of the gun tapped the side of my head, indicating that I turn right.
I was forced into a small room with a bed. A wooden rocking chair sat next to a closed window. A few boxes lay haphazardly on the hardwood floor. A lamp was on in the corner, casting a dim gold light over the room. The strong, powdery scent of fabric softener saturated the air, suggesting the sheets and comforter had been recently washed.
A video camera was erected on a tripod in the corner.
At the sight of it, my stomach rolled. Was I going to be filmed?
The guards stripped me of my housedress, their disgusting bloodshot eyes raking over my naked body. My hands were uncuffed. My right wrist was secured to the bedpost with a long chain—just enough slack to allow for movement on the bed, I noticed, but definitely not long enough to reach the window. Then I was left alone, staring at the door.
Paralyzed by fear, I stood there naked in the deafening silence. Seconds slowly ticked by, then minutes. Eventually, I sat on the edge of the bed, perching like a little bird. Waiting, waiting, waiting.
For what?
I stared at the closed door.
For what?
After what seemed like hours, the silence was broken by the sound of footsteps approaching in the hallway. I surged to my feet like a soldier, my heart leaping into my throat.
The door opened.
The King entered in all his dashingly dangerous glory. Two guards hovered behind him.
My heart stuttered as our eyes locked.
He looked different in the light of the lamp, impossibly handsome. He was wearing a flawless navy suit that appeared to be tailored to his body, emphasizing his broad shoulders, small waist, and thick thighs. The white dress shirt he wore underneath was starched to perfection, the dark tie simple, yet elegant, the silk fabric undoubtedly costing as much as the black wingtips.
He looked like a million dollars.
I looked like street trash.
My pulse began to race wildly.
The King closed the door in the guards’ faces, but they didn’t leave. Instead, the horny bastards gathered on the other side, listening, whispering, peeking through the cracks, awaiting their entertainment for the evening.