Page 42 of Her Mercenary

“No.”

“The Irish government?”

“No.”

“Roman, who do—”

“I work for Astor Stone, Inc., a private military contracting firm. And I told you we need to be quiet—”

“What do you do for them?”

I released a pained growl.

“Answer me,” she said tersely. “What do you do for this Astor Stone?”

“Take orders.”

“You mean, like, black ops stuff?”

“Yeah, like black ops stuff.”

Her expression soured in disapproval of my mocking tone. Yet still, she pressed on with her questions.

“Like a James Bond or Jason Bourne type of thing?”

“James Bond and Jason Bourne are fictional characters.”

“And you’re not. So, what are you? A mercenary?”

I wasn’t into labels. Despised them almost as much as questions.

She snorted. “A mercenary,” she said again, letting it soak in. “So, you get paid to kill people then, yes?”

“I get paid to handle shit.”

“Who pays you?”

“My boss.”

“Who pays him?”

“That’s classified.”

“The US government?”

No response.

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

No response.

“Why did you hide this pack here?”

“Stop talking.” I knelt down and reached for the bag, and when she flinched again, I snapped, “Stop doing that. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t hurt women.”