Page 65 of Her Mercenary

How much is she slowing you down, he meant.

“Three days.”

“Three days? Shit, man. Can’t your buddy Bear help get her there faster?”

“We lost contact after the gunfire.”

Lucas shook his head. “My men are following his tracks. They’ll find him, you know. Then you’ll have no one.”

“No, they won’t. Bear is smart. He’s diverting them from me intentionally. He knows what he’s doing. Trust me. This is what he does.”

“Well, let’s hope you’re right.” Lucas shook out of his backpack, unzipped it, and handed Roman a small bag that was tucked inside. “Food, water, medical supplies, a lighter. It was all I could scrounge up at the last minute.”

“Thanks.” Roman stuffed the provisions into his pack.

“Get out of here, Roman,” Lucas said, backing into the shadows. “Now.”

And like a ghost, he was gone.

30

SAM

Roman and I quickly packed up and switched direction, him leading me away from the path we’d been trekking since the escape. Being overly cautious, I assumed.

The run-in with Lucas had sobered us both, reignited a fear inside me.

“They want her head.”

The temperature had climbed to what I could only imagine was triple digits. We hiked up mountains, down mountains, through valleys, tepid streams, under fallen logs, over fallen logs. I’d never been more thankful for trees in my life. Without the shade they provided, I’m sure I would have died of a heat stroke.

We didn’t stop the rest of that day. Only brief pauses of Roman forcing me to drink and eat—ignoring my insistence that he do the same—and him checking my wrapped feet.

Roman was resolute, more determined than ever to complete the first phase of his mission—returning me home safely. Failure wasn’t an option. Not because he cared about me, I told myself, but because he had phase two to complete after. A very personal, very deadly final mission that ended with the death of the son of the man who’d killed Roman’s mother.

I was nothing but a task to complete, a burden to, quite literally, offload.

I spent the day brooding over and dissecting this very thought. Eventually, I came up with three reasons for my fragile feelings about the situation.

One, I was sick of being treated like nothing more than an object. Something to mold, to sell, to use, to deliver from point A to point B. It was as if the world had simply removed my identity. I was nothing more than a hollow shell, unworthy of proper attention and, dare I say, care. I was a package being delivered. That was it.

Two, I couldn’t stop thinking about the children we’d left behind. Guilt consumed me, randomly mixing with anger at the fact that Roman seemed so unsympathetic to them. But what did I expect? I was the mission. They weren’t. Roman only cared about me because that was his only commitment. Get me from point A to point B, then refocus on his real mission.

And finally, I realized that Roman’s seemingly objectification of me bothered me because I was absolutely enraptured by the man. Despite everything, he had ignited feelings that confused, exhausted, and disoriented me. And at the same time made me feel giddy and gave me all the butterflies.

Damn him. Damn him, damn him.

I was near death (felt like, anyway) by the time the sun finally slipped behind the treetops. This, I’d learned, was the worst time for bugs.

We stopped at the edge of a creek where tall, mature trees formed a tunnel around it. The waning light dappled the water like little round mirrors floating on the current.

Roman slipped out of his pack.

Do we sit? Are you allowing me to sit?

I lingered behind him as he pulled out what appeared to be a small polished stick from the bag, then proceeded to expand it like a selfie tripod (this description punctuating the difference in our lifestyles). When I saw the string, I realized the stick wasn’t a stick at all—it was a portable fishing rod.

Next, Roman toe-heeled out of his boots and began unbuttoning his pants.