Page 79 of Her Mercenary

“Yes.” He took my hand again. “We have to move, Sam.”

Our pace quickened, and I had to jog to keep up with his long strides.

“Did you see his cheek?” I whispered-hissed, although not sure why.

“Yes.”

“It was a C, right? He was branded with the letter C—for Conor Cussane, the CUN, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” Roman’s jaw twitched. “And he was tortured first. Probably for information.”

My eyes rounded as I glanced around the dense forest.

“Duck,” Roman said over his shoulder, yanking my arm, propelling my body downward a split second before I walked headfirst into a massive spiderweb.

I righted myself and took a quick inhale. “Do you think he told who did that to him about you—about us?”

“No.”

“How do you know he was tortured?”

“His wrists and ankles were bound, and he’d been beaten.”

“His throat was slashed.”

“Exactly. His throat was slashed just like the men think you did to the bastards who tried to rape you, right before you escaped the lodge.”

I gasped. “Holy shit.”

I thought back to the conversation Roman had had with the Mexican intelligence agent and my former captor, Lucas Ruiz, where Lucas explained to us that he’d slit the men’s throats to set me up and protect Roman’s cover.

There was no way this was a coincidence. The guards were sending a message. Or was it Conor himself?

My heart started to race. “Do you think they know where we are? That they’re watching us?”

“I don’t know, Sam, but we’re not waiting around to find out.”

35

SAM

Roman’s pace was relentless, unyielding to the challenging terrain, my fatigue, and the elevation of the mountain we’d spent the afternoon hiking.

The stifling humidity was nothing compared to the bugs, literally swarms attacking us from all angles. Roman didn’t seem to notice. He was intent on two things: keeping hold of my hand, and getting me the hell to the airport.

His demeanor had changed drastically after I found his friend’s body. Roman had gone silent and cold, much like the first day we’d escaped.

Conor Cussane’s father had killed Roman’s mother, and now, Conor, or one of his men, had killed Roman’s friend. There was no longer a question if Roman would kill the man—the question now was how long he would torture him first.

Thick clouds had moved in sometime during the hike, darkening the jungle, intensifying an already ominous atmosphere. The air was thick with tension, around us, between us. Fury radiated off Roman in waves, fear off me.

I was just about to demand a rest when Roman pivoted suddenly, jerking my arm and leading me through thick, gnarled bushes. Ahead, dark, menacing clouds peeked between the treetops. The trees thinned and the world opened up completely as we stepped onto a large flat rock jutting out from a cliff.

A gust of wind swept past. I lifted my face to the angry clouds swirling above.

A tingle ran up my spine. Something was in the air that day, an evil so thick and heavy it felt like a third presence.

Roman stepped to the edge, scanning the landscape. Far below the cliff, the terrain evened out and appeared to be manicured in some places. We were definitely getting closer to civilization.