Page 87 of Her Mercenary

“Sam!” I yelled, cupping my hands to my mouth. Her name echoed off the cliff, fading into the cool morning air. A bird called out from its perch in a nearby tree.

I was alone. I could feel it in my bones.

My pulse thundered as I frantically searched for any tracks, but there was nothing.

I pulled my cell phone from the side pocket of my pants. Dead, of course, not that it mattered. I had no reception regardless.

A number of scenarios ran like a tidal wave through my head.

Someone had taken her. Or had she gone back to the lodge to save the children as she’d promised she was going to do? But her clothes ...

Samantha had been taken, by Conor himself or one of his men.

She would be beaten for her disobedience. If not killed, she’d be put in a boat and shipped to Africa with the rest of the slaves in under twenty-four hours if I didn’t get her back.

I knew then that I needed help, and there was only one place to get that.

Tenedores was roughly six miles away. The lodge, three days.

I spun around and took off running, my stomach in knots.

41

ROMAN

Ninety minutes and six miles later, I made it to the small township of Tenedores, which consisted of a gas station/grocery store, a hole-in-the-wall mariachi bar, a liquor store with bars on the windows, a community building, and a church.

Jogging onto the pitted two-lane road, I frantically searched for any sign of Sam or Cussane’s men.

An elderly couple sat on a pair of rocking chairs outside the gas station. Next door, a middle-aged woman in a vibrant multicolored dress watered flowers in front of the community building.

“Have you seen a Caucasian woman, long blond hair?” I asked in Spanish breathlessly, approaching the elderly couple.

The man and woman frowned, turning their noses up with both suspicion and repulsion. I imagined I was terrifying, soaked in sweat, covered in dirt and grime, a knife visible on my belt.

The woman who’d been watering flowers quickly tossed the hose and ran inside the community building.

“Sir,” I said, directing my attention to the man, this time speaking English. “Have you seen a white woman come through here? Maybe with others? Men?”

“No.” The old man narrowed his craggy eyes.

“Do you have a phone I could use?”

“No.”

“No cell phone? Anything?”

“No, my wife and I have got nothin’ you need, son.”

I peered over the man’s shoulder to a vacant parking lot where a man of about the same age was reaching for the phone, peering at me with a wary look on his face.

Shit.

The man was no doubt calling the cops, which was the last thing I needed, especially not knowing if they were on the CUN’s payroll.

“Thanks, and sorry.”

I waved a friendly hand to the old man and quickly pivoted, switching directions.