The Mercenary

by ALLISON LEIGH,

  “Every time you mention my plane,” Tyler said, “you piss me off.” He dug his heels into the ground, halting another slide. “You’ve been following me and my friend, and that pisses me off. Basically—” he squeezed a fraction tighter “—you piss me off.”

  The German swore at him and struggled against the headlock. His feet went over the edge and Tyler yanked back. “Not so fast.”

  But the momentum was too much, and his hold loosened. Just enough. And suddenly, the German was dangling over the cliff. Tyler grabbed his shirt, his shoulders, hanging on for all he was worth.

  “Don’t drop me!” The German scrabbled for the edge, his voice suddenly panicked. “Sell your drugs, do whatever. Is nothing to me.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Tyler gritted, as every muscle in his body strained. Centimeter by centimeter he pulled. Blondie was almost as tall as he was, and it was no easy task. Particularly with the way the guy was swinging his legs back and forth in a panic to get back on firm ground.

  Some piece of his mind imagined hauling Blondie along as a prisoner. They couldn’t spare the time to leave him off with any authorities that Tyler could afford to trust. Having a prisoner would slow their progress to la Fortuna, but it would also ensure the guy couldn’t warn El Jefe before Tyler could get there.

  Finally, finally, he’d pulled the other man up enough for Tyler to reach down and grab the man by the belt. He hauled, groaning out loud at the effort.

  It took him a minute to feel the pain.

  But when he did, it was fierce. A burning, awful, deadly pain. Feeling stupid, slow, he looked down to see the wicked gleam in the other man’s eyes as he pulled out the blade he’d just sliced into Tyler’s shoulder.

  Blood gushed from the wound, running down his arm. His fingers went numb. He wasn’t even aware of letting go of his hold on the German. But he was fully aware of the man crawling over the edge, knife aloft.

  “El Jefe pay whether you dead or alive. And with you dead, the girl be even easier to kill.”

  Tyler’s blood went cold. Using every bit of strength left in him, he swept the German’s leg hard. The man stumbled, cartwheeled.

  And disappeared over the edge.

  Tyler fell back against the ground and stared up into the blue sky. The clouds were racing around in dizzying circles. “Ah, hell,” he muttered. He did not have time to pass out. But he had to close his eyes. Just for a minute. Just until the dizziness eased up. And then he’d get to Marisa and tell her…

  He frowned, his thoughts drifting. Tell her what?

  “By dark, he said.” Marisa paced, following the circumference of light cast by the fire she’d started. “Won’t leave you, he said.” For the hundredth time, she stopped, staring into the darkness beyond, listening fiercely for the sound, any sound, that Tyler was returning.

  Nothing.

  She’d bathed in the waterfall and coaxed a fire into burning. She’d snared a fish, cleaned it, cooked it and eaten it.

  And still. Nothing.

  Tears threatened, but she refused to give in to them. She should have followed her instincts and followed after Tyler when there had still been some light to guide her way.

  And now, even the moon seemed to be hiding in that expanse of endless black overhead. Guarding its cool, white light, too selfish to share when Marisa most needed it.

  She didn’t know how much time was passing. But it seemed an agony of long, hard heartbeats as she paced. And paced.

  And paced.

  Finally she could take it no longer. She’d just have to take her own illumination because she couldn’t wait for Tyler one more minute. She had to do something, or go insane.

  She felt around for a large, substantial branch. The best she could find was one about as thick as her arm. She stuck it straight into the fire, afraid the green wood wouldn’t catch. When it finally did, she turned to face the void beyond the fire, beyond the tumble of the waterfall, beyond the misty air that made her hair curl into ringlets around her shoulders.

  But she’d taken only one step into that void when something came crashing through the brush. Startled, Marisa backed toward the firelight.

  And then Tyler was there. He grinned faintly when he saw her. “Hi, honey, I’m home.”

  Her jaw dropped. And adrenaline raced through her when his eyes seemed to roll back in his head and he pitched forward, falling flat on the ground.

  Her shocked paralysis lasted only a millisecond before she dropped the branch into the fire and darted forward, desperately running her hands over his body, carefully turning him onto his side. On his back. She felt the wetness, saw the blood on her hands in the firelight. Chanting his name like a litany, she scrabbled for T-shirts, for anything to stanch the blood seeping from his shoulder. She finally used her teeth to help rip one of his cotton shirts into strips that she bound around him, creating a tourniquet of sorts.

  His forehead was cold, clammy. His pulse rapid.

  And what she knew about first-aid would have fit on the head of a pin. No amount of effort seemed to penetrate his unconsciousness. He was out cold. Probably from losing so much blood.

  Containing her panic by mere threads, she went to the pool and washed off the blood and made herself not think about infections and germs and the fact that they were miles from any sort of help, and she dare not leave him in the middle of the night, wounded as he was, anyway.

  She didn’t know how he’d been injured, or by whom or what, and she didn’t know whether that danger was still out there. So she did the only thing she could. She crouched down and tucked her arms beneath Tyler’s muscled shoulders, wincing when he seemed to groan. Inch by aching inch, she dragged his big body closer to the warmth and sense of safety provided by the small fire. When she finally managed it, she fell back, breathing hard.

  With the site of his wound better illuminated, Marisa could see the dark stain spreading through the bundled shirts, and she hurriedly found another. How much blood could a man lose?

  Enough to die.

  The thought hung in the back of her mind, like some hideous, evil thing.

  Marisa ignored it. She replaced one sodden padding after another. And finally, oh, yes, finally, after what seemed hours, the bleeding slowed.

  And when dawn was breaking over the horizon, it stopped altogether, giving her a chance to finally wash the blood from the cloths in the falls and spread them out to dry.

  Driven by nerves and fear, Marisa regularly cradled his head in her arm, urging small sips of water from the canteen. His clamminess had been replaced, sometime during those dark hours, with fever, and now his skin felt hot. His head twisted against her gentle touch, his good arm thrashing out at her as his voice, rough and barely understandable, railed at some unseen person.

  Afraid he’d disturb the wound and start bleeding again, she lay beside him, holding his arms still, trying to calm him. He just swore at her, low and guttural. Eventually his eyes opened, glassy and fevered. He called her “Sonya,” then lapsed into unconsciousness again. Marisa wanted to weep for the agony in his expression.

  She dissolved the last few aspirin in the water, desperate to get it in his system, and succeeded only partially. By the time the sun hung high in the sky, she knew she couldn’t wait any longer. Tyler needed more help than she could possibly provide on her own. There was no denying it. His condition was worsening.

  If only she could remember the plants and roots that her mother and grandmother had used to heal every complaint from headaches to indigestion to deep, gaping slashes.

  Leaving him sheltered from the sun by the tarp that she strung over him as best she could, she folded the rinsed and dried T-shirts and carefully peeled away the used ones from his wound.

  “La madre de Dios.” The sight of the cut was horrible. Worse than she’d expected. She had to swallow down a wave of nausea. “Fight against this, Tyler,” she said fiercely as she gently, carefully placed the impromptu bandages over the gash. “Westin needs you.” She tie
d off the bandages and stared into his face. They’d both gotten more tan over the past several days, yet his skin was ashen beneath that. His lashes lay thick and unbearably vulnerable against the deep circles beneath his eyes. What she wouldn’t give for a healthy dose of his impossible confidence right now. “I need you,” she whispered.

  Feeling even more urgent, she continued talking, telling him, again and again, as she packed cool, wet cloths around his body and urged him to drink just a little more water, that she’d return with help.

  She prayed that he’d understand her. She prayed that she wasn’t putting him in more danger by leaving. She prayed that she would remember the way.

  And if she did remember, she prayed that her family wouldn’t turn her away.

  Eight

  “Tia Marisa,” the small voice asked, “will you make my hair pretty like yours?”

  Tyler swallowed. Opening his eyes felt like too damn much work, so he just lay there, listening to the soft murmur of voices—one a child’s, one lower and more melodious—as he took stock.

  There was a blanket over him, coarse and vaguely itchy. Whatever he was lying on, it was comfortable enough. Little too soft for his taste. But, then, he’d been used to sleeping on the ground lately—

  His eyes opened, a demand on his lips that came out more like a croak.

  Marisa’s gaze shifted from the pretty little blond girl sitting on her lap to him. Her eyes widened when she saw he was awake, and with a quiet murmur, she set the child aside and stepped over to the bed. “Esté tranquilo,” she whispered, touching his shoulders lightly. “Be still.” She reached for something and a small cup entered his vision.

  She slipped her arm, strong and supportive, under his neck and lifted slightly as she held the water to his mouth. “Go easy, Tyler. You’re very weak.”

  He drank, greedy, impatient. And not so weak that he wasn’t aware of the soft press of her breasts as she leaned over him, settling him back against the thin pillow. He closed his eyes for a minute, and when he opened them, she was still sitting there, arms folded against the too-soft bed.

  Her almond-shaped eyes were the same ones they’d always been, but this Marisa looked different from any that he’d met before. She didn’t look the elegant, uppity linguistics expert dressed in ivory linen and leather shoes. Nor was she the fey jungle creature, wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and sweatpants hacked off at the knee with a knife, sporting dirt on her face and laughter in her eyes as she talked him into just tasting the barbecued banana.

  Now her gleaming hair hung loose in waves around her shoulders, and the dress she wore was so vivid with a half-dozen bright colors that it almost made him dizzy. Yet she was Marisa. He’d recognize her eyes, that touch, that warm, soft scent of hers, no matter what the circumstance.

  He recognized her, but he sure in hell didn’t recognize where they were. The room was simply structured. The big square window opposite the bed looked like it had no glass in it, but there were shutters—currently opened—that would provide protection against the night and the weather. Behind the stool where Marisa sat, there was a doorway, though he couldn’t see where it led. Into another room, maybe. It was a house, clearly. Clean and airy, from what he could tell, but hardly luxurious.

  He moved, running one hand experimentally across his chest. He felt thick wads of bandages. Then he remembered the German. And the knife.

  “Where are we?” His voice sounded rusty, unused, and he felt unease slice through him. “How long—”

  “Shh,” she pressed her fingertips lightly to his lips. “You’re safe. It’s been a few days.”

  He caught her fingers and could tell she was surprised by the strength with which he gripped her. “How many days?”

  Her lips tightened. “A week, Tyler. It’s been a week.”

  He swore, and tried to sit up. “Where’s the backpack?”

  But she planted her hands on his shoulders and gently pushed him right back down. “It’s here, Tyler. Everything is here, I promise you. But you’re not going to undo the good work my abuela has done,” she said flatly. “Now be still.”

  “Where am I?”

  Her lashes fell, hiding her expression from him. “We are at my parents’ home. I told them there was a problem with your plane and we had to crash land.” She looked over her shoulder when she heard a clatter of noises and voices nearing. “Tyler, they think that you’re my hu—”

  “Marisa, mi niña.” A tall woman who could only be Marisa’s mother entered the room, her hands buried in the white apron wrapped around her slender waist. “You did not tell me your husband was awake at last.” The woman’s English was heavily accented, but clear. As clear as the disapproval she directed at her daughter.

  Tyler looked from the woman to Marisa who was staring at him, a near-pleading expression in her eyes. She moistened her lips and looked over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Mama. He just now awakened.” Then she looked back at Tyler, with something that looked very much like regret in her eyes.

  She wrapped her hands around his, and he wondered who was the sick one, because her hands were positively cold and clammy. “Tyler, this is my mother. Belicia.”

  Tyler nodded at the woman who was watching him with a wide smile. “Ma’am,” he murmured, not quite sure what to say. It was one thing to pretend to be married to penetrate la Fortuna, but to lie about it to Marisa’s mother?

  The woman looked at her daughter and a spate of Spanish words flew from her lips, making color rise in Marisa’s long, lovely throat. She glanced at him hurriedly, then back to her mother. “Sí, I am very fortunate. He is very handsome.” Her cheeks went even duskier when Belicia continued talking and gesturing.

  Catching about every tenth word, if that, Tyler got the distinct impression that his masculinity was being very thoroughly dissected, and he didn’t know whether to close his eyes and pretend he wasn’t there, or to make sure the blanket covered him from head to toe, because he was pretty sure he was naked as a jaybird under the rough cloth.

  Then Marisa hopped up and began maneuvering her mother from the room. She quickly pulled down the vividly woven mat that sufficed for a door and then turned to face Tyler. Only she looked everywhere but at him as she folded her arms across her middle.

  “You grew up here?” His voice came a little more naturally.

  She nodded. “Until they let me go live with a cousin in Belize when I was thirteen. I begged to attend school there.” She walked around the small confines of the room, and he could feel the waves of tension rolling off her. “I was the eldest, you see. And my parents, they wanted me to—” She broke off, pressing her fingertips to her forehead. “My brothers looked for the person who stabbed you, but they found no one.”

  “He’s dead,” Tyler said flatly, remembering the look on the German’s face as he’d gone over the edge of the cliff. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to kill or be killed. But it didn’t mean he liked it. “Your parents wanted you to what?”

  Marisa’s shoulders seemed to sag a little. “I was so worried.” She felt for the stool and sat beside him again. Still, she wouldn’t look him in the face. “I didn’t know if we’d be followed here, but you needed help and…” She shook her head, pressing her lips together. Almost absently, she offered the water cup to Tyler again, helping him drink, before setting it aside once more. “I recognized the waterfall, you see. I knew we were near here.”

  Which explained how she’d gotten him here, but didn’t finish at all what she’d been saying about her parents.

  “I hated leaving you,” she added. “But it was necessary.”

  “Necessary things aren’t always easy,” he said. “It doesn’t matter, Marisa. We’re both still alive. The guy tracking us is dead. And the sooner I’m on my feet, the quicker I’ll get to Westin.”

  Her fingers plucked at a loose thread on the blanket. “You said his name a lot. In your fever.” She hesitated. “And someone named Sonya.” Her lashes lifted for a quick glance his
way, then dropped again to shield her expression. “And Lena. My mother, she, um, she heard. She thinks you have too many mistresses and that I brought you to Mezcaya to prove I am woman enough to satisfy you.”

  His jaw loosened. He wasn’t a particularly talkative man, but he was rarely speechless. “I…what?”

  She covered her face with her hand. “Please don’t make me repeat it, Murdoch. It’s embarrassing enough.”

  “Lena’s the baby I told you about,” he muttered, lying back on the pillow. How had this mission gone so damned awry? “The one my buddies and I found on the golf course.”

  “Is…is she yours?” The words came out in a rush. “And Sonya’s?”

  “Hell no!” He jerked up, winced and lay back. “Well, we don’t know for certain who the kid’s father is yet. But I was pretty sure she wasn’t mine even before it was ruled out by a DNA test. I don’t go around acting like Johnny Appleseed.”

  “Johnny Appleseed?”

  The reference had escaped her. “Spreading my seed wherever I go,” he said, irritated with the entire subject.

  Her cheeks went red all over again. She nibbled her lip for a moment. “Well, that’s, um, good.”

  Tyler knew she was leading up to asking about Sonya, and he just didn’t want to go there. “What was it your parents wanted you to do?”

  She popped up and smoothed her hand down the blanket. “You really should get some rest, Tyler. I’ll come check on you in a while. Perhaps you’ll be up to having some soup. My abuela does most of the cooking here. She doesn’t like to share her kitchen, not even with my mother. Everything she makes is good, though.” She smiled quickly. “She’ll leave out the chilies for you. At least until you are healed. Then she’ll lay them on hot and heavy so you can prove your manhood.”

  “We’ve got hot peppers in Texas, honey.”

  Marisa just smiled as she headed for the exit. And Tyler didn’t trust that smile for a minute. Joking or not, he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out. He also noticed that she hadn’t answered his question.