Page 14 of Mercenary

Nothing.

Fighting back my panic, I will myself forward, doing my best to avoid the blood, yet still leaving a sticky red trail of footprints in my wake.

Blood, blood everywhere.

I spot the bartender first, lying over by the sliding glass door. It’s open like he’d been headed out onto the balcony. His handsome face is barely recognizable, so bloody, bruised, and beaten. To death. My hands tremble. I try to distance myself from the horrible truth: a dead man can’t moan so my friend is somewhere, hurt. “Luciana, I’m coming,” I yell, searching the empty room, and after not finding her, sprinting into her bedroom.

I stop short, flick on the light, and gasp.

Oh no. No. No. No.

She’s lying face up on the bed in nothing but her underwear, her body positioned in an X; her arms tied to the headboard, her legs spread wide, her ankles wound with rope with the other ends secured to the bed legs. From her legs to her breasts, her beautiful olive skin has been cut, over and over. Too many to count. Nasty lines oozing blood, and pain.

Her chest rises and falls. Alive, she’s alive.

Quickly, I approach the bed, reaching to untie the tight knots of rope restraining her, desperate to get her free and us out of here.

I step on something. A knife, its blade thick with blood. Her blood.

Evidence. Whoever did this is either stupid or unafraid of being caught. Or . . . he’s coming back to finish her off.

Struggling to maintain the panic surging up inside me, I grab the knife’s handle, first cutting through the rope securing one leg, then the other, and then moving up toward those fastened around her wrists.

As I work, my gaze falls on her face. Except for streaks of blood, it remains mercifully untouched. Her throat, chest, and arms have been spared, too. And on closer inspection, most of the cuts on her body seem to be shallow except for the two diagonal slices on her abdomen.

Slices meant to inflict pain rather than cause death. The thought causes the knife to tremble in my hand. No time to give in to fright.

“Can you hear me, Luciana? It’s me, Madelyn.”

Her eyelids flicker, then she opens them and stares up at me.

“One more rope then we’re getting out of here. You hear me?”

“Hard not to with you hollering at me,” she whispers.

I found my voice all right. But fear keeps me from giving her my normally quick comeback. Thankfully, her mind is lucid.

“Hang on. I’m almost done.” The extremely sharp blade of the knife easily cuts through the remaining rope. I bite my lip, thinking about how it’s been used on my friend.

The lighter cuts will likely heal. but the deeper ones will leave scars on her beautiful body. I bite my lip. Are there other scars, the kind on the inside that are too hard to talk about? Has he hurt her in another way?

Not likely. She still has her underwear on.

The rope snaps into two pieces, freeing her.

“Can you sit up? I’ll grab something for you to wear. You’re hurt badly but we’ve got to get out of here before he comes back.”

Luciana struggles onto her knees, her face tightening in agony. “Them,” she murmurs as I gently pull her arms through a long, loose sundress. “Three. No . . . four. Two of them took turns with the knife. The third kept telling them to stop, that it was just supposed to be a warning.” Her voice quivers, and my throat tightens. “The fourth guy came later. He didn’t speak or participate. But he made the others nervous enough to stop cutting me. He stood in the doorway the whole time. I couldn’t get a good look at him.”

Four men. Oh my God. “Shhh, let’s grab what we need and go. Do you think you can walk?”

“I’ll crawl out of here if I have to.” Despite her brave tone, her face contorts in pain as she stands up. I run over to the closet and start pulling clothes out from her bureau. She needs shoes, pants, a shirt, a dress. With shaking hands, I don’t care what I’m pulling as long as she gets covered up and we get out of here. Fast.

“Did you call the police?”

I freeze. Shit. Oh shit. Do I stick to playing it safe by not involving the police or do what is best for my friend, and for the dead bartender in the next room? “No, I . . .”

“Good. No police.”