Page 42 of Mercenary

A flock of seagulls fly noisily overhead. Headed toward Shelby. I shake my head. Wrong direction. The warm sunshine of the gulf is the other way. Nothing but Shelby and all her misery that way. The flock flies out of sight across the horizon. I lower my chin, my focus back on the road.

That’s when I notice the taillights of his pickup turn red. He’s slowed the truck, enough where seconds later, I’ve caught up to it. The window’s down.

He . . . waves. Come closer.

I hurry toward the open window. “I’m not taking back what I said,” I holler into the pickup. “Everyone deserves to be liked, to have someone care about them.”

He avoids looking at me and keeps his attention fixed straight ahead.

“You’re running.”

“Madelyn,” he warns.

“You never run, that’s what you told me. But Declan, you’re running . . . from me.”

“I’m not who you think I am,” he says, his words coming out like a growl.

His head snaps my way and our eyes meet. It’s like an invisible rope lies between us, him holding fast to one end and me to the other. A frayed rope that’s about to snap.

“Then why did you stop?” I murmur.

“I can’t let you go.”

12

Madelyn

“When we were young, the neighborhood kids used to play in fields like this.” I gesture to the wheat stalks flanking both sides of the road. “Our favorite game was Manhunt. And believe it or not, my team always won.”

He looks over at me, so close yet there’s a palpable distance between us. The invisible wall is back. Immovable. Impenetrable. Inarguably cool in nature. “I can’t let you go,” he said. But don’t expect me to let you in, either, his coolness suggests.

For the umpteenth time, I wonder what makes him this way. Why distance yourself from people? Why withdraw into yourself and shut people out? The exact opposite of me in nature, in fact.

Though I understand why walls of ice are constructed. To hide the walls of hurt behind them. Which leads me back to Declan, and his freeze-out . . . I’m not giving up—he will talk to me.

“I have a strategy that always works.” I catch an ever-so-slight lift of his brows. “You see, hiding is important in this game, something Kylie could earn a gold medal for each and every time. My approach is different. For me, the real hero of Manhunt is the kid who remains uncaught so she can trail into enemy territory and break her entire team out of jail.”

“So you sacrificed yourself to save you teammates?”

I grin, pleased at my finally drawing him into conversation. “Yep. Each and every time.”

He shakes his head. Hard to say if he disagrees with my strategy or not.

“I imagine your strategy wouldn’t include hiding. Hell, you’d just outplay your enemies.”

“You’re far too perceptive for your own good,” he tells me.

My eyebrows raise. But he doesn’t elaborate any further.

“What games did you play as a boy?”

He grunts.

“I bet you were a force to be reckoned with, whatever the task was,” I add.

Once more, he shakes his head. “Not everyone grows up playing in hayfields.”

I inhale sharply. Hurt. So much hurt in those words. “You had a rough childhood?” I murmur.