Their Bounty (Four Mercenaries 1)

‘Tank’ took a deep breath and looked back the moment another towering presence, though broader and slightly shorter, walked through the door.

“A boy.”

The second man shook his head and hung the rifle he’d been holding on his shoulder. “I’ll be damned,” he said, his voice softening as he approached in hurried steps.

Just like Tank, he was dressed in assault gear, though there was a strand of reddish-brown hair visible at the edge of the eye hole of his fabric mask. “Don’t worry, kid. You’re safe now. What’s your name?” he asked, scooting down next to his companion.

“C-Clover.”

Tank shook his head, and urged the new guy up. “I’ll handle this. Search the house for other captives.” From the commanding sound of Tank’s voice, Clover understood the man who found him to be the leader.

The other guy got up without more prodding and walked to the door before flashing a smile. “Good name. You’re one lucky boy.”

Here‘s hoping.

“How did you get here? Have you been taken or tricked into coming here?” Tank asked in the same somber tone as before. With the cuff still weighing down Clover’s leg, it was difficult to focus on the questions. People were nasty animals, and one could never predict their intentions or even their behavior. Staying alert was the only way to survive, and Clover had learned this the hard way.

“Boy, did you hear what I said?” Tank asked, his lips moving to reveal even white teeth. There was an edge of impatience to his voice now. Not good. Tank had to be at least six-foot-five to Clover’s measly five-eight.

“I… I’m sorry. I’m just so scared,” Clover said, wary of revealing too much. He did not want Tank to think he knew anything about Riggs and his operation, so feigning ignorance was a good card to play. “I’ve been brought here. I don’t know what happened. I think they drugged me.”

“Are you hurt? Did they say where they were taking you and what for?”

“My wrists are bound so tightly I can barely feel my fingers,” Clover pushed his hands out again. The sooner he was free the better.

Tank harrumphed, rising to his feet. A shudder trickled down Clover’s back when his new captor walked past him, but when one of the heavy boots rose into the air, he let out a shriek and covered his head. His eyes flew open when dust rained all over him following a loud thud.

A few powerful kicks were enough to break the empty pipes, and Tank pulled the other shackle off them, clearly intending to use it as a leash. But since the chain was too short for this purpose, he dropped it to the floor and produced a mean-looking knife.

Tank grabbed Clover’s wrists and pulled him to his feet as if he were a puppet. If this man wanted to hurt him, Clover wouldn’t stand a chance, and the sense of vulnerability it produced sent a jolt of excitement down his back. When their eyes met, a naughty voice at the back of Clover’s head reminded him Tank was exactly his type when it came to men, but fear nipped that arousal in the bud.

Tank cut the tape around Clover’s wrists, freeing his hands at last

“Thank you,” Clover said. He didn’t even have to fake the clenching in his throat to gain sympathy. His wrists still pulsed as blood clashed with the numb flesh, so he massaged them, relieved to feel heat flow back to his fingers.

Tank eyed him in silence before gesturing at the door as the second man peeked inside.

“The building’s empty. No cellar either,” he said before descending the stairs.

Clover took a few steps toward the door, eying Tank without even blinking. “Where are we?”

Tank shook his head and followed him like a wolf herding a sheep. “You’re not the one asking questions.”

This didn’t bode well at all. Clover’s stomach clenched when he heard someone laughing. More men awaited him downstairs, and there was no guarantee as to their intentions.

“Are you… saying I’m not free?”

Tank’s eyes narrowed, and his big hand rested on Clover’s shoulder, squeezing it just enough to communicate that he was still a captive. “We need to know who you are first,” he said, directing Clover into the hallway and toward the stairs.

Clover’s feet instantly felt heavier, and the weight of the cuff he was dragging behind him put that point across even more explicitly. His stomach twisted when a third man, dressed the same as the others but shorter, stood at the base of the stairs and studied him without shame.

“Wow. He’s so pale!”

A fourth stranger leaned out of a doorway, eying Clover with black eyes. “And a witness.” His voice sounded like a nail to Clover’s coffin, regardless of the slight lisp. These men had some dirty business here, and Clover was now involved, whether he liked it or not.