Page 1 of Her Mercenary

ROMAN

Dublin, Ireland – Thirty years ago

I ducked behind a dumpster, careful to avoid the beam of moonlight cutting through the alley.

Ahead was a vacant city block, littered with discarded trash, paper cups, wrappers, and needles. A plastic bag, caught in the icy wind, tumbled across the cracked concrete before snagging in a barbwire fence.

Beyond the barrier, a line of homeless people shuffled anxiously from foot to foot, bundled in scarves, some in trash bags, a few wrapped in silver solar blankets provided to them by the Catholic church down the street. Most were women and children, waiting to receive their scraps from the food bank around the corner.

All heads turned to the two men crossing the street, the men I’d been following for seven blocks.

The homeless eyed the men warily. They were obvious strangers to this part of town in their black suits, cashmere coats, and fancy dress shoes.

I knew, however, that these men were no strangers to this neighborhood. They’d been here many times before, under the cover of night.

I use the term “men” loosely, as one of the suits couldn’t have been much older than myself. I guessed maybe seventeen or eighteen, although I’d never seen his face. With the swagger in his stride, he seemed older, wearing an air of confidence much like his companion, a much older and taller man.

A twinge of envy gripped me. Not just in the way the men dressed and the fact that they obviously had money, but in the way they carried themselves with such confidence and self-assurance, such strength. Such intent in their stride.

Despite being in one of the poorest neighborhoods in Dublin, these men strode through the streets like they owned them. I admired that. I admired the way they made people cross to the other side of the street when they approached. The seas parted for these men.

I wondered what it would be like to be as respected, as feared as they were.

I wanted that. I wanted people to look at me the way they did these two men.

It was the fourth time I’d seen them in over a month. Each time, they’d pass by the diner on the corner, lingering by the windows before disappearing in the shadows.

And with each time, my instinct grew stronger. These men were associated with the bastards who owned my mother. I was sure of it.

Careful to stay down, I darted across the alley, skirting the dilapidated brick apartment buildings littered with graffiti. Gripping closed the thin jacket I’d stolen from the gas station with one hand, I checked for the small kitchen knife I always carried in my pocket. A habit I’d developed over the years.

A side door opened. A man and woman stumbled out, the pungent scent of ammonia and chemicals following a moment later. Meth. I froze in place, watching as they jerked their way to the street, the man incessantly dragging his fingernails down his neck.

Mindlessly, my hand went to my arm, scratching the rash of tiny blisters on my own wrists.

When the tweakers rounded the corner and disappeared, I refocused on the men in suits. They paused under the overhang of an abandoned building, appearing to be waiting for something.

I slipped into the shadows, watching them from behind as they studied the diner.

Seconds turned into minutes.

An icy blast of wind swept through the alleyway, carrying with it the scent of spoiled bacon and cabbage. My stomach growled.

The men began walking again, heading straight for the diner.

Quickly, silently, I jogged down the sidewalk, hugging the buildings while navigating through the shadows. My pulse rate increased, my instincts sensing something in the air.

This time, instead of lingering outside the diner windows, the suits strode past, disappearing around the block.

Frowning, I paused, slipping into a doorway and out of sight. Something was different. Something was off.

I studied the diner. Just beyond the barred windows, silhouettes moved inside the small restaurant, none of which belonged to my short, lean mother.

I scanned the block, spotting her red truck parked along the curb. She was definitely still at work. My heart started to pound.

Passing by the diner window wasn’t an option, because if my mother saw me, as she undoubtedly would, she would scold me for being out past dark. I would cause her worry, and probably earn a slap on the wrist for me making her leave her shift to drag me home by the ear.

Where the hell had the men gone?

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