Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 102408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
“It’s my call and I say she can’t.” Corporal O’Neill’s eyes lingered on mine for a second then he nodded. “Ma’am. Sir.” Then he walked away.
What the hell just happened? He was going to tell his sergeant to send us home? Could he do that? This story was not only my escape from Carlos Moreno, but my catapult into my dream job as a photographer.
And there was no way this guy was ruining my chances. I wasn’t being sent home with my tail between my legs.
I ran after him.
“Alina!” Jaz called out to me, but I ignored him.
I caught up to O’Neill who had managed to cover a large amount of ground with his long, lean legs and snagged his arm. “Wait,” I said, my fingers curling around his forearm. But they didn’t even come close to encompassing the span.
He stopped, his gaze landing on my hand and I saw a flash of heat flare in the depths before they darkened and there was that fierce scowl again that sent my heart racing. I suddenly wondered if I should’ve just let Jaz deal with this. But it was me he had an issue with.
I released his arm. “I need this job. It’s really important.”
He replied, “You won’t need it if you’re dead.”
“We’re going to an orphanage.”
“That we have to drive to. You know about roadside bombs, right? Suicide bombers? You do know what’s going on in this country?” God, he was being an ass. “You hear about the stories of reporters being held for ransom or even worse, terrorists torturing them for months before videoing their head being blown off? They’re all true. This isn’t a place for a young girl who probably hasn’t witnessed death, let alone heard a gun go off. Go home. Finish school and take photos of families with their dog.” He turned and started walking away again.
Jesus. What right did he have telling me how to live my life? I was good at what I did and I wanted to take photographs that told a story. “I know how to handle a gun and I’ve seen men die,” I blurted.
He stopped, broad back stiffening and then swung around and headed for me. Shit. I backed up a couple steps because he was really intimidating with that severe scowl and overly confident swagger.
I swallowed. “My father taught me to shoot when I was ten.”
He snorted. “A squirt gun doesn’t count.”
“Funny.” What a dick.
He leaned in closer. So close that his warm breath swept across my face. “Do I make you nervous? Because you sure as hell look it. Pulse throbbing in the curve of your neck, quick inhales, fingers curled in the sides of your pants and your teeth chewing on that plush bottom lip. How nervous do you think you’ll be if the Taliban gets a hold of you?”
I hastily released my lip and his eyes flicked to my mouth.
Bastard. But he read me perfectly. I was nervous. He made me nervous and I’d grown up around dangerous, powerful men, my father being one of them. He flew cocaine from Colombia to Miami for Carlos Moreno ever since I could remember.
I’d never personally met Carlos until three years ago, when I was sixteen. I’d been with my mother and father in the market when a Jeep slowed beside us. It was Carlos and his right-hand man, Diego. My father told me to go home, but Carlos already had his eyes on me and asked for an introduction.
The man was old enough to be my father and yet he stared at me with the corners of his lips curved up and his gaze lingering on my breasts. There was a gleam in his eyes that made my stomach lurch and my pulse race with fear.
My father was so nervous he stumbled over his words and kept looking from me to Carlos, his face pale. It was my mother who moved in front of me to block Carlos’s view of me, but it was too late. I had his unwanted attention.
But he never did anything about it for three years, then one night Carlos’s man, Diego, showed up unannounced at the house and he and my father had a huge argument. It was then my father contacted my brother, Juan, who lived in the States.
Last time I’d seen my brother, I was ten years old. He’d bought me my first camera, his goodbye present. He’d told me once he was settled and had enough money I would live with him in the United States. I soon realized why he left when he did—to escape Carlos Moreno’s grasp.
I straightened my shoulders as I faced off with Corporal O’Neill. “Then make sure the Taliban doesn’t get ahold of me,” I retorted. “And you can’t disobey orders.” I really wasn’t sure about all the rules, but I was pretty sure he couldn’t just refuse for the simple fact that he thought I was too young and obviously disliked me.