The Mercenary's Bond

The floor mat was cold against my back, but the heat burning behind my eyelids had nothing to do with the heavy punch that had just put me down. I was still seeing Steve in that tight navy shirt from dinner. More specifically, I was thinking about the way his dark denim jeans molded over his ass when he leaned over the mess hall table to grab the salt. The man was built like a brick house, and the way those pants clung to him, a girl couldn't help but wonder what kind of heat he was packing under all that denim. BAM. A sharp, sting of leather against my ribs snapped me out of my dirty little daydream. "Kira! Where is your head at?" Sh*t. I blinked back the spots in my vision and scrambled to my feet, instantly snapping into a sharp, perfect posture. Heel to heel, spine straight, hands clasped tightly behind my lower back. The Director hovered over me, her cold, slate-gray eyes boring into mine. The graying hair pulled into her signature tight bun didn't soften her look one bit. "If you don't get your sh*t together, Kira, I will find someone else for this mission." "I'm sorry, Director," I said, keeping my voice utterly level, completely devoid of the panic hammering in my chest. "I was thinking about the mission parameters. I'll do better." Her sharp gaze didn't soften. "You better." She didn't wait for a reply. She turned on her heel, her heavy boots clicking rhythmically against the reinforced floor as she marched out of the training room, leaving a heavy silence in her wake. As soon as the heavy metal door hissed shut, a shadow stepped into my field of view. "Sorry," Linda said, offering a hand to pull me up the rest of the way. "I really thought you saw me coming. You okay?" I rubbed at my ribs, letting out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "Yeah. It’s not your fault. I just… couldn't stop thinking about Steve's ass in those pants tonight." I flashed her a crooked grin. "I could almost make out what he was packing, if you know what I mean." Linda burst out laughing, slapping my shoulder. "Okay, fair enough! That is a completely valid excuse. Man is built right." Linda was one of my best friends here. We’d practically been raised side-by-side in this place—the "Orphan" Academy. I always put "orphan" in mental quotes because everybody on the outside thought we were just some high-end, private boarding school for troubled, parentless youth. In reality, it was a sleek cover-up to train kids into elite, ruthless, bad ass mercenaries. In a real orphanage, kids age out when they turn eighteen and get sent out into the world to start a life. Here, at twenty-three, I was still firmly embedded in the system. At the Academy, you don't "age out." You either keep taking missions, or you die in the field. ​That’s exactly what happened to Kelly last week. She was twenty-eight when her streak finally ran out. Kelly was supposed to go on the retrieval mission tomorrow night—a high-paying job to slip into the Black Viper gang's club and steal a black-market file for a corporate client. But Kelly took a blade to the throat on a routine run, and just like that, I was next in line. Don't get me wrong, it was sad that she died. We’d shared a bunk room for two years. But here, we were trained not to cry over the little things. People live, and people die. What can you really do to stop it? In our line of work, death was just an occupational hazard. "Come on," Linda said, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead as we unwrapped our wrists and headed for the double doors. "You know, we could go down to the club tonight." She nudged my shoulder with her elbow, a mischievous spark in her eye. "Clear your mind before the big mission tomorrow. Get a drink, maybe see if Steve is hanging around the floor?" I wiped my face with the back of my forearm, feeling the lingering ache in my ribs melting away at the thought of loud music, dark lights, and a strong drink. "You know what?" I smiled, tossing my hand-wraps into my duffel bag. "I actually think that’s a great idea."