“I told you no.” The man in charge looked down at McDonald, crawling with his last breath toward that stupid marble head.
McDonald looked back, his eyes wide with pain and greed, his hand reaching up toward the goddess. “Please!” His voice was hoarse and broken with pain. “It’s worth a fortune!”
The boss lifted his rifle and aimed it at McDonald’s chest. “That’s not what I’ve paid you to do.” He fired.
McDonald’s chest exploded.
More blood. Such a mess.
One mercenary dead. One to go. The body count was climbing, but by God, the woman was still alive—and she had a child with her. A child. What an unnecessary and aggravating inconvenience.
The man looked up at the fog bank, shouldered the rifle and followed Kellen and Rae into the canyon. It was easy enough to track them; someone was bleeding. Not a lot, but in this narrowed passage, he found a drop here and there, shiny against the rocks, and that led him on. Then the fog opened, and he saw her—Kellen Adams, facedown, unmoving, on the ground.
How many men, how much money had it taken to get to this point? More than he had ever expected. Who would have thought Gregory’s terrified, broken wife would put up such a fight? Even now, he didn’t trust she was dead. He took the rifle off his shoulder and walked toward her.
She didn’t stir.
Using his foot, he turned her over.
Her head lolled loosely on her neck. Blood smeared her arm and hand. But her chest rose and fell, and she moaned softly.
“Time to finish this thing,” he told her. He released the rifle’s safety and lifted the butt to his shoulder—and paused. From down the path, he heard firm footsteps. Someone large, probably a man, moving fast.
Too many complications here. Too many bodies, too much attention.
He slid into the fog and waited until the footsteps had hurried past, then turned back to finish cleaning up the mess—and the bodies.