Mistakes Made (Mission Mercenaries Book 2), page 1
Table of Contents
Mistakes Made
Copyright
Mission Mercenaries
Other Series in the Same World
Synopsis
Note to Readers
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Social Media Links
OTHER BOOKS FROM MARIE JAMES
Mistakes Made
A Mission Mercenary Novel
Marie James
Copyright
Mistakes Made: A Mission Mercenary Novel
Copyright © 2022 Marie James
Editing by Marie James Betas & Ms. K Edits
EBooks are not transferable. All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Mission Mercenaries
Lessons Learned
Mistakes Made
Bridges Burned
Depravity Delivered
Redemption Refused
Confusion Cleared
Other Series in the Same World
Cerberus MC
Blackbridge Security
Ravens Ruin MC
Hale Series
Synopsis
The worst thing you can ever do is make an assumption about me, despite my job resting solely on making people think I’m someone I’m not.
I know that makes me crazy, narcissistic, and a little out of touch with the reality of how the world works.
I’ll never argue that fact with anyone.
Maybe it was the hundred-degree Texas weather.
Maybe it was overstimulation from the crowds at the beach.
Maybe it was one of a million other things that irritated me that day.
But when Raya Reed looked me up and down, finding me lacking on some scale I’m sure no man in her life would ever live up to, I snapped.
It wasn’t until she was tied up in my house that I discovered she was Senator Thomas Reed’s daughter.
A normal person would let her go.
I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my past, but making Raya MINE will never be one of them.
Note to Readers
You don’t have to suspend reality.
You only have to dig deep inside of yourself
and let those monsters out to play.
Chapter 1
Liam
“This is the worst fucking idea,” Hollis grumbles as he leans down and sweeps sand off his cast for the hundredth time since we met up today.
“This was your idea,” Nash reminds him.
“Still a bad fucking idea,” Hollis says. “I’m never going to get this shit out of my cast.”
I keep my eyes on the ocean. South Padre is where I called home. Well, at least that's what the guys sitting beside me think. No one knows where I really live, and I’d never give that information up.
I would consider these guys friends, but only on the surface. They’re fake friends, if you will. Social interaction is a requirement in order to look normal.
I’m anything but normal. The guys sitting beside me are anything but normal.
We're all just keeping up appearances, being who those around us expect us to be. I’m sure my blond hair and tanned skin give off a surfer vibe because that’s the goal. The truth is, I can look like anyone I want, anyone I need to be, for whatever occasion I may encounter.
“Why won't you tell us about him?” Nash asks.
I don't even have to speculate on who he's referring to.
Angel Guerra.
The man is our boss. Not that Hollis and Nash have met him.
They haven’t, and I think that pisses them off a little.
I don’t know how I got an actual meeting with the man, but it was brief, lasting only a few minutes. The only reason I think he ever gave me the time of day after that meeting is because of what we have in common.
We don't work a regular nine-to-five job. What we do is dangerous.
Many would look at our profession and think that we're saviors, heroes.
But we're not.
I can't count how many times someone has looked up at me from a dirty floor after months of abuse, like I was Jesus walking the earth.
Taking time out of my life to make sure that others are safe isn’t why I do what I do, but I don't correct them.
That's not what they need at the time.
They don't need to be told that I'm there for a paycheck.
That I wouldn't bat an eye if I showed up in front of them, and they were dead.
I don't tell them that I would just walk away a little disappointed that I wasn't getting paid, but not heartbroken.
I don't internalize the bad jobs. We all have shitty days at work. It just so happens that my shitty days usually end up with someone dead.
Hell, I don't even celebrate the good jobs.
Work is just work.
“We all work for him,” Hollis says. “There's no reason you can't tell us what you know.”
Nash grunts his agreement.
“He's dangerous,” I tell them not for the first time. “Just do your damn jobs and leave the rest alone.”
“We're all dangerous,” Hollis argues, but the man has no idea.
I sigh in irritation, the sound getting lost on the ocean breeze.
“I only met him once,” I remind them.
Nash scoffs. “We all know how much you can tell about a person by just meeting them once.”
I look over at the two of them, wondering why I even showed up in the first place today.
“He’s deadly.” My eyes dart back and forth between the two of them so they know how serious I am. I’d never tell them how I know he’s deadly, but since Angel and I have had similar experiences, I know he has to be. You don’t survive what we did and walk away unchanged. “Not to be fucked with. Not to be researched. Not to be tracked. Just get your jobs, get them done, get paid, and leave it alone.”
I can tell by the look on both their faces that this isn't something they're going to give up on easily, and that makes them stupid and deserving of whatever they may get as a result.
But why should I care if they want to track Angel Guerra? If they want to end up dead on the side of the road, then who am I to stop that from happening?
“He met with you,” Hollis says, the sound of his voice like nails on the chalkboard, like a stubborn child who just won't take no for an answer. I have no doubt that Hollis is an only child, that he’s been given just about everything he’s ever wanted. I wouldn’t be surprised to discover the man only works for the thrills the job provides, for that adrenaline rush when you’re staring down the possibility of death, and how it makes you feel when you survive.
“You met him so you know more about him than we do,” Hollis continues.
“He's my boss just like he's your boss,” I tell him. “I haven't gone out of my way to find out information about him.”
That's the truth. I'm not gonna hunt Angel Guerra down. I'm not going to try to find out more about his life.
Not because I care, despite our shared history, but because I don't give a shit about Angel Guerra. So long as I keep getting those jobs in my email, I'm happy.
I don't want to be his friend.
I don't wonder what the man does at night.
I don't even care about the jobs that he takes that could get him killed. I only care about how it affects me.
I just want to get paid, stash my money away for when I feel like not doing this anymore, and move on.
“You honestly think that he would hurt us if we found out more about him?” Nash asks.
It's my turn to laugh.
“I'm pretty sure that Angel could’ve killed me sitting right here on this beach several months ago and no one would have noticed. He's that dangerous. He's that deadly. I like life too much to chance crossing the man.”
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“We deal with deadly shit on a daily basis,” Hollis says.
He's right. We do the jobs that lead us to the darkest, dangerous, most sinister places in South America.
What he's not saying is that each and every one of those trips could find us dead, and I don't think that Angel would blink an eye if it happened. Hell, the impression that I get from Angel is that he doesn't even care if we work for him or not. He doesn't care if we die.
We're not in any form a liability nor an asset to him. He's making fifty percent off our backs, but if we don’t take the jobs, the man is more than capable of doing them himself.
It doesn't bother me though. He finds the job. He pays for the expenses.
I get paid, he gets paid, and I don't have to waste my time trying to find the next job to do. There’s always work. There’s always someone willing to pay an insane amount of money to get their loved one back.
“I think you're lying,” Nash says.
I turned my eyes from the waves to glare at him. “I'm not fucking lying, man.”
“You don't seem like the type of person who's going to work for someone that they don't know, at least on some level.”
My smile is slow.
Neither of these men really knows me. We're not friends.
I'm not working under the assumption that either of them feels differently than I do.
“He has to at least be from Texas, right?” Hollis prods.
“No clue,” I answer, turning my eyes back to the waves.
The sun is beating down on all of us.
Summers in Texas are brutal, but for some reason this summer seems hotter than normal. I haven’t even gotten into the water, and I can feel the salt from the sweat clinging to my skin.
I’m agitated and annoyed about even being here and the heat is only acerbating my mood. The guys trying to grill me about Angel aren’t helping either.
Conversation halts, and a normal person would want to fill the silence. They would want to give more details. They would want to make excuses about why they aren’t saying more. They’d feel the need to apologize.
I'm not a normal person. They're not normal people either, so it's ignorant for them to even think that way.
“You don't have a fucking chance,” Hollis says. “She's a fucking ten.”
I look over at Nash, tracking his eyes across the sand to a gorgeous brunette.
I can see the appeal. I'm a man, after all.
She has long golden tanned legs and dark hair floating in the wind. She swipes it away instead of pulling it back despite it continuously getting in her eyes.
That woman knows exactly what she's doing. She's caught the attention of damn near every man in a thirty-foot radius.
That tiny bikini clinging to her skin would be see-through if she actually got into the water, but she's not here to swim. She's here to entice. She's here to feed her ego.
“I'm a fucking ten,” Nash argues. “Tens date tens.”
“Date?” Hollis scoffs.
I have to smile. Men like us don't date. We don't have any bonds other than fake ones.
Connections are dangerous.
Connections are how the enemies hurt you, how they control you, how they're able to bend you to their will.
I don't do connections, and I never will.
They're hazardous.
“I use the phrase date loosely,” Nash qualifies. “I don't want to date her. I want to fuck her. It's that simple.”
Hollis grumbles again, still sounding like a petulant child as he reaches down and swipes sand off the cast on his foot.
“That girl has the pick of any man on this beach, and you really think it's going to be you?” I look over at the two of them, slightly annoyed but also distracted by their banter.
“I think I have as good a shot as anybody else,” Nash says.
“I’d rather be working,” Hollis complains, and I understand the feeling.
Idle time for men like us is dangerous.
We don't do well with free time.
“How much longer do you have in the cast?” Nash asks as he lifts his chin in acknowledgment at the woman when she looks in our direction.
“Three more fucking weeks,” Hollis complains.
“And you broke your ankle on a job?” Nash asks.
Hollis nods. “I'd like to tell you guys that I hurt myself being a badass in some epic fucking fight scene, rescuing that last girl, but I stepped off the porch the wrong way and snapped my ankle.”
Both Nash and I laugh.
“That's usually how it goes,” I say, a genuine smile on my face for the first time today. Getting at least some kind of injury while working is pretty normal for our line of work.
“What did Angel say about it?” Nash asks.
“Not a fucking thing,” Hollis says. “It's not like we have workers' comp or medical insurance in the job that we do.”
“I'm surprised he didn't ask you what time you were returning to work,” Nash says, his eyes once again on the brunette playing in the sand as if it isn’t obvious that she’s vying for the attention of every man around her.
I have to laugh and look over at Nash. “If you think he cares if we're working or not, you're sadly mistaken. That man doesn't need us.”
I don't know why my eyes lock on the blonde, twenty feet down the beach.
I wouldn't consider myself a people watcher, although I do notice everything going on around me. It's a skill I've mastered and an extremely necessary one in our line of work.
I don't know that I've ever considered any twenty-something-year-old female demure, but that's exactly what she is. Maybe that's why she stands out.
Maybe that's why I can't seem to take my eyes off her.
I'm just glad that it seems like I'm looking in Nash's direction rather than staring at this woman.
Her one-piece bathing suit fits like a glove.
It leaves a lot to the imagination.
It makes me curious.
Every woman here wants attention, and they're getting it by wearing the skimpiest bikinis imaginable.
They don't care that there are families here.
They don't care that there are children playing in the surf and building sandcastles.
Family vacations and laughter don't matter to them.
A lot of these women not only don't give a shit about the people staring at them, but they also encourage it. They crave it.
They want the men to look at them regardless of their relationship status. If a man looking at them has a wedding ring on their finger, even better.
They want to know that their body, their laughter, the way the sun glints off their hair, and the way that the sand sticks to their skin makes an otherwise faithful man look in their direction.
It's the highest compliment, isn’t it? What says I’m the hottest girl on the beach other than a man, who should be paying attention to his wife and children, who's staring at them.
It's what makes men like the one I used to be want to snatch them up. It makes them want to break them. Makes them want to prove that they’re the ones in control.
Bad men desire women like the one in the white bikini. It does something to their brain that tells them they have to have what she’s offering. In their minds, it’s not only attention those women seek, and even if it is, they’re going to get that attention in whatever way the devious man decides. A beautiful woman brings a lot of money on the black market.
The woman in the white bikini that Nash can’t seem to pull his eyes from heightens that instinct for me as well, but for some reason, the blonde in the modest bathing suit somehow does the same thing, but on a different level.
Almost anyone here can have the brunette.
The blonde? She's a challenge. It would take work to get that woman alone.
I can picture myself trying to break her, trying to make her scream, and that's dangerous. I’ve done well tamping down those urges over the last couple of years.
Looking at a woman that way puts me on the same level as the guys I kill while working. The guys that take liberties with a woman's body before they sell a woman into sexual slavery.
I never wanted to be that man, although every man walking the earth has the potential to abuse, to hurt, to rape.
I know for a fact I’m capable of it, and any man that denies he is, is a liar. Any woman who would argue it for the men in their lives just doesn’t know how the right situation has the ability to make anyone do things they never imagined.
