Midnight Rainbow (5 page)

           
 
"Better than a taxicab," Jane
murmured in relief, and started past him. His hand closed over her shoulder and
jerked her back. "Be quiet," he
ordered,
his
narrowed gaze moving restlessly, surveying the area.

           
 
"Is something wrong?"

           
 
"Shut up!"

           
 
Jane glared at him, incensed by his
unnecessary rudeness, but his hand was still clamped on her shoulder in a grip
that bordered on being painful. It was a warning that if she tried to leave the
protective cover of the jungle before he was satisfied that everything was
safe, he would stop her with real pain. She stood quietly, staring at the
clearing herself, but she couldn't see anything wrong. Everything was quiet.
The pilot was leaning against the outside of the helicopter, occupied with
cleaning his nails; he certainly wasn't concerned with anything.

           
 
Long minutes dragged past. The pilot began to
fidget, craning his neck and staring into the jungle, though anyone standing
just a few feet behind the trees would be completely hidden from view. He
looked at his watch,
then
scanned the jungle again,
his gaze moving nervously from left to right. Jane felt the tension in the man
standing beside her, tension that was echoed in the hand that held her
shoulder. What was wrong? What was he looking for, and why was he waiting? He
was as motionless as a jaguar lying in wait for its prey to pass beneath its
tree limb.

           
 
"This sucks," he muttered abruptly,
easing deeper into the jungle and dragging her with him.

           
 
Jane sputtered at the inelegant expression.
"It does? Why? What's wrong?"

           
 
"Stay here." He pushed her to the
ground, deep in the green-black shadow of the buttressed roots of an enormous
tree.

           
 
Startled, she took a moment to realize that
she'd been abandoned. He had simply melted into the jungle, so silently and
swiftly that she wasn't certain which way he'd gone. She twisted around but
could see nothing that indicated his direction; no swaying vines or limbs.

           
 
She wrapped her arms around her drawn-up legs
and propped her chin on her knees, staring thoughtfully at the ground. A green
stick with legs was dragging a large spider off to be devoured. What if he
didn't come back… whoever he
was.
Why hadn't she asked
him his name? If something happened to him, she'd like to know his name, so she
could tell someone—assuming that she could manage to get out of the jungle
herself. Well, she wasn't any worse off now than she had been before. She was
away from
Turego
, and that was what counted.

           
 
Wait here, he'd said.
For
how long?
Until lunch?
Sundown?
Her next birthday?
Men gave such inexact instructions!
Of course, this particular man seemed a little limited in the conversation
department. Shut up, Stay here and Stay put seemed to be the highlights of his
repertoire. This was quite a tree he'd parked her by. The bottom of the trunk
flared into buttressed roots, forming enormous wings that wrapped around her
almost like arms. If she sat back against the tree, the wings would shield her
completely from the view of someone approaching at any angle except head on.
The straps of her backpack were irritating her shoulders, so she slid it off
and stretched, feeling remarkably lighter. She hauled the pack around and
opened it, then began digging for her hairbrush. Finding this backpack had been
a stroke of luck, she thought, though
Turego's
soldiers really should be a little more careful with their belongings. Without
it, she'd have had to wrap things up in a blanket, which would have been
awkward.

           
 
Finally locating the hairbrush, she diligently
worked through the mass of tangles that had accumulated in her long hair during
the night. A small monkey with an indignant expression hung from a branch
overhead. It scolded her throughout the operation, evidently angry that she had
intruded on its territory. She waved at it.

           
 
Congratulating herself for her foresight, she
pinned her hair up and pulled a black baseball cap out of the pack. She jammed
the cap on and tugged the bill down low over her eyes, then shoved it back up.
There wasn't any sun down here. Staring upward, she could see bright pinpoints
of sun high in the trees, but only a muted green light filtered down to the
floor. She'd have been better off with some of those fancy goggles that.
What's-his-name
had.

           
 
How long had she been sitting there? Was he in
trouble?

           
 
Her legs were going to sleep, so she stood and
stomped around to get her blood flowing again. The longer she waited, the more
uneasy she became, and she had the feeling that a time would come when she'd
better be able to move fast. Jane was an instinctive creature, as sensitive to
atmosphere as any finely tuned barometer. That trait had enabled her to hold
Turego
at bay for what seemed like an endless succession of
days and nights, reading him, sidestepping him, keeping him constantly
disarmed, and even charmed. Now the same instinct warned her of danger. There
was some slight change in the very air that stroked her bare arms. Warily, she
leaned down to pick up her backpack, slipping her arms through the straps and
anchoring it this time by fastening the third strap around her middle.

           
 
The sudden thunderous burst of automatic
weapon fire made her whirl, her heart jumping into her throat. Listening to the
staccato blasts, she knew that several weapons were being fired, but at whom?
Had her friend been detected or was this something else entirely? Was this the
trouble he'd sensed that had made him shy away from the clearing? She wanted to
think that he was safe, observing everything from an invisible vantage point in
the jungle, but with a chill she realized that she couldn't take that for
granted. Her hands felt cold, and with a distant surprise she realized that she
was trembling. What should she do?

           
 
Wait, or run? What if he needed help? She
realized that there was very little she could do, since she was unarmed, but
she couldn't just run away if he needed help. He wasn't the most amiable man
she'd ever met, and she still didn't exactly trust him, but he was the closest
thing to a friend she had here. Ignoring the unwillingness of her feet and the
icy lump of fear in her stomach, Jane left the shelter of the giant tree and
began cautiously inching through the forest, back toward the clearing. There
were only sporadic bursts of gunfire now, still coming from the same general direction.
Suddenly she froze as the faint sound of voices filtered through the forest. In
a cold panic she dove for the shelter of another large tree. What would she do
if they were coming in this direction? The rough bark scratched her hands as
she cautiously moved her head just enough to peer around the trunk. A steely
hand clamped over her mouth. As a scream rose in her throat, a deep, furious
voice growled in her ear, "Damn it, I told you to stay put!"

           
 
Jane glared at him over the hand that still
covered her mouth, her fright turning into relieved anger. She didn't like this
man. She didn't like him at all, and as soon as they were out of this mess, she
was going to tell him about it!

           
 
He removed his hand and shoved her to the
ground on her hands and knees. "Crawl!" he ordered in a harsh
whisper, and pointed to their left.

           
 
Jane crawled, ignoring the scratches she
incurred as she squirmed through the undergrowth, ignoring even the disgusting
squishiness when she accidentally smashed something with her hand. Odd, but now
that he was with her again, her panic had faded; it hadn't gone completely, but
it wasn't the heart-pounding, nauseating variety, either. Whatever his faults,
he knew his way around. He was on her tail, literally, his hard shoulder
against the back of her thighs, pushing her onward whenever he thought she
wasn't moving fast enough. Once he halted her by the simple method of grabbing
her ankle and jerking her flat, his urgent grip warning her to be quiet. She
held her breath, listening to the faint rustle that betrayed the presence of
someone, or something, nearby. She didn't dare turn her head, but she could
detect movement with her peripheral vision. In a moment the man was close enough
that she could see him plainly. He was obviously of Latin ancestry, and he was
dressed in camouflage fatigues with a cap covering his head. He held an
automatic rifle at the ready before him. In only a moment she could no longer
see or hear him, but they stayed motionless in the thick tangle of ferns for
long, agonizing minutes. Then her ankle was released and a hand on her hip
urged her forward.

           
 
They were moving away from the soldier at a
right angle. Perhaps they were going to try to get behind their pursuers,
then
take off in the helicopter while the soldiers were
still deep in the jungle. She wanted to know where they were going, what they
would do, who the soldiers were and what they wanted—but the questions had to
remain bottled up inside her. Now was definitely not the time for talking, not
with this man—what
was
his name?—practically
shoving her through the undergrowth. Abruptly the forest cleared somewhat,
allowing small patches of sunlight to filter through. Grasping her arm, he
hauled her to her feet. "Run, but be as quiet as you can," he hissed
in her ear.
Great.
Run, but do it quietly. She threw
him a dirty look,
then
ran, taking off like a startled
deer. The most disgusting thing was that he was right behind her, and she
couldn't hear him making a sound, while her own feet seemed to pound the earth
like a drum. But her body seemed cheered by the small amount of sunlight,
because she felt her energy level surge despite her sleepless night. The pack
on her shoulders seemed lighter, and her steps became quick and effortless as
adrenaline began pumping through her veins.

           
 
The brush became thicker, and they had to slow
their pace. After about fifteen minutes he stopped her with a hand on her
shoulder and pulled her behind the trunk of a tree. "Rest a minute,"
he whispered.

           
 
"The humidity will wipe you out if you
aren't used to it." Until that moment Jane hadn't noticed that she was
wringing wet with sweat. She'd been too intent on saving her skin to worry
about its dampness. Now, she became aware of the intense humidity of the rain
forest pressing down on her, making every breath she drew lie heavily in her
lungs. She wiped the moisture from her face, the salt of her perspiration
stinging the small scratches on her cheeks. He took a canteen from his pack.
"Take a drink; you look like you need it." She had a very good idea
what she looked like, and she smiled wryly. She accepted the canteen and drank
a little of the water, then capped it and returned it to him.
"Thanks." He looked at her quizzically. "You can have more if
you want."

           
 
"I'm okay." She looked at him,
seeing now that his eyes were a peculiar golden brown color, like amber. His
pupils seemed piercingly black against that tawny background. He was streaked
with sweat, too, but he wasn't even breathing hard. Whoever he was, whatever he
was, he was damned good at this. "What's your name?" she asked
him,
desperately needing to call him something, as if that
would give him more substance, make him more familiar.

           
 
He looked a little wary, and she sensed that
he disliked giving even that much of himself away. A name was only a small
thing, but it was a chink in his armor, a link to another person that he didn't
want.

           
 
"Sullivan," he finally said
reluctantly.

           
 
"First or last?"

           
 
"Last."

           
 
"What's your first name?"

           
 
"Grant."

           
 
Grant Sullivan. She liked the name. It wasn't
fancy; he wasn't fancy. He was a far cry from the sleekly sophisticated men she
usually met, but the difference was exciting. He was hard and dangerous, mean
when he had to be, but he wasn't vicious. The contrast between him and
Turego
, who was a truly vicious man, couldn't have been
more clear-cut.

           
 
"Let's go," he said. "We need
to put a lot more space between the hounds and the foxes." Obediently she
followed his direction, but found that her burst of adrenaline was already
dissipating. She felt more exhausted now than she had before the short rest.
She stumbled once, catching her booted foot in a liana vine, but he rescued her
with a quick grab. She gave him a tired smile of thanks, but when she tried to
step away from him he held her. He stood rigid and it frightened her. She
jerked around to look at him, but his face was a cold, blank mask, and he was
staring behind her. She whirled again, and looked down the barrel of a rifle.

           
 
The sweat congealed on her body. For one
moment of frozen terror she expected to be shot; then the moment passed and she
was still alive. She was able then to look past the barrel to the hard, dark
face of the soldier who held the rifle. His black eyes were narrowed, fastened
on Sullivan. He said something, but Jane was too upset to translate the
Spanish.

           
 
Slowly, deliberately, Sullivan released Jane
and raised his arms, clasping his hands on top of his head.

           
 
"Step away from me," he said
quietly.

           
 
The soldier barked an order at him. Jane's
eyes widened. If she moved an inch this maniac would probably shoot her down.
But Sullivan had told her to move, so she moved, her face so white that the
small freckles across her nose stood out as bright dots of color. The rifle
barrel jerked in her direction, and the soldier said something else. He was
nervous, Jane suddenly realized. The tension was obvious in his voice, in his
jerky movements. God, if his finger twitched on the trigger…! Then, just as
abruptly, he aimed the rifle at Sullivan again.

           
 
Sullivan was going to do something. She could
sense it. The fool! He'd get himself killed if he tried to jump this guy! She
stared at the soldier's shaking hands on the rifle, and suddenly something
jumped into her consciousness. He didn't have the rifle on automatic. It took
her another moment to realize the implications; then she reacted without
thought. Her body, trained to dance, trained in the graceful moves of
self-defense, went into fluid motion. He began moving a split second later,
swinging the weapon around, but by then she was close enough that her left foot
sliced upward under the barrel of the gun, and the shot that he fired went into
the canopy over their heads. He never got a chance at another shot. Grant was
on him then, grabbing the gun with one hand and slashing at the man's unprotected
neck with the side of the other. The soldier's eyes glazed over, and he sank
limply to the ground, his breathing raspy but steady.

           
 
Grant grabbed Jane's arm. "Run! That shot
will bring every one of them swarming down on us!" The urgency of his tone
made it possible for her to obey, though she was rapidly depleting her reserves
of energy. Her legs were leaden, and her boots weighed fifty pounds each.
Burning agony slashed her thighs, but she forced herself to ignore it; sore
muscles weren't nearly as permanent as being dead. Urged on by his hand at her
back, she stumbled over roots and through bushes, adding to her collection of
scratches. It was purely a natural defense mechanism, but her mind shut down
and her body operated automatically, her feet moving, her lungs sucking
desperately at the heavy, moist air. She was so tired now that she no longer
felt the pain in her body.

           
 
The ground abruptly sloped out from under her
feet. Her senses dulled by both terror and fatigue, she was unable to regain
her balance. Grant grabbed for her, but the momentum of her body carried them
both over the edge of the hill. His arms wrapped around her, and they rolled
down the steep slope. The earth and trees spun crazily, but she saw a rocky,
shallow stream at the bottom of the slope and a small, hoarse cry tore from her
throat. Some of those rocks were big enough to kill them and the smaller ones
could cut them to pieces.

           
 
Grant swore, and tightened his grip on her
until she thought her ribs would splinter under the pressure. She felt his
muscles tighten, felt the desperate twist he made, and somehow he managed to
get his feet and legs in front of him. Then they were sliding down in a fairly upright
position, rather than rolling. He dug his heels in and their descent slowed,
then stopped. "
Pris
?" he asked roughly,
cupping her chin in his hand and turning her face so he could see it. "Are
you hurt?"

           
 
"No, no," she quickly assured him,
ignoring the new aches in her body. Her right arm wasn't broken, but it was
badly bruised; she winced as she tried to move it. One of the straps on the
backpack had broken, and the pack was hanging lopsidedly off her left shoulder.
Her cap was missing. He adjusted the rifle on his shoulder, and Jane wondered
how he had managed to hold on to it. Didn't he ever drop anything, or get lost,
or tired, or hungry? She hadn't even seen him take a drink of water!

           
 
"My cap came off," she said, turning
to stare up the slope. The top was almost thirty yards above them and the slope
steep enough that it was a miracle they hadn't crashed into the rocks at the
streambed.

           
 
"I see it." He swarmed up the slope,
lithe and surefooted. He snatched the cap from a broken branch and in only a
moment was back beside her. Jamming the cap on her head, he said, "Can you
make it up the other side?"

           
 
There was no way, she thought. Her body
refused to function any longer. She looked at him and lifted her chin.
"Of course."

           
 
He didn't smile, but there was a faint
softening of his expression, as if he knew how desperately tired she was.
"We have to keep moving," he said, taking her arm and urging her
across the stream. She didn't care that her boots were getting wet; she just
sloshed through the water, moving downstream while he scanned the bank for an
easy place to climb up. On this side of the stream, the bank wasn't sloped; it
was almost vertical and covered with what looked like an impenetrable tangle of
vines and bushes. The stream created a break in the foliage that allowed more
sunlight to pour down, letting the plants grow much more thickly.

           
 
"Okay, let's go up this way," he
finally said, pointing. Jane lifted her head and stared at the bank, but she
didn't see any break in the wild tangle.

           
 
"Let's talk about this," she hedged.

           
 
He gave an exasperated sigh. "Look,
Pris
, I know you're tired, but—" Something snapped
inside Jane, and she whirled on him, catching him by the shirt front and drawing
back her fist. "If you call me '
Pris
' just one
more time, I'm going to feed you a knuckle sandwich!" she roared,
unreasonably angry at his continued use of that hated name. No one, but no one,
had ever been allowed to call her Priscilla,
Pris
, or
even Cilia, more than once. This damned commando had been rubbing her face in
it from the beginning. She'd kept quiet about it, figuring she owed him for
kicking him in the groin, but she was tired and hungry and scared and enough
was enough!