Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart Of The Warrior (11 page)

“At least draw it on the map for me? The colonel will want something concrete. He’s not a man who can go on a wing and a prayer like you or I do.”

“Humph.” Inca took the map and placed it across her lap, her thin brows knitting.

Roan absorbed her thoughtful expression. The moments of silence strung gently between them. Her hair was loose, and he had the urge to thread his fingers through that thick silken mass. There was such sculpted beauty in Inca, from her long, graceful neck to her fine, delicate collarbones, prominent beneath the T-shirt she wore, to the clean lines of her face.

“You will not guess who I just ran into minutes before you came.”

Frowning, Roan asked, “Who?”

Lifting her head, she met and held his dark blue gaze. “Tenente Julian Marcellino.”

Eyes narrowing, Roan rasped, “What?”

Chuckling, Inca told him the entire story. When she was done, she said, “He is a sweet little boy in a man’s body. He is not a warrior. He does this for his father, to try and fill in for his missing big brother.”

Sucking air between his teeth, Roan said worriedly, “That was a little too synchronistic.”

Shrugging, Inca said, “We got along well. He believes me to be innocent of Rafael’s murder. That is good.”

Saying nothing, Roan allowed her to continue to study the map. After Inca had traced a route in pencil and handed it back to him, he said, “Marcellino swears he didn’t try and bushwhack us with that helicopter, or those men on shore.”

Inca eyed him. She slid her long fingers through her dark hair and pushed it off her shoulders. The afternoon humidity was building and it was getting hotter. “Do you believe him?”

“I don’t know,” Roan murmured, studying the route she’d indicated on the map. “He seemed genuinely surprised when I told him.”

“If not him, then drug runners,” Inca said flatly.

“Maybe. How could they get the info on where we’d be going and the time we’d be at the dock?”

“They have their ways,” Inca said. “They are part of the Dark Brotherhood, and have people who can read minds just as I can. They can travel in the other dimensions, look at information, maps, reports, and bring the information back to the drug lords.”

“I didn’t know that.”

One corner of Inca’s mouth pulled inward. “Do you think I and my kind fight a battle only on this dimension you call reality? No. The battles occur on many other levels, simultaneously. The Dark Brotherhood works to see chaos replace the goodness of the Sisterhood of Light.” She waved her hand above her head. “If you
think for a moment that the drug lords do not use every tool they can, think again.”

“Then…Colonel Marcellino could be telling the truth.”

She smiled a little at his thoughtful expression. The urge to reach out, slide her hand across his cleanly shaved jaw caught her by surprise. But then, Inca was finding that around Roan, she was spontaneous in ways that she’d never been with another man. Pulling her focus back from that unexpected urge, Inca whispered, “Yes, the colonel could be telling the truth.”

“W
ell?” Marcellino snapped, as he mopped his perspiring brow with his white, linen handkerchief, “what do you have for us, Storm Walker?”

Roan stood before the colonel, who had decided to leave his stifling tent and continue to make plans at a makeshift table beneath the tangled, grotesque limbs of a rubber tree fifty feet from the bank of the Amazon.

“I’ve talked to Inca,” Roan said, spreading the map before the colonel, his captain and lieutenants, who stood in a semicircle around the metal table. Dusk was coming and shadows had deepened. When he’d arrived back in camp, all the tents were up, in neat order. The men had eaten and were now cleaning their rifles for the coming march, which would take place at 0600 tomorrow morning.

Moving his large hands across the map of the area, Roan traced the route with his index finger for the colonel.
The lamp was suspended precariously above them on a limb and drawing its fair share of insects. “This is the route that Inca feels we should go.”

Scowling, Jaime squinted his aging eyes. At fifty-three, he had to wear bifocals now. Grudgingly, he pulled them from his blouse pocket and settled them on the end of his nose. The light was poor, but he could see the penciled line on the map. Leaning down, he studied it for a number of minutes.

“This takes us through some of the worst terrain in the basin!” he muttered, as he lifted his head and straightened up. Perspiration trickled down his ribs. The long-sleeved fatigues, which everyone wore as protection from biting insects, did not breathe well. Jaime was gulping water like a camel to stay hydrated. Wiping his wrinkled brow, he saw his son, Julian, standing among the four lieutenants across the table from him. The boy’s expression was eager as he studied the route.

“Sir,” Julian said respectfully, “I see why Inca is doing it.” He tapped his finger on the map. “We avoid the swamp to the south of us. To the north, there is a major river to cross, and we do not have the capabilities to span it. By tackling the steep terrain, we take the safest route. Swamps are well known for their diseases, piranhas, snakes and other vermin.”

Many other soldiers were crowding around, at a distance, to eavesdrop. They had nothing else to do in the twilight, and Julian’s soft voice made them trudge a few inches closer to hear his words.

“That’s exactly why she chose the route,” Roan intoned. He saw the colonel’s narrow face flash with annoyance. The glare he gave his hesitant son made Roan
angry. The young man was diplomatic, yet had the guts to take on his father, who everyone tiptoed around.

Captain Braga leaned down and studied the map. “The swamp is too large to try and march around, sir. But at this time of year, in spring, there is the chance of heavy rains, flooding, and that is lowland area. If we get too much rain, that swamp will rise five or ten feet in a hurry. Men could drown in such a scenario.” He frowned and looked closely at the suggested route. “Yet I see why you don’t like the other route, Colonel. It is very steep, hilly terrain.”

“Exactly,” Marcellino snapped. “It will increase our time to the valley by another week. Besides, men will fall, slip, and we’ll have injuries—sprained ankles and perhaps broken legs.” Marcellino looked down at the damp leaves beneath his shining boots. “This is slippery footage at best.”

“Colonel, Inca strongly suggests you do not choose the swamp route,” Roan said. “Even though spring signals the end of the wet season here, that doesn’t guarantee it won’t rain. If your men get out in the swamp and the river floods its banks, they could drown. We have no quick, sure way of rescuing a company that’s stuck on one of the islands in that swamp. It’s too far from any base, and helicopters, unless they refuel in flight, couldn’t manage a rescue attempt.”

“The swamp is the fastest route to the valley,” Marcellino growled. “We can send point men ahead to test the terrain where we’re going to march.”

Julian compressed his lips. His father remained ramrod straight, his mouth thinned, hands resting imperiously on his hips. He was going to take the swamp route, Julian
knew. He opened his mouth to say something when, from the back of the large group of men, there came a shout of surprise. And then another. And another. Because he was short, barely five foot ten inches tall, he stood on tiptoe to find out what all the excitement was about.

Roan turned on his heel when he heard a number of men calling loudly to one another and moving rapidly aside at the rear of the assemblage. It was Inca! She was striding toward them like she owned the place. Didn’t she? Roan turned sharply and pinned the colonel with his eyes.

“It’s Inca,” he warned him tightly.

Instantly, Marcellino’s hand went to the holster hanging at his right hip.

Roan nailed him with a glare. “Don’t even think about it,” he rasped.

Julian smiled in greeting as he saw Inca, who strode, tall and proud, up to the table. The crowd parted for her, the men’s mouths hanging open in awe, their stares all trained on her. They gave Inca plenty of room. When she swung her cool, imperious gaze toward him, Julian bowed his head slightly in honor of her unexpected presence. She was, indeed, a goddess! Every man, with the exception of his father, looked up at her in admiration, respect and fear. She was afraid of no one and nothing. Marching bravely into their camp only made her more untouchable, in Julian’s eyes.

Roan met and held Inca’s laughter-filled eyes. The half smile on her mouth, the way she held herself as she halted at the table, opposite the frozen colonel, made him go on alert. Inca was in danger. Marcellino’s face darkened like
a savage thunderstorm approaching. His eyes flashed with hatred as he met and held her challenging look.

“If I were you, Colonel, I would listen to your son and your other officer, here.” Inca flicked a hand lazily in Braga’s direction, who stood staring at her in awe. “If you go the swamp route, you are guaranteeing the death of a number of your men. Is that what you want? A high body count before you even reach that valley where the Valentino Brothers hold my countrymen as slaves?” she demanded, her husky voice quieting the throng.

Roan moved to Inca’s side, standing slightly behind her to protect her back. He trusted no one here. Marcellino had given his word that he and his men would not harm her, but he believed none of them. Cursing to himself, he wished Inca hadn’t marched into camp like she owned the damn place. Keeping his eye on the men who were gawking like slobbering teenage boys at Inca, and the colonel, whose face was turning a dusky red with rage, Roan geared himself to take action.

“What you say has nothing to do with anything!” Marcellino hissed in a low, quavering tone. “You promised to stay out of my encampment.”

Shrugging easily, Inca growled in return, “I am in the business of saving lives, Colonel, unlike you, who considers your soldiers nothing more than cannon fodder on the road to reaching your own objectives.”

As she stared him down, beads of sweat popped out on the colonel’s wrinkled brow. His hatred spilled over her, like tidal waves smashing against her. Because she was innocent, she did not connect emotionally into the colonel’s rage, grief and loss. She had no compassion for the man whose fingers itched to pull the pistol at his hip out
of that black, highly polished leather holster, and fire off round after round into her head and heart.

Marcellino cursed. “You bitch! You murdering bitch. Get out of here before I kill you!”

Roan stepped forward. “Colonel—”

It was too late. Marcellino unsnapped his holster, clawing at the pistol resting there.

Just as Roan moved to step in front of Inca to protect her, he felt the energy around her change drastically. It felt as if someone had sucker punched him with a lightning bolt. Roan staggered backward, off balance. Braga made a choking sound and backed away, too. Julian uttered a cry and fell back many feet. The energy sizzling around Inca was like an electric substation that had just been jolted with fifty thousand watts of electricity.

Roan heard Marcellino give a cry. Jerking his head around, he saw the colonel drop the pistol from his hand. Grabbing at his throat, he squawked and took two steps back, his face going white and then a gray-blue color. His eyeballs bulged from their sockets. His mouth contorted in a soundless scream.

“Do not presume you can kill me, Colonel,” Inca snarled.

Roan blinked. Something invisible had the colonel by the throat, strangling him. He cried out and crashed to his knees, wrestling with the invisible force. He cried out again and began to choke.

Julian grabbed the tent pole to steady himself. When he saw what was happening, he leaped forward. “Papa!”

Roan turned, his back against Inca’s. His narrowed gaze swept the men, who were now mesmerized and frightened by the unfolding spectacle. Automatically, he drew his
pistol and held it in readiness, should any one of them try to shoot Inca.

Jaime choked. Slobber sputtered from the corners of his gaping mouth. He felt as if some large, powerful animal had gripped him by the throat with its invisible jaws. He was dying! Unable to draw in a breath of air, he fell, writhing, to the damp ground. All he saw were Inca’s willow-green eyes, thoughtful and concentrated upon him. Devastated and shocked by her power, he kicked out. The table went flying.

Julian fell to his side, sobbing for breath. “Stop! Stop!” he begged Inca. “Don’t kill him! He’s my father!”

Inca lifted her chin slightly. She ordered her spirit guardian, Topazio, to release the white-faced colonel from his massive jaws. The army officer, now semiconscious, fell into his son’s arms. “Very well, Julian. For you, I do this,” she stated.

Marcellino gasped and then gagged. He rolled onto his side and vomited. Julian pulled out his handkerchief and cleaned around his father’s mouth, then held him protectively in his arms.

Gripping his neck weakly, Jaime swore he could still feel the invisible force, though the sensation was dissipating rapidly. Head hanging down, he lay in his son’s arms, breathing harshly. How good it felt to have air in his lungs again!

Julian’s hand fluttered nervously over his shoulders. “Leave me!” he ordered his son hoarsely. “I’ll be fine!” And Jaime forced himself to sit up on his own. Angrily, he shoved his son away from him, embarrassed that his men had seen him in such a compromising position.

Julian winced and staggered to his feet. Trying to hide
his hurt over his father’s rejection, he sought out and found Inca’s gaze. “T-thank you….”

“Everyone stand down,” Roan ordered, his voice carrying across the assemblage. “Inca came in peace and she’s going to leave that way. If I see anyone lift a weapon, I’ll fire first and ask questions later.” He held up the pistol as a reminder.

Rage fueled Marcellino. He staggered to his hands and knees, and sat down unceremoniously, still dizzied. Spitting out the acid taste in his mouth, he twisted his head and glared up at the cool, collected woman warrior at whose boots he sat at like a pet dog.

“You promised not to hurt me,” Inca reminded him in a dark tone. “You went back on your word. You are not to be trusted. I came here to help you.”

“And you will,” Jaime rasped as he staggered to his feet. Gripping the edge of the table with one hand, he wiped his other hand across his mouth. “The great Green Warrior will go back on her word, eh? So now you refuse to lead us?”

Inca smiled a deadly smile. “I will lead you, Colonel. My word is my bond. The only thing that will break it is death. But I am warning you—do not go through the swamp. It is too dangerous at this time of year as we move from wet to dry season.”

“Inca, you’d better leave,” Roan warned over his shoulder.

She smiled laconically and slid her fingers beneath the leather strap of her rifle, which rested on her right shoulder. “I am leaving now.”

Julian rushed forward. He gripped Inca’s arm.

Inca froze momentarily. She looked down at the lieutenant.

“Thank you,” he whispered unsteadily, giving her arm an awkward pat. “For your compassion, your understanding…”

There was something heart-wrenchingly innocent and vulnerable about Julian. Inca reached over and placed her hand across his. “I did it for you,
Tenente.
Not for
him.
” And she glared at the colonel. “Your son needs you as a father. I hope you realize that someday. You treat him like a mongrel dog come late to your family, and that is wrong.”

Marcellino stared in shock at Inca as she turned on her booted feet and imperiously marched off the same way she’d come. He hated her. She had murdered Rafael. In the twilight, as she reached the rain forest beyond his gaping soldiers, Inca seemed to disappear into thin air. Rubbing his eyes angrily, Marcellino told himself it was the poor light of the coming dusk that tricked him. Gently touching his aching throat, he tried to explain away the pain that still throbbed where invisible hands—or jaws—had wrapped powerfully around his throat and damn near choked him to death.

“Pick up my pistol,” he ordered Braga in a scratchy voice that warbled with fear. Irritated, humiliated in front of his men, Marcellino turned on all of them. They looked as if they’d seen a ghost. “All of you!” he roared, his voice breaking. “Get back to your quarters and your posts. We rise at 0500. Get some sleep!”

The men quickly departed. Marcellino saw Roan holster his pistol and come back to the table, his black brows
drawn down with displeasure. Too bad. Grabbing the map, Marcellino threw it at his attaché.

“We go through the swamp, Captain.”

Braga blanched, but took the map and gently folded it up. “Yes, sir, Colonel.”

Roan stood there in shock. Was the man crazy? And then it dawned on him that whatever Inca said, Marcellino was going to do the exact opposite. Fuming, he turned away.

“I’ll see you at 0600, Colonel.”

Nodding brusquely, Marcellino turned and hurried back to his tent.

Roan moved back into the darkening rain forest. Very little light trickled down through the canopy as, with monkeys screaming and chattering, the cape of night was drawn across Amazonia. Being careful where he walked, he allowed his eyes to adjust to the gloom. What the hell had prompted Inca to make that kind of entrance? What was going through her mind? She was a proud woman. And she probably couldn’t stand not being in on the planning of the march. In some ways, Roan didn’t blame her.