Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart of Stone (2 page)

Morgan looked at Mike, who lowered his hand, a contrite expression on his features. They both watched as Maya headed into the restaurant. It was 11:00 a.m. and there were few people in the usually popular place.

“Let’s go,” Morgan murmured, a cockeyed grin tugging at one corner of his mouth.

Mike good-naturedly grinned back and gestured for Morgan to go first.

Inside the restaurant, Morgan saw the owner, Patrick, standing behind the mahogany bar. Maya was leaning up against the counter, speaking to him in fluid French. As they approached, she swung her head in their direction. Her eyes grew slitted.

“Come on. Patrick has a table he reserves for me and my friends when I come into town.” She brushed between them and moved up the mahogany stairs, taking the steps two at a time to the second floor.

The restaurant was light and airy, with many green jungle plants and bright red, pink and yellow bromeliads in brightly painted pots here and there. Each table had a starched and pressed white linen cloth across it, and there were fresh flowers on every one. As Morgan climbed the stairs, classical music, soft and haunting, wafted through the restaurant. He shook his head, finding it odd that a five-star French chef would come to
Peru and set up a gourmet restaurant in such a little backwater town. He wondered what the man was running from.

Maya was sitting at a rectangular table at the rear of the second floor of the restaurant, her back against the wall. It was a good position, Morgan thought. From her vantage point she could see everyone coming up and down those stairs. She’d put her pack down beside her chair and was speaking in Quechua to the waiter. As they approached, she looked up at them.

“Patrick makes the best mocha lattes in Peru. You two want some?”

“Sounds good,” Morgan said, making himself at home across from Maya. “Mike? How about you?”

“Make it three,” Mike said in Spanish to the Peruvian waiter, who was a Quechua Indian. The waiter nodded and quickly moved to the bar nearby to make the drinks.

Maya held Morgan’s glacial blue gaze. She knew he was sizing her up. Well, she was sizing him up, too, whether he knew it or not. As she folded her long, spare hands on the white linen tablecloth, she said, “Mike said you’re my new boss. Is that right?”

Nodding, Morgan said, “I’d prefer to say that you’ve joined our international team and we’re glad to have you on board.” He stretched his hand across the table toward her. “I’m Morgan Trayhern. It’s nice to meet you.” She took his hand. Not surprised by the strength of her grip, he met her cold, flinty eyes. She reminded him of a no-nonsense leader capable of split-second decisions, with a mind that moved at the speed of light, or damn near close to it. Already Morgan was feeling elated that he’d fought to get her spec ops as part of his organization, Perseus.

“Don’t bite him, Maya,” Mike intoned humorously as they released their mutual grip. “He’s the only junkyard dog in town that’s friendly to you and your squadron.”

Taking the napkin, Maya delicately opened it and spread it across her lap. “It looks like I owe you some thanks, Mr. Trayhern. Mike, here, tells me that my number was up at spook HQ and with the boys over at the Pentagon. You certainly look the part of a white knight. Where’s your horse?”

Grinning, Morgan met her humor-filled eyes. Her laughter was husky and low. “I can’t ride a horse worth a damn. My daughter, Katy, now, she can,” he answered. “I like to watch her, but that’s as close as I get to a four-legged animal.”

“Got a picture of her?”

Taken off guard, Morgan nodded, moved his hand to the back pocket of his chinos and took out his well-worn, black leather wallet. Opening it on the table, he noted Maya’s sudden, intense interest. Her gaze was pinned on the color photos he kept within his wallet. Taking them out, he turned them around for her to look at.

“This is my oldest son, Jason. He’s fourteen.”

“He looks a lot like you,” Maya murmured. “That same dark, handsome face.”

Morgan warmed beneath her praise because he could tell already that Maya wasn’t one to make small talk or say things just to be polite. “Thanks. This is Katherine Alyssa, my oldest daughter. She’s riding her Welsh pony, Fred. And this last one is of my wife, Laura, holding our latest children, fraternal twins….”

Maya picked up the photo, her brows arching with
surprise. “So, you have twins….” She studied it with renewed intensity. “You have beautiful children.”

“Thanks. My wife and I agree, though we are a little partial toward our children.” He said nothing more, realizing that because Maya was a fraternal twin, she would make a positive connection with his children. He liked the fact that despite her being a hardened military veteran, she had a soft heart, too. The more he got to know Maya, the more he liked her.

Handing him back the photos, she looked up. “Ah, here are our lattes. You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this….” And she reached out to take a cup and saucer from the waiter, thanking him warmly in his own language. He bowed his head and shyly smiled at her.

Mike thanked him also. When the waiter left, he chuckled quietly and sipped his mocha latte. “See? I told you Trayhern wasn’t the typical male bastard that you’re used to working with.”

Wrinkling her nose, Maya again met the solid blue gaze of her new boss. She sipped the rich coffee with delicious slowness and allowed the sweetness to run delectably across her tongue. Placing the flowered china cup on the saucer, she folded her hands on the table.

“I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into, Mr. Trayhern.”

“Call me Morgan. I don’t stand on ceremony with my people.”

“All right,” Maya murmured. “Do you know anything about us or did you buy us sight unseen, Morgan? A pig in a poke, maybe?”

Her direct and uncompromising gaze would have been unsettling had Morgan not liked that kind of
straight-across-the-board honesty. When she lifted her lips and smiled, it was with a carnivore’s grin. She was playing with him, like a jaguar might with its helpless quarry. Houston was right: she shot from the hip.
Good.
“Yes, I saw the bottom line.”

“And the fact that I used to have three Boeing Apaches, but because spookdom decided to strangle me slowly by cutting my budget yearly, I had to cannibalize one to keep the other two flying?”

“I saw that.”

“And that I’ve got twelve overworked pilots who need some help and relief?”

“Yes, I saw that, too.”

“And that the men don’t like us women showing them up?” Her eyes glinted and she leaned forward slightly.

Morgan wasn’t intimidated by her low, furious tone or her directness. He met and held her stare. “I saw that, too, Maya.” When he used her first name, rolling it gently off his tongue, she recoiled. At first, Morgan wondered if she didn’t like his informality with her. And then, intuitively, he figured it out: Maya was expecting a hard-nosed bastard to show up and try to push her around, keep her outside the circle, like other men had before him. The look in her eyes was one of surprise—and then naked suspicion. Morgan knew he was going to have to sell himself to Maya. He would have to prove that, although male, he was trustworthy. That he would fully support her and the hardworking women comprising the secret squadron hidden in the mountains of Peru.

Leaning down, Morgan pulled out several papers from his own backpack. He looked around. The place
was deserted. He wanted no other eyes on the material that he was going to lay out before her.

“Don’t worry,” Maya said. “Patrick knows who we are. He and I are good friends. He protects me and my women when we come into town and need a little R and R. This is our home away from home. He’ll make sure no one comes up here during lunch. We’ve got this place all to ourselves.”

“Good.” Morgan placed the first sheet of paper in front of Maya. “This is an acquisition form showing that two Boeing Apache Longbow helicopters have just been purchased for your squadron by me.” He put a second paper in front of her. “This is a Blackhawk helicopter to replace the Vietnam era Cobra that you’re flying.” He put a third document in front of her. “Within a week, you will be receiving three I.P.s—instructor pilots—to train you and your team on the new Apache D model, and three enlisted men who will train your crews in software, armaments and mechanics. And lastly—” he put a fourth piece of paper in front of Maya “—here’s your new budget. As you look it over, you’ll see the financial strangulation your squadron has been experiencing is over.”

Maya took all the papers, intently perusing them. Did she dare believe her eyes? Was this really true? She’d gone for three years with so little, watching her people bear the brunt of their financial distress. The task before them had seemed almost impossible, and yet they’d managed to strangle the drug trade to Bolivia by fifty percent, despite the odds, despite the fact that the U.S. government had practically choked off the mission through lack of funding. Looking up, Maya regarded Morgan through her thick, black lashes. He was at ease, almost smiling. She knew the sparkle in
his eyes was not there because he was laughing at her. It reflected his pride in the job he’d done getting her the aircraft and help she so desperately needed.

Cutting her gaze to Houston, she growled, “Is this for real, Mike?” After all, Mike was one of her kind, a Jaguar Clan member, and she relied on him heavily at times like this. No clan member would ever lie to another.

“It’s for real, Maya. Every word of it. Morgan is your sugar daddy.” And he gave her a playful, teasing grin.

Maya grimaced. “What a sexist you are, Houston.”

He scratched his head ruefully. “I was teasing you, Maya. Morgan Trayhern runs a first-class operation known as Perseus. You and your squadron are officially moved under his wing and command.” Mike tapped the budget paper. “Look at the bottom line. That’s money. U.S. funds, not Peruvian soles.”

Maya looked at it. Her heart thudded with excitement. “I’m afraid to believe this,” she whispered as she looked through the pages again. “We’re really going to get two new D models? The ones with radar? I’ve heard so much about them…. I tried to get them, but they kept telling me they didn’t have the budget to let us have the upgraded model.”

Morgan tempered his excitement over the joy he saw in Maya’s face. This woman was used to running her squadron her way. And he respected that. Still, he needed to be able to gently move her in the direction that he saw her duties down here heading, now and in the future. Maya’s plan had been a greenhouse experiment—an all-woman military contingent doing some of the most demanding, most dangerous work in the world. Despite the difficulties of going up against drug
runners who flew the Russian Kamov Black Shark assault helicopters, which were nearly equal to an Apache, and flying in this nasty, always changing weather at some of the highest altitudes on the planet, she’d been more than successful. She’d never lost a helicopter or a pilot in the three years since she’d started this operation, and that was a phenomenal record of achievement in Morgan’s eyes.

He knew that it was Maya’s careful selection of the right women pilots and crews that made this mission successful. Furthermore, she was a charismatic leader, someone people either hated or loved on sight. Morgan understood that, because he had that quality himself. Only Maya was a much younger version of him; she was only twenty-five years old. She had a lot going for her. And he admired her deeply for her commitment to Peru and its people.

“There’s just one hitch,” Morgan told her quietly. He saw her eyes narrow speculatively on him.

“What?” she growled, putting the papers aside.

Seeing her tense, Morgan said, “I know you have an all-woman squadron. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find women IPs to come down here to upgrade you on flying the Apache D models. Do you have a problem with men coming in for six weeks and staying at your base to teach your people?”

“I don’t have a problem with men, Mr.—Morgan.
They
have a problem with
me.
If you can guarantee they won’t be gender prejudiced, I won’t kick and scream about it.”

“Good,” Morgan said, breathing a sigh of relief. He turned and dug into his pack again, producing a set of orders that had been cut by the army. “Here’s the list of men who will be coming in shortly. We haven’t been
able to tell them they are coming down here yet, but that’s a mere formality. I give you my personal guarantee that they are the best. The army’s cream of the crop of teachers, to move your people into the D models as rapidly as possible. Because you are so shorthanded, you can’t afford to send your pilots back to Fort Rucker for training. Instead, we’re bringing the training to you, so it won’t interfere with your ongoing missions.”

Taking the list of names, Maya frowned as she rapidly perused it. She knew just about everyone in the training field. The Apache team was a small unit within the army as whole—a tight, select family, for better or worse.

Morgan started to lift the cup to his lips when he heard Maya curse richly beneath her breath. She jerked her head up, her green eyes blazing like the hounds from hell. Her glare was aimed directly at him. His cup froze midway to his lips.

“There’s no way I’m letting this son of a bitch anywhere near me or my pilots,” she hissed, jabbing her finger at the paper she flattened between them. “You can take Major Dane York and shove him where the sun never shines, Mr. Trayhern. That sexist bastard is never going to step foot onto my base. Not
ever!
”

Houston scowled and took the paper. “Major Dane York? Who is he?”

Maya breathed angrily and sat back in the chair, her arms folded across her breasts. “You didn’t do your research, Mr. Trayhern. I’m really disappointed in you.”

Carefully setting the cup down in the saucer, Morgan allowed a few moments to stretch between them. The anger in her eyes was very real. Her nostrils were
flared, her full lips flattened and corners pulled in with pain. Taking the set of orders, he stared at the name.

“Major York is the most accomplished I.P. in the Apache D model instruction unit.”

“Yeah, and he could walk on water, too, and it wouldn’t mean a damn thing to me.”