Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart Of The Warrior (18 page)

Inca moved soundlessly. It took precious seconds for her spirit guardian to release her. Shaking off the dizziness that always occurred afterward, she blinked several times to clear her head. Then, breathing hard, she picked up the machete the soldier had strapped to his belt.

The Indian factory workers pressed their faces to the fence, clenching the wire. Their expressions were filled with joy as they whispered, “the jaguar goddess.” Inca hissed to them in their language to be silent. Digging her feet into the muddy red soil, she lunged toward the gates. Gripping the handle of the deadly three-foot-long machete, Inca raced to where a chain and padlock kept the two gates locked together.

The Indians followed her, as if understanding exactly what she was going to do to free them. Men, women and children all ran toward her without a sound, without any talking. They knew the danger they were all in. Their collective gazes were fixed on the woman they called the jaguar goddess. The thin crescent moon on her left shoulder blade—the mark of the jaguar—was visible as her sleeveless top moved to reveal it. There was no question
in their eyes that she was going to save them. She was going to free them!

Breathing hard, perspiration running down the sides of her face, Inca skidded to a halt in the slimy clay. She aimed the machete carefully at the thick iron links that held the Indians enslaved. Fierce, white-hot anger roared through her. She heard a sound.
There!
To her left, she saw a guard saunter lazily to the end of his prescribed beat. He’d seen her! His eyes widened in disbelief.

Lifting the machete, Inca brought it down not only with all her own strength, but with that of her guardian as well, the combined power fueled by the outrage that her people were slaves instead of free human beings. Sparks leaped skyward as the thick blade bit savagely into the chain. There was a sharp, grating sound. The chains swung apart.

Yes!
Inca threw the machete down and jerked opened the gates. She saw the guard snap out of his stupor at seeing her.

“Come!” she commanded, jerking her arm toward the Indians. “Run! Run down the road! Hurry! Go into the forest and hide there!”

They needed no more urging. Inca leaped aside and allowed them to run to freedom. She jerked her head to the left and remained on the outside perimeter of the fence. The soldier was croaking out an alarm, fumbling with his rifle. Yanking at it with shaky hands, he managed to get it off his shoulder. He raised his rifle—at her. With a snarling growl, Inca spun around on her heels and ran directly at the drug runner guard. It was the last thing he would expect her to do, and she wagered on her surprising move to slow his reaction time.

The man was shocked by her attack; he had expected
her to run away. He yelped in surprise, his eyes widening enormously as Inca leaped at him. She knocked the rifle back against his jaw, and there was a loud, cracking sound. As the guard fell backward, unconscious, Inca tumbled and landed on all fours. Breathing hard, she saw the soldier crumple into a heap. Grinning savagely, she scrambled to her feet, grabbed his rifle and sprinted down the fence to find the third guard. By now there was pandemonium. Gunfire began to erupt here and there.

Breathless, Inca slid to a halt in the mud near the corner of the compound. She nearly collided with another guard, who was barreling down the fence from the opposite direction after hearing his compatriot’s shout of warning. This man was big, over two hundred pounds of muscle and flab. He saw Inca and jerked to a stop. And then his lips lifted in a snarl as he pulled his rifle to his shoulder and aimed it at her. As he moved to solidify his position, one foot slipped in the mud. The first bullet whined near her head, but missed.

Firing from the hip, Inca got off two shots. The bullets tore into the legs of the guard. He screamed, dropped his rifle and crumpled like a rag doll into the mud. Writhing and screaming, he clawed wildly at his bleeding legs.

Inca leaped past him and began her hunt for the fourth and last guard outside the gate. If she could render him harmless, the colonel’s men would have less to worry about. Jogging through the slippery mud, she ran down the fence line. Glancing to her left, she saw that the Indians had all escaped.
Good!
Her heart soared with elation. She heard the Brazilian soldiers coming down the slopes of the valley. They were good men, with good intent, but nowhere physically fit for such a battle.

Turning the corner, Inca spotted the last soldier outside the gate. She shouted to him and raised her rifle. He turned, surprised. Rage filled his shadowed face as he saw her. Lifting his own weapon, he fired several shots at her.

Inca knew to stand very still and draw a bead on the man who fired wildly in her direction. She heard the bullets whine and sing very close by her head. Most men in the heat of battle fired thoughtlessly and without concentration. Inca harnessed her adrenaline, took aim at the man’s knee and fired. Instantly, he went down like a felled ox. His screams joined the many others. From the corner of her eye, she saw a shadow. Who?

Twisting to face the shadow that moved from behind the building inside the fence, Inca sensed trouble. When the figure emerged, his pistol aimed directly at her head, her eyes narrowed. It was Faro Valentino. His small, piggish eyes were alive with hatred—toward her. He was grinning confidently.

At the same instant, through a flash of light in the darkness, she saw Roan. He shouted a warning at her and raised his rifle at Valentino.

Her boots slipped in the mud as she spun around to get off a shot at the murderer of so many of her people. And just as she did, she saw the pistol he carried buck. She saw the flicker of the shot being fired. She heard Roan roar her name above the loud noise of gunfire. And in the next second, Inca felt her head explode. White-hot pain and a burst of light went off within her. She was knocked off her feet. Darkness swallowed her.

“S
he’s down! Inca’s down!” Roan cried into the microphone. Scrambling, he leaped down the slope to the muddy ground near the compound. “I need a
médico!
Now!” He slipped badly. Throwing out his hands, he caught his balance.
Run! Run!
his mind screamed,
she needs you! Inca needs you!

No! No! This can’t be happening!
Roan cried out Inca’s name again. He ran hard down the fence line toward her. He fired off shots in the direction of Faro Valentino, who was standing there smiling, a pleased expression on his face he eyed Inca’s prone, motionless form. The drug runner scowled suddenly and jerked his attention to Roan’s swift approach. He took careful aim and fired once, the pistol bucking in his hand.

Roan threw himself to the ground just in time. The bullet screamed past his head, missing him by inches. Mud splashed up, splattering him.

Faro cursed loudly. He turned on his heel and hightailed it down the fence to where his helicopter was revving up for takeoff.

Cursing, Roan realized he faced a decision: he could either go after Faro or go to Inca’s side. It was an easy choice to make. Getting awkwardly to his feet, he sprinted the last hundred yards to her.

Roan sank into the mud next to where Inca lay on her back, her arms flung outward. “Inca!” His voice cracked with terror.

The gunfire was intense between drug runners and soldiers as the Brazilian army closed in around the compound. Several nearby explosions—from grenades—blew skyward and rocked him. The drug dealers were putting up a fierce fight. Faro’s helicopter took off, the air vibrating heavily from the whapping blades in the high humidity. He was getting away! Hands trembling badly, Roan dropped the rifle at his side.

“Inca. Can you hear me?”

His heart pounded with dread. Automatically, because he was a paramedic, Roan began to examine her from head to toe with shaking hands. It was so dark! He needed light! Light to see with.
Where is she wounded? Where?
Gasps tore from his mouth. In the flashes of nearby explosions, he saw how pale Inca was.
Is she dead? Oh, Great Spirit, No! No, she can’t be! She can’t! I love her. I’ve just found her….
His hands moved carefully along the back of her head in careful examination.

Roan froze. His fingers encountered a mass of warm, sticky blood. After precious seconds, his worst fears were realized. Inca had taken a bullet to the back of her skull.
Oh, no. No!
He could feel where the base of her skull
protruded outward slightly, indicating the bones had been broken. Lifting his fingers from beneath her neck, he screamed into the mouthpiece, “
Médico! Médico!
Dammit, I need a doctor!”

Médico Salvador came charging up to him moments later. Panting, he slid awkwardly to a halt. Mud splattered everywhere. His eyes widened in disbelief.

“
Deus!
No!” he whispered, dropping to his knees opposite Roan. “Not Inca!”

“It’s a basal skull fracture,” Roan rasped. Sweat stung his eyes. He crouched as gunfire whined very close to where they knelt over Inca. Automatically, he kept his body close to hers to shield her.

Salvador gasped. “Oh,
Deus…
” He tore into his medical pack like a wild man. “Here! Help me! Put a dressing on her wound.
Rápido!
”

Roan took the dressing, tore open the sterilized paper packet, pulled the thick gauze out and placed it gently beneath Inca’s neck and head. He took her pulse. It was barely perceptible. Roan shut his eyes and fought back tears.

“Pulse?” Salvador demanded hoarsely, jerking out gauze with which to wrap the dressing tightly about her head.

“Thready.”

“Get the blood pressure cuff….”

More bullets whined nearby. Both men cringed, but kept on working feverishly over Inca.

Roan went through the motions like a robot. He was numb with shock. Inca was badly wounded. She could die…. He knew her work was dangerous. Somehow, her larger-than-life confidence made him believe she wasn’t
mortal. Could he hold her as he did before? Could he heal her? Another grenade exploded nearby, and flattening himself across Inca’s inert form, Roan cursed. She
was
mortal. Terribly so. The battle raged, hot and heavy around them, but his mind, his heart, centered on her.
Great Spirit, don’t let Inca die…don’t let her die. Oh, no…I love her. She can’t die—not now. She’s too precious to you…to all of us….

Salvador cursed richly as he pumped up the blood pressure cuff. “This is bad—90 over 60. Damn! We have no way to get her to a hospital for emergency surgery.” He gave Roan a sad, frustrated look.

Just then, Roan heard another noise.
No! How could it be?
Lifting his head to the dark heavens, he held his breath. Did he dare believe what he heard? “Do you hear that?” he rasped thickly to Salvador.

The Brazilian blinked, then twisted in the direction of the noise, a roaring sound coming from the end of the valley. Within moments, it turned deafening and blotted out the gunfire around them. “
Deus,
it’s helicopters! But…how? They cannot travel this far without refueling. Colonel Marcellino said none were available. Is it Faro coming back with reinforcements? We saw him take off earlier. He’s got a chopper loaded with ordnance. What if it’s him?” Frightened, Salvador searched the ebony heavens, which seemed heavy with humidity—rain that would fall at any moment.

Out of the night sky, to Roan’s surprise, at least three black, unmarked gunships sank below the low cloud cover and came racing up the narrow valley toward them. He croaked, “No, it isn’t Faro. They’re Apache helicopters! At least two of them are, from what I can make out from
here. They must be friendlies! I’ll be damned!” Roan had no idea how they’d gotten here. Or who they were. There was still a chance they were drug runners. He knew from Morgan’s top-secret files that Faro Valentino had a fleet of military helicopters stationed in Peru. And according to their best intelligence from satellites, there were no enemy helicopters in this immediate area. So who were these people? Brazilian Air Force? Roan wasn’t sure. Even if they were, they would have had to have refueled midair to penetrate this deeply into the Amazon basin. Colonel Marcellino had never said anything about possible air support. Roan was positive he would have told his officers if it was an option. Besides, the Valentinos were known to have refuelling capabilities to get in and out of areas like this one.

“Captain Braga!” Roan yelled into his microphone. “Are these approaching Apaches ours? Over!”

Roan waited impatiently, his eyes wary slits as he watched the aircraft rapidly draw near. If the copters were the enemy, they were all dead. Apaches could wreak hell on earth in five minutes flat. Roan’s heart thudded with anxiety. He jerked a look down at Inca. Her mouth was slack, her flesh white as death. Her skin felt cool to his probing touch. Looking up, he saw Salvador’s awed expression, his gaze locked to the sky. Flares were fired. The sky lit up like daylight as the helicopters approached the compound area.

Roan scowled. Of the three helos, two were Apache and one was a Vietnam era Cobra gunship. Surprised, he didn’t know
what
to make of that. The valley echoed and reechoed with the heavy, flat drumming of their turning blades. Who the hell were they? Friend or enemy? Roan
was almost ready to yell for Braga again when Braga’s winded voice came over his headset.

“We don’t know
whose
they are! They’re not Brazilian! They’re not drug runners. Colonel Marcellino is making a call to headquarters to try and find out more. Stand by! Over.”

“Roger, I copy,” Roan rasped. Blinking away the perspiration, he saw the Cobra flying hell-bent-for-leather between the two heavily armed Apaches. There was a fifty-caliber machine gun located at the opened door. He saw the gunner firing—at the drug runners!

“They’re friendly!” Salvador shouted.
“Amigos!”

The gunships all had blinking red and green lights on them. The two Apache helicopters suddenly peeled off from the Cobra; one went to the right side of the valley, the other to the left side. The Cobra barreled in toward the compound, low and fast, obviously attempting to land. The valley shook beneath their combined buffeting.

Roan suddenly put it all together. Whoever they were, they were here to help turn the tide against the savagely fighting drug runners! The Cobra began hovering a hundred feet above them, an indication that it was going to land very close to the compound. Sliding his hands beneath Inca, Roan growled to Salvador, “Come on! That chopper is going to land right in front of this factory. We can get Inca outta here! She has a chance if we can get her to the hospital in Manaus. Let’s move!” Inca weighed next to nothing in his arms as Roan lifted her gently and pressed her against him. He made sure her head was secure against his neck and jaw. Every second counted. Every one.

The sound of powerful Apache gunships attacking be
gan in the distance. Hellfire missiles were released, lighting up the entire valley. The missiles arced out of the sky toward the main concentration of drug runners, many of whom began to flee down the road toward the other end of the valley. Brutal noise, like that of a violent thunderstorm, pounded savagely against Roan’s eardrums.

Salvador jerked up his medical pack and ran, slipping and stumbling, after Roan as he hurried in a long, striding walk to the compound entrance. The rain forest was alive with shouts from excited Brazilian soldiers. Hand-to-hand combat ensued. Out of the corner of his eye, Roan saw Captain Braga running down the slope with a squad of men. In the flashes of light, he saw triumph etched across the captain’s sweaty, strained face.

Gripping Inca more tightly, Roan rounded the corner of the compound fence, heading directly to the Cobra, which had just landed just outside the gates. Neither he nor Salvador had weapons. Salvador was a medic and they never carried armament. Roan had left his rifle behind in order to carry Inca. Out of the darkness came two drug runners, weapons up and aimed directly at them.

Roan croaked out a cry of warning. “Salvador! Look out!” He started to turn, prepared to take the bullets he knew were coming, in order to protect Inca, who sagged limply in his arms.

Just then another figure, dressed in body-fitting black flight suit and flak jacket, helmet on his head, appeared almost as if by magic behind the drug runners who had Roan in their gunsites. The black helmet and visor covered the upper half of his face, but his pursed lips and the way he halted, spread his booted feet and lifted his arms, told Roan he was there for a reason.

Roan stared in horror and amazement as whoever it was—the pilot of the landed Cobra helicopter?—lifted his pistol in both hands and coolly fired off four shots. All four hit the drug runners, who crumpled to the muddy earth. The man then gestured for Roan and Salvador to make a run for it. He stood tensely and kept looking around for more enemy fire.

“Come on!” Roan roared, and he dug his boots into the mud. He saw the pilot turn and yell at him, his voice drowned out by the machine gun fire of the nearby Cobra. The pilot lifted his arm in hard, chopping motions, urging them to hightail it.

Roan’s breath came in huge, gulping sobs as he steadied himself in the mud.
Hurry! Hurry!

Salvador slipped. He cried out and smashed headlong into the ground and onto his belly. His medical pack went flying.

Roan jerked a look in his direction.

“Go on!” Salvador screamed. “
Corra!
Run! Get to the chopper! Don’t worry about me!”

Roan hesitated only fractionally. He surged forward. Barely able to see the six-foot-tall pilot except in flashes of gunfire, Roan saw him reach toward him. The grip of his hand on his arm was steadying.

“Stay close!” the pilot yelled, his voice muffled by the shelling.

Roan’s only protection for Inca as he ran along the compound fence was the wary pilot, who moved like a jaguar, lithe and boneless, the gun held ready in his gloved hand. Roan followed him toward the front corner of the barbed-wire barrier.

As Roan rounded the corner, he saw the helicopter, an
antique Huey Cobra gunship from the Vietnam War, sitting on high idle waiting for them, its blades whirling. Roan followed the swiftly moving pilot back to the opening where the machine gunner was continuing to fire at drug runners. More than once, the pilot fired on the run, to the left, to the right, to protect them. Bullets whined past Roan’s head like angry hornets. Slugs were smattering and striking all around them. Mud popped up in two-foot geysers around his feet. Roan saw the copilot in the aircraft making sharp gestures out the opened window, urging them to hurry up and get on board. The gunfire increased. The drug runners were going to try and kill them all so they couldn’t take off.

Hurry!
Roan’s muscles strained. They screamed out in pain as he ran, holding Inca tightly against him. Only a hundred feet more! The pilot dived through the helicopter’s open door, landed flat on his belly on the aluminum deck and quickly scrambled to his knees and lunged forward into the cockpit. The gunner at the door stopped firing. He stood crouched in the doorway, arms opened wide, yelling at Roan to hurry. All of them were dressed in black flight suits, with no insignias on their uniforms. Their helmets were black, the visors drawn down so Roan couldn’t make out their faces. They looked brown skinned. Indians? Brazilians? He wasn’t sure. Roan thought they must be from some secret government agency. The real military always wore patches and insignias identifying their country and squadron.

The blast of the rotor wash just about knocked him off his feet. His arms tightened around Inca. The pilot was powering up for a swift takeoff. The violent rush of air slapped and slammed Roam repeatedly as he ducked low
to avoid getting hit by the whirling blades. The gunner held on to the frame of the door, the other hand stretched outward toward them. He was screaming at Roan to get on board. An explosion on the hill rocked him from behind. Fire and flame shot up a hundred feet into the air. One of the attack choppers must have found an ammo dump! Thunder rolled through the narrow valley, blotting out every other sound for moments.