Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart Of The Warrior (9 page)

Nodding, her throat tight with grief, she whispered, “I will pray for him.” Lifting her head, she said, “We must go. There is much to do. I know where to get shoes for both of us. I always hide gear at different villages in the Basin in case I need replacements.” She frowned, dropped her hands on her hips and looked up the Amazon to where they’d nearly gotten killed the day before. “Who attacked us? Marcellino? He hates me. He blames me for his son’s death when I had nothing to do with him dying.”

Brushing off the seat of his pants, Roan said, “Marcellino gave his word he wouldn’t try and kill you. Could it be drug runners?”

A wry smile cut across her face as she hoisted the bandoliers back into place on her shoulders. “That is always possible. Drug lords hate me. For once, the country’s government and they agree on one thing.” She slung the rifle across her shoulder and gave him an imperious look. “They agree that I need to be dead.”

“They’ll have to come through me, first.”

His voice was a dark growl. Shocked, Inca realized
Roan meant it. She saw his brows draw down, his eyes narrow. And she felt his protection wrapping around her. Laughing with embarrassment, Inca said, “You are the first man who has said that to me. Usually, it is the other way around—I protect men, women and children. They do not protect me.”

“Even you need a safe harbor, some quiet, some down time,” Roan reminded her. He looked around and then back at her. She had an odd look on her expressive features—one of pleasure mixed with shock. It was about time she got used to the fact that a man could care for her. Even though Roan honored her abilities, he knew that no human being was impervious to all the world’s hurts. Sarah had taught him that. Inca was a woman. A beautiful, naive and innocent woman. And with each passing moment, Roan found himself wanting more and more to draw her into his arms and protect her from a world gone mad around her. She was too beautiful, too alive to die at the hands of some drug lord or crazed government soldier who wanted the considerable bounty on her head. No, as long as he was here, he’d make damn sure she was protected.

“Your feet,” Inca said, pointing to them. “You lost your boots in the river. Where we need to go, you cannot travel. Your feet are soft.” She held up one of her feet and pointed to the thick calluses on the bottom. “I can make it to the village, but you cannot.”

“What if I cut off my pants to here—” he gestured with his index finger “—and wrap the cloth around them? Could I make it then?”

“Yes.” Inca moved to the trees along the shore. She took out her knife and cut several long, thin, flexible vines
from around one tree. She held them out to him. “Here, use my knife, and tie the cloth with these onto your feet.”

Thanking her, Roan took her knife and the vines. In no time, his feet were protectively wrapped in the material. As he stood up and tried his new “shoes,” she laughed deeply.

“My people will gawk at you when you enter their village. They will wonder what kind of strange man wears material on his feet.”

Chuckling, Roan said, “Let them laugh. I’ll laugh with them. How far is this village where you have supplies?”

Shrugging, Inca said, “By my pace, it is an hour from here.” She eyed him. “But I do not think you will keep up with me, so it may take longer.”

Grinning, Roan said, “Let’s see, shall we?”

“Stop here,” Inca said, and held up her hand. They halted near the edge of the rain forest. Before them was a Yanomami village of around fifty people. The huts were round in shape and thatched with dried palm leaves. In the center of the village were cooking pots hung on metal tripods. The men and women wore little clothing. Around their necks were seed and bead necklaces. Some wore feather necklaces from brilliant and colorful parrots. Their black hair was sleek and straight, cut in a bowl fashion around their heads. All the women wore brightly colored material around their waists, their upper bodies naked, save for the necklace adornments. Naked children of all ages were playing among the huts. Babies either sat on the yellow-and-red packed dirt, or hung on their mother’s back as she worked over a cooking pot, stirring it with a stick.

Inca quickly divested herself of her bandoliers of ammunition, her knife and rifle. She laid them carefully beneath some bushes so that they were well hidden from prying eyes. She saw the question on Roan’s face.

“I never enter any village with my weapons. I come in peace to my people. They see enough warfare waged against them, enough drug running soldiers brandishing weapons and knives. I do not want them to ever be afraid of me.”

“I understand.”

She pursed her lips. “Just watch. The Yanomami know very little Portuguese and no English. Say nothing. Be respectful.”

Roan accepted her orders. She quickly moved out of the rain forest and onto the hard-packed dirt paths of the village. One of the first people to spot her was an old woman. Her black-and-gray hair was cut short, the red fabric of her skirt thin and worn around her crippled body. She gave a shrill cry in her own language, and instantly, villagers came hurrying toward where the old woman sat, hovering over her black kettle of bubbling monkey stew.

Roan stayed a good twenty paces behind Inca. The Yanomami looked at him, and then their expressions turned to adoration, their dark eyes glittering with joy as they threw open their arms, raised more cries of greeting and hurried toward Inca.

Every person in the village rushed forward until they surrounded Inca. Roan was startled by the change in her. No longer was she the defensive warrior. Instead, she was smiling warmly as she reached out and touched each of them—a pat on a person’s head here, a gentle caress along a child’s cheek there. Surrounding her, they began to
chant, the people locking arms with one another and beginning to sway back and forth. Their faces were illuminated with unabashed joy over Inca’s unexpected arrival.

Inca hailed them by name, laughed and smiled often. The Indians then ceased their welcoming chant in her honor, stepped away and made a large, respectful circle around Inca. Someone hurried forward with a rough-hewn, three-legged stool. They set it down and excitedly ask her to sit on it. As they brought her gifts—fruit and brightly colored parrot feathers—she complied.

A mother with a baby hurried forward. Her singsong voice was high-pitched, and tears were running down her tobacco brown face as she held her sickly infant toward Inca.

Inca murmured to the mother soothingly, and took the baby, who was no more than two months old, into her arms. The mother fell at Inca’s feet, burying her head in her hands, bowing before her and begging her to heal her baby.

From where he stood, Roan could see that the infant was starving, his small rib cage pronounced. Did the mother not have enough milk to feed him? More than likely. Roan stood very still, knowing he was privy to something that few people would ever see. Even thirty feet away, he felt a shift and change in energy. It was Inca. He watched as she closed her eyes. Tenderly, she shifted the weak infant in her hands and gently placed him against her breast.

The mother’s wailing and sobbing continued unabated and she gripped the hem of Inca’s trousered leg. The pleading in her voice didn’t need any translation for Roan. Narrowing his eyes, he saw darkness begin to gather
around and above Inca. Blinking, he wondered if he was seeing things. No, it was real. A dark grayish-black smoke was coming out of the ethers above Inca’s head. Then, quickly, the smoky mist began to take on a shape as it eased down across Inca’s form. Roan stared hard. It was the jaguar! Roan recalled seeing it seconds before he’d lost consciousness the day before.

This time he steadied himself. He saw the jaguar apparition completely engulf Inca’s upper body. It was superimposed upon her and he could see both simultaneously. Instead of Inca, he saw the jaguar’s massive flat head, sun-gold eyes and tiny black, constricted pupils. A wave of energy hit Roan, and it reminded him of standing out in knee-high surf in the ocean and being struck by a large, far more powerful wave. He rocked back on his heels and felt another pulsating wave of energy hit him, and then another, as if the jaguar’s intense and powerful energy was causing tidal fluctuations that rocked him rhythmically.

Roan tried to keep his concentration on the baby Inca held gently to her breast. Her head was tipped forward. At one point, she turned the child on his back and blew gently into his opened mouth. The sobs of the mother continued. Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes filled with agony as she begged Inca to save her dying baby.

Blinking, unsure of what all he was perceiving, Roan saw golden light coming out of Inca’s and the jaguar’s mouth simultaneously. He saw the golden threads move into the infant’s slack mouth and fill his tiny form, which began to sparkle and throb with life. What was once a grayish, murky cocoon around the infant suddenly became clearer and more distinct. The grayness left, replaced by
the white and golden light of life that now enveloped the baby.

As Inca raised her head, her eyes still closed, Roan saw the jaguar disappear. Instantly it was gone, as was the smoky cloud the animal had come out of. All Roan saw now was Inca and the baby. Holding his breath, along with the rest of the villagers, he realized he was watching a miracle take place. As Inca slowly opened her willow-green eyes, the infant in her hands moved and gave a weak cry. And then the baby’s cry no longer wavered, but was strong and lusty.

The mother breathed the infant’s name, leaped to her feet and stretched out her arms. Inca smiled softly, murmured reassuring words and carefully passed the baby back to her.

The woman held her child to her breast and bowed repeatedly to Inca, thanking her through her sobs. She looked at the baby, noting his animation and the fact that he was thriving and not sickly any longer. Face wet with tears, she knelt down before Inca.

Inca stood and drew her to her feet. She embraced the mother and held her for just a moment. Then releasing her, Inca asked who was next. Who wanted to be healed?

Roan stood there for a good hour, witnessing one healing after another. First to come were babies and mothers. After they were cared for, young boys and girls came forward. Sometimes Inca would simply lay her hand on a child’s head. Sometimes she would ease youngsters onto her lap and hold them for a few moments. In nearly every case there was improvement, Roan noted. When it was finally time for the elderly, Inca went to them. Some were
crippled. Others were so sick that they lay on pallets inside their makeshift huts.

Roan didn’t mind waiting. A part of him wished that people like Colonel Marcellino could see this side of Inca. This was not the warrior; this was the healer. He began to understand what Mike Houston had said to him earlier. It was clear now why the Indians of the Amazon basin worshipped Inca as the jaguar goddess. No wonder. She had the power to heal. The power to snatch people from death’s door and bring them back.

Her spirit guide did, Roan realized, mentally correcting himself. Inca was humble and lacked any egotism about her healing skills. That was typical of Indians. His own mother was one of the humblest souls he’d ever met. She never took credit for the energy that came through her and flowed into her patient. No, she gave thanks to the Great Spirit and to her spirit guides—just as Inca did.

Roan found a log to sit down on near the edge of the village. He was in no hurry today. As a matter of fact, being able to find out more about Inca and create a bond of trust with her was far more important than hurrying downriver to Marcellino’s awaiting company. Roan hoped Inca would want to stay here overnight. He still felt weak, but was getting stronger and stronger as each hour slid by.

The peacefulness of the village was infectious. The laughter of the children, the barking of the dogs, the happiness on the faces of the people relaxed Roan. Above them, the clouds parted and sunlight lanced down through the triple canopy of the rain forest surrounding the village. A squadron of blue-and-yellow macaws winged overhead. They reminded him of rainbows in flight. Looking around,
he saw that Inca was emerging from the last hut at the end of the village. He heard wails and cries coming from that hut. Inca looked tired. No wonder. She must have worked on fifteen people, nonstop.

Rising to his feet, he walked across the village to meet her. Without thinking, he reached out and slid his fingers around her upper arm. He saw turmoil in her eyes. The way her lips were set, as if against pain, touched him deeply.

“Come on,” he urged her quietly, “come and sit down. You need to rest….”

J
aime Marcellino stifled his anger toward his son. He had had only two children, but now only one was left. Julian was just a young, shavetail lieutenant straight out of the military academy, and Jaime wished mightily that he was more like his older brother, Rafael, had been: bold, brash and confident. As Jaime sat at his makeshift aluminum desk in the canvas tent, which was open at both ends to allow the humid air to sluggishly crawl through, he gripped his black-and-gold pen tighter. Julian stood at strict attention in front of him.

Oh, how young and cherubic his son’s face was! At twenty-two, he looked more like a little boy than a man. Rafael had had Jaime’s own sharply etched, proud and aristocratic features. Julian took after his mother, who was soft, plump and dimpled. Scowling as he scribbled his signature on some of the orders in front of him, Jaime jammed them into his attaché’s awaiting hands. Around
him, he could hear the company of soldiers preparing for the coming trek. They had just disembarked from a number of tug boats, and the men were setting up camp in the muggy afternoon heat.

“Lieutenant,” he muttered, “your request to lead point with that—that woman is denied.”

Julian’s large, cinnamon-colored eyes widened. He opened his mouth to speak. His father’s face was livid with rage. He could see it as well as feel it. The colonel’s attaché, Captain Humberto Braga, blanched and stood stiffly at attention next to his father’s chair.

“Sir, with all due respect—”

“Enough!” Jaime smashed his closed fist down on his table. Everything on it jumped. Snapping his head up, he glared at his son. “Permission denied. Point is the most dangerous position! I will not allow you to risk your life. You have a platoon to take care of,
Tenente,
Lieutenant. I suggest you do so. You have tents to set up, food to be distributed, and make sure that the men’s rifles are clean and without rust. You have
plenty
to do.
Dismissed.
”

The attaché glared at Julian and jerked his head to the left, indicating that he should get out of the tent. Julian knew his father’s rage well. He’d been cuffed many times as a child growing up, though after Rafael had been murdered, his father was less inclined to deride him and not take him seriously. Rafael had been a huge, heroic figure to Julian. He’d always looked up to his older brother. He’d gone to the military academy to follow in his big brother’s footsteps, which he felt he could never possibly fill. Julian had labored and struggled mightily through four years of academy training. He’d barely gotten passing marks, where Rafael had gotten straight A’s. Rafael had
been captain of the soccer team, while Julian couldn’t even make second string.

“Yes, sir,” he murmured, and he did an about-face and stepped smartly out of the tent.

“Damn youngster,” Jaime muttered glumly to his attaché after his son was out of earshot. He scribbled his signature hurriedly on another set of orders. He hated the paperwork. He was a field officer, not a paper pusher. Oh, that kind of attitude had garnered him many enemies among the army ranks, that was for sure, but Jaime didn’t care. He loved the outdoors. He reveled in missions such as the upcoming one. The only fly in the ointment was that the jaguar goddess was going to lead the company. And what the hell was wrong with Julian wanting, of all things, to work side-by-side with her? Had his youngest son gone
louco?
Crazy?

“I think he’s trying to behave as Rafael might have in this situation, sir,” the attaché ventured gently. “To do something heroic, to get your attention. My opinion, of course, sir.” Humberto steeled himself for an explosion from his superior.

Grunting, Jaime looked up. He folded his hands restlessly. Looking out the side of the tent where the flap was thrown upward, he growled, “He’ll
never
be Rafael. I wish he’d quit trying. Ever since he was murdered, Julian has been trying to make up for it.” With a shake of his head, he muttered, “And he never will. Julian will never be what Rafael was.”

“I think he knows that, sir,” Humberto said, some pity in his tone.

“He’s soft. Look at his hands! No calluses. His face is soft and round. I doubt he’ll even be able to keep up with
his men on this mission,” Jaime fumed in a whisper so no one else would overhear. “Rafael was tough—hard as a rock. He was an incredible athlete. Julian has trouble making the mandatory runs and hikes.” Snorting, Jaime looked up at the thirty-year-old career officer. Humberto Braga was a trusted individual who had come from the poverty of Rio de Janeiro and worked his way through college and eventually joined the army. Jaime admired anyone with that kind of courage and guts. Humberto was someone he could trust and confide in, too.

“Yes, sir, he’s not Rafael in those respects,” Humberto said, “but his men like him. They listen to him.”

Raising his thick, black brows, Jaime nodded. “Yes, thank goodness for that.”

“Perhaps this mission will be good for the boy, sir. He needs to show you he’s capable.”

Leaning back in the metal chair, Jaime pondered the younger man’s reflection. “Asking to work with Inca is like asking to work with a bushmaster snake.”

Humberto chuckled indulgently. Bushmaster snakes were well known to be one of the most poisonous in the Amazon. Not only that, but when the snake was disturbed, it would literally chase an unfortunate person down, bite him and kill him. Not many snakes were aggressive like the bushmaster, and it was to be feared. It had earned its reputation by leaving bodies of people in its wake over the centuries. The legends about the snake had grown, and Humberto knew most of them were true. “I hear you, sir.”

Looking at his watch, Jaime muttered, “Where the hell is Storm Walker? He said they’d meet us here this morning. It’s already noon.” Again Jaime snorted and went
back to the necessary paperwork. “And Morgan Trayhern said he was punctual. Bah.”

Humberto was about to speak when he saw a tall man, an Anglo dressed in cutoff pants, a burgundy polo shirt and sandals, approach the tent. He’d seen a picture of Roan Storm Walker, so he knew it was him. Surprised, he stammered, “Colonel, Senhor Storm Walker is here….”

“Eh?” Jaime glanced up. Humberto was pointing toward the tent entrance. Jaime turned his head and met Roan’s narrowed eyes. Storm Walker had a two-day growth of beard on his hard face and it made him look even more dangerous.

“It’s about time,” Jaime snapped. “Enter!”

Roan moved into the tent. He glanced at the thirty-year-old captain, who curtly nodded a greeting in his direction. “Colonel, I’m a little late.”

Jaime glared up at him. “More than a little. I’m not impressed, Storm Walker.”

Roan stood more or less at ease in front of the colonel, whose face had flushed a dull red. He saw the anger banked in the officer’s eyes.

“I think you know why, too.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

Roan studied him. The officer seemed genuinely surprised. “That unmarked helicopter that came out of nowhere and blasted the tug we were on to pieces? Does that ring a bell, Colonel?” Roan tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Who else but Marcellino knew of their plans to meet, as well as the place and the time? No one.

Chagrined, Marcellino put down the pen and gave Roan a deadly look. “I haven’t the faintest of what you are
talking about, Storm Walker. What helicopter? And what tug?”

“We were attacked yesterday,” Roan said tightly, “first by thugs in two cars. We barely made it onto the tug before they started firing at us with military rifles. There were six of them. And an hour later we were attacked by a green, unmarked military helicopter. It rocketed the tug. We jumped off it and dove as deep as we could.” Roan decided not to tell of his wounding and of Inca’s healing. He wanted to stick to the point with the colonel. “We had to swim to shore. And if it weren’t for Inca knowing the lay of the land, I wouldn’t be here now. We were twenty miles northwest of your landing area when the attack happened.”

Marcellino slowly rose. “I know nothing of this attack,” he protested strongly.

“You were the only one who knew our itinerary,” Roan retorted, barely hanging on to his temper. He rarely got angry, but the colonel’s innocent look and remarks stung him. He’d had a restless night’s sleep, and hiking through the humid rain forest for fifteen miles this morning hadn’t helped his mood at all.

“Are you accusing
me
of those attacks?” Marcellino struck his chest with a fist. Then he placed his hands flat on the table, leaned forward and glared up into the
norteamericano
’s livid features. “I had
nothing
to do with either attack!”

“You hate Inca,” Roan declared. “You’d do anything to kill her because you mistakenly believe she killed Rafael, your eldest son.”

Rearing back, Jaime put his hands on his hips in a defiant stance, despite the fact that he wasn’t anywhere near
Roan’s height. “I gave my word to Senhor Trayhern that I would
not
lay a hand on her. And I have not!” His nostrils flared and quivered. “You are gravely mistaken,
senhor.
”

“Inca’s angry. She has a right to be. She thinks
you
were behind the attack.”

Jaime laughed explosively. “Oh, how I wish I were, Senhor Storm Walker.” He lost his smile and glared at him. “But if I had of been, believe me, you two would not be alive today. I’d have hung that helicopter over the water and put a hundred bullets through her body when she came up to get air.” He jabbed a finger toward Storm Walker. “Captain Braga!”

Humberto snapped to attention. “Yes, sir!”

“Take Senhor Storm Walker to our quartermaster. Get him a set of army fatigues, a decent pair of boots and other gear. And loan him a razor. He needs to shave.”

Roan looked at the colonel. Was he lying? Was he telling the truth? Roan wasn’t sure. The colonel’s response seemed genuine; he’d looked surprised when he’d learned of the attacks. “As soon as I get cleaned up, I need a copy of the map you’re using. Inca will look at it with me and I’ll get back to you about the route we’ll take tomorrow morning at dawn.”

“Fine.” Marcellino looked out of the tent. “Where is she?”

“Nowhere that you or your men will ever find her,” Roan growled.

Shrugging, Jaime said, “Make sure she stays out of my way. I have ordered my men
not
to fire at her, or to make any overture toward her that she may read as harm.”

Turning on his heel, Roan ducked beneath the canvas
of the tent and followed Captain Braga out into the main encampment. The hundred and eighty men of Macellino’s company were loosely strung out for half a mile along the shore of the Amazon. He could tell that the contingent wasn’t used to rain forest conditions. Tents were going up. Men were smoking cigarettes and talking as they dug in for the evening hours ahead. The odor of food cooking caught his attention.

“Hungry?” Humberto asked with a slight smile.

Roan looked over at the officer who accompanied him. Humberto Braga sported a thin, black mustache. His face was square and he was built like a bulldog. He wasn’t aristocratic in bearing or facial features; he had more of a peasant demeanor. Roan couldn’t dislike the soft-voiced officer. “Yeah, just a little.”

“You hiked fifteen miles this morning?”

Roan gave him a cutting smile. “Yeah.” Inca had taken the lead and moved effortlessly, hour after hour, through the rain forest. He’d known she was in superb shape, but her ability to move at a continued trot without rest had stunned him. She’d only rested when he needed to take a break. As she had pointed out to him, he was wearing sandals that one of the Indians had given him, and sandals were not best for that kind of march.

Humberto pointed to the quartermaster’s large tent. “Here we are. I’ll help you with getting all the equipment you will need.” He eyed Roan again. “Fifteen miles in how many hours?”

“Three.”

Sighing, Humberto said with a grin, “And I wonder how fast we can push this company starting tomorrow morning.”

Roan halted. “That’s a good question, Captain, and not one I can answer right off the top of my head.” He eyed the struggling company entrenching its position. A number of soldiers were heading out to predestined points several hundred yards ahead of the encampment, he saw. They would be forward observers—the eyes and ears of the company—to protect it from possible attack by drug runners.

“I think we will need two or three days to get—how do you say—the hang of it?”

Roan nodded. His mind and his heart were elsewhere—with Inca. She’d agreed to stay out of sight. Worried that the FOs might surprise her, he wanted to get done with the clothes exchange as soon as possible and get back to where she was hiding.

Julian Marcellino took off his helmet and wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his arm. He’d stumbled over some exposed roots and nearly fallen. Looking back, he grinned a silly grin. As usual, he wasn’t watching where he was going. Rafael would never have tripped. He’d have seen the twisted roots sticking above the damp layer of leaves on the rain forest floor, and avoided them completely.

Halting, Julian heard the noise of the encampment far behind him. He had chosen men from each platoon to serve as forward observers, had picked out stations for them and ordered them to begin digging their foxholes, where they would remain for a four-hour watch before another two men took over for them. Then he’d made an excuse and gone off on his own.

He didn’t like the cacophony of noise that was ever-
present at the camp. No, in his heart he longed for the pristine silence of nature. As he looked up admiringly at the towering trees, the brightly colored orchids hanging off the darkened limbs, the sunlight sifting through the canopy, he sighed softly in appreciation. Tucking his helmet beneath his left arm, he wandered on into the rain forest, glad to be relieved of his responsibilities for just a little while. The leaves were damp and there was a wonderful musty, sweet scent from their decay. The screech of monkeys in the distance made him turn in their direction. The floor of the forest wasn’t flat, but undulating. He climbed up and over a hill, and the noise from the company abated even more. That was good. He loved the silence.