Heart of the Hunter Read online

  “I don ‘t want you sleeping in there… with me,” Casey said.

  Reid held her gaze. “I was sent here to guard you twenty-four hours a day. If I sleep in another hut, how can I protect you?”

  Anger sizzled through Casey. “I can take care of myself, Reid.”

  “I can’t let you be alone, Casey. And I don’t need you looking at me like I‘m an enemy, too. I’m not.”

  Casey tried to force herself to speak, but he stood too close to her. Did he have any idea how much he affected her? When she twisted up a look in his direction, she swallowed hard. The nakedness of the pain in his features told her everything.

  He really didn ‘t know how she felt about him.

  “Ms. McKenna is an expert at making our hearts beat faster with her intriguing plots and unforgettable lovers.”

  —Romantic Times Magazine

  To my editor, Lynda Curnyn, who is as fast as I am.

  Thanks for your help, direction, laughter and great sense of humor.

  Whatta gold medal team!

  ISBN 0-373-24214-X

  HEART OF THE HUNTER

  Copyright © 1998 by Lindsay McKenna

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the editorial office, Silhouette Books, 300 East 42nd Street, New York, NY 10017 U.S.A.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  ® and TM are trademarks of Harlequin Books S.A., used under license. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

  CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed in U.S.A.

  LINDSAY McKENNA

  is a practicing homeopath and emergency medical technician on the Navajo Reservation in Arizona. She comes from an Eastern Cherokee medicine family and is a member of the Wolf Clan. Dividing her energies between alternative medicine and writing, she feels books on and about love are the greatest positive healing force in the world. She lives with her husband, David, at La Casa de Madre Tierra, near Sedona.

  Dear Reader,

  Just as they’ve grown on you, Morgan Tray hern, his family and his career have grown on me in the nicest of ways. It is always a joy to write another series of books about him and the men and women of his team, Perseus. Perseus is a wonderful platform from which to launch even more stories of the mercenaries who work for Morgan—their lives, the danger and adventure they encounter…and the love they find, whether they were planning to or not!

  I said I would not attempt to write another four-book series, but thanks to your enthusiasm and that of my editors, how could I say no? This time, MORGAN’S MERCENARIES features the four Hunter brothers. Book one, Heart of the Hunter, is Reid’s story. He’s a Marine Corps officer whom Morgan calls upon for help because of his chilling specialty biohazard warfare. Reid is a bit of a throwback to the males of yesteryear, so you can imagine his frustration when he is paired with a real nineties woman—scientist Dr. Casey Morrow. From the moment they meet, their lives are in danger, but that doesn’t stop them from falling in love.

  Love mixed with danger is the underlying theme of this four-book gift to you. It takes special men and women to battle on these two fronts simultaneously.

  I hope you will enjoy this ongoing series as much as I am enjoying writing it. I hope you will eagerly anticipate each brother’s adventure and his ultimate meeting with the woman who matches him in every way.

  I always love to hear from my readers, so drop me a note in care of Silhouette Books. Let me know your thoughts on future books in the MORGAN’S MERCENARIES series!

  Warmly,

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  What the hell am I doing here? Marine Corps Captain Reid Hunter almost mouthed the words out loud as he followed a stiffly moving, armed sentry toward a special elevator located in the heart of the Pentagon. He’d been called from Camp Reed, California, to make an urgent military flight back to Washington, D.C. Wiping his watering and burning eyes with the back of his darkly haired hand, he realized that whatever he’d been summoned for was serious. He watched the marine sentry present a special pass to the two armed guards stationed at the elevator. These men meant business; their eyes were hard, assessing, and the M-16 rifles they carried were locked and loaded.

  The words level Q reached his ears. Yes, Reid had heard this whispered term before. Who hadn’t? Level Q in the Pentagon was above Top Secret. It was the level known for its compartmentalization, its hush-hush, global network of secrets. It was well known that even those working at level Q only got information on a need-to-know basis. No one got told the whole picture—only the part they needed to know in order to operate and complete their assigned objective or mission. Which explained the mystery surrounding the call he’d gotten.

  As he moved into the brightly polished brass elevator, which reflected the image of him in his tan uniform, hat beneath his left arm, he compressed his full lips. He had a Top Secret clearance, not a Q clearance. The air pressure in the elevator as it plummeted downward caught his attention momentarily. It felt as if he was moving five or six stories down into the bowels of the Pentagon.

  What the hell did they want with him? What was going on?

  He had a lot of questions and no answers. Six hours before, he’d been out in the boonies of Camp Reed with his Recon team, on patrol. The call had come in on a communications satellite link. A marine general from the Pentagon had told him to cease his activities and board the first transport heading east, pronto. That was it.

  As the elevator doors whooshed open to reveal a well-lit marbled hall, Reid scowled. His three older brothers, all graduates of military academies like himself, had left the service as soon as their six-year hitch was up. They’d hired on with a supersecret government organization known as Perseus—a dark, covert branch of the CIA, as he understood it. Ty, Devlin and Shep hadn’t said much about their line of work except that it was global and dangerous. As he followed the smart-stepping sentry down the hall, Reid wondered if one of his brothers was in trouble. Maybe that’s what this meeting was all about?

  The old fear nagged at him. His brothers had had no problem leaving the military. He did. He’d wanted to follow them, but something about civilian life scared the hell out of him. He liked the comfort of the military, which, like a nurturing mother, took care of all his needs. In civilian life, that didn’t necessarily happen. Yes, the civilian world was an emotionally dangerous place for a man used to the rigorous discipline of military life. Reid didn’t like the idea of risking himself emotionally. There was something about the cool, mechanical environment within the military that made him comfortable. It was a world where black was black and white was white. A world he could count on without having to expose his vulnerability like people did on the “ou
tside.” After all, it was far easier to go to war than risk his heart, as he’d once foolishly done.

  Gut tightening, Reid halted at a double oak door with polished brass handles. The sentry stepped to one side.

  “Please enter, sir,” the marine said as he briskly pulled open one door.

  Nodding briefly, Reid did as he was instructed. The door closed quietly behind him. The large, low-lit conference room held a long, oval maple table with at least twenty red leather chairs situated around its expanse. Eyes narrowing, Reid saw ten military officers seated there and one man in a dark pinstripe suit sitting at the other end. Talk about fruit salad! The quantity of colorful ribbons on their uniforms documented acts of heroism from the Korean War to the present day. It was impressive. Intimidating.

  They were all studying him with the same keen, curious intensity. Hunter realized with a sinking feeling that he was a lowly captain compared to all the scrambled eggs and brass he saw in this assembly. Every armed service was represented, from admiral to general. Most of them he did not recognize as he snapped to rigid attention and announced himself to the prestigious group.

  “Captain Hunter reporting as ordered, sir.”

  The man at the other end of the table, the civilian, rose slowly. He was the first to speak.

  “At ease, Captain.”

  Reid relaxed a little, his gaze pinned on the man as he approached, his hand outstretched.

  Whoever he was, the civilian clothes couldn’t hide his decided military bearing, the way he squared his shoulders or that measuring look of a warrior in his eyes. Reid wasn’t swayed at all by the expensive black pinstripe suit, the white silk shirt or the conservative red paisley tie he wore. Not at all. But he was immediately impressed by the man himself.

  Reid extended his hand, roughened and callused by many months out in the field at his marine base. As the civilian shook it firmly, Reid studied him, noticing the scar on his face that ran from his hairline down to the hard line of his squared jaw. He should know this man, Reid realized. Where had he seen his picture? Where? The man’s lips twisted a little. “Welcome to Perseus, Captain. I’m Morgan Trayhern. I trust your flight here was adequate?”

  Reid nodded slightly and released Trayhern’s scarred hand. “Yes, sir. Adequate.” Reid halted a smile before it pulled at the corners of his generous mouth. He knew exactly who Morgan Trayhern was. His life as a marine was legendary. Reid’s brothers had nothing but admiration for him. To be able to meet him face-to-face was something Reid had never dreamed of. Feeling a little heat steal into his cheeks, he murmured, “It’s a real pleasure, sir, to meet you.”

  Morgan matched his sour grin with one of his own. “No autographs, Captain.”

  “No, sir. Wouldn’t think of it, sir.”

  Turning, Morgan lifted his hand to the awaiting officers.

  “Captain, you are here with us because the Pentagon computer said that, out of all the services, you were the best at what you do. Frankly, looking at your education, I’m not surprised.” His eyes gleamed with humor. “And I’m not surprised it was a marine who came in top dog. Come and sit down. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover in a very little time.” Morgan scowled as he took Reid’s arm and led him toward a chair next to where he’d been sitting.

  The serious expressions on the faces of the generals and admirals in attendance quickly dampened Reid’s elation at meeting Morgan Trayhern. The lights were dimmed until the room was dark. A screen in front of them lit up. Morgan stood off to one side.

  “Black biology, Captain. It’s not a term lost on you, is it?”

  “No, sir, it’s not.”

  With a nod, Morgan lifted his head and looked over the attentive assemblage. “Unfortunately, it’s the newest buzzword in our terrorist vocabulary, and it seems to be growing more and more out of control every day. Black biology, for those of you here who are not quite as up to speed as Captain Hunter, is about the illegal use of biological bacteria and viruses. These deadly agents can either be used as a lethal threat or dispersed readily and easily as a ‘bomb’ in one of many convenient ways.”

  Morgan scowled once again. “There’s aerosol transmission, which is a nice way of saying that the germ can be loaded on board an airplane or any other airborne device, and deliberately spread over an unsuspecting populace. Or—” his voice deepened with concern “—the said germ can be put into a water supply, such as at a sewage treatment plant. Then any poor, unsuspecting bastard who drinks that water is infected and dies of the disease sooner or later. Depending, of course, on what the germ is.”

  “Morgan,” Admiral Turner interjected, “humor me on this. Exactly which germs are we talking about?”

  “Specifically?”

  “Yes.”

  Morgan turned to Reid. “Captain?”

  Hunter tensed slightly. He was surprised to be included in such a high-ranking discussion. Normally, lowly lieutenants and captains were there to perform on cue like trained dogs and keep their mouths shut otherwise. His fingers moved around his cap, which sat in his lap beneath the table.

  “Specifically, anthrax is one of several of the most lethal threats from terrorists who utilize black biology. It’s an infectious disease caused by a deadly bacterium. Sarin, a chemical warfare agent that disrupts nerve impulse transmission and ability to breathe, was used by a terrorist organization in the subways of Japan. That same organization tried to buy the Ebola virus in vitro from Russian scientists who were testing it on monkeys in Moscow, but they were refused. They turned to sarin, a neurotoxin, instead.”

  “Does anthrax have an antidote, Captain?” Morgan inquired.

  “Yes, sir, it does. If caught in time, antibiotics can be utilized to save the person’s life. They are considered moderately effective. Penicillin and tetracycline may not be effective as the organism becomes resistant to them. Right now, the sop—standard operating procedure—here in the U.S., should there be an anthrax attack, would be to utilize amoxicillin, ciprofloxacin, erythromycin and gentamicin, all of which are preferred, third-generati on antibiotics.”

  Turner grunted and rubbed his jaw. His silver hair glinted in the low lighting. “And sarin has no antidote?”

  Hunter turned his attention to the high ranking navy official. “No, sir, it does not.” He cleared his throat. “However, the amount of sarin one inhales will determine whether you live or die. It is a colorless liquid and has a fruitlike odor. There were cases that survived because they had low levels of sarin inhaled into their respiratory tract. Recovery in such a situation takes about two weeks. Atropine injections on site, along with artificial respiration and the delivery of pure oxygen, can increase a person’s chance of survival, sir. Administration of injected muscle relaxants also proved helpful in this type of black biology attack.” Reid’s gaze moved swiftly to the right. He saw a pleased look on Trayhern’s face.

  “Go on, Captain. Your knowledge is impressive.”

  Reid wished someone had told him he’d have to give a lecture on what he knew best, biological warfare—what had come to be known of late as black biology in the hands of terrorists. Nervousness shot through him. “Permission to stand, sir?”

  Morgan nodded. “Of course, Captain.”

  Placing his hat on the highly polished table, Reid faced the determined, somber faces of the elite officers from each of the five services. Sweat trickled down the sides of his rib cage. He kept his voice steady as he pointed to the slide projected up on the screen and discussed sarin and other nerve gases as well as bacterial forms such as anthrax and Bubonic plague.

  When he was finished, Morgan said, “Thank you, Captain. Your information is most sobering.”

  Reid nodded and sat down. His hands were sweaty. Helluva way to lose his chance at major’s leaves if he blew this little impromptu exercise in front of these brass hats. Above it all, Trayhern had a knowing gleam in his eyes; it was as if he knew Reid could deliver the goods.

  “One more thing, Captain,” Morgan said in a deep v
oice, “your knowledge of the sarin attack in Japan is more than book-learning deep, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir, it is. I was on the primary NBC—nuclear, biological and chemical—warfare team sent over there at the invitation of the Japanese government. We gave educational information to their medical people, as well as to their law enforcement officials. We were there for six weeks bringing them up to speed.”

  Hunter saw a number of heads nod. Intuitively, he felt as if the group had accepted him without any more questioning. He was, in fact, one of a handful of military people who understood the horrible consequences of what was going on in the world with black biology. At times it gave him nightmares.

  Another slide appeared—of two men in civilian clothes, probably in their late thirties. They were standing near a portable table with lush jungle behind them. South American? Reid wondered.

  “Gentlemen,” Morgan continued, “this is the late Dr. Vincent Gilroy and his lab assistant, Stan Howard. Both were from OID, the Office of Infectious Diseases. Two weeks ago, they were kidnapped and then murdered—by terrorists.”

  Hunter felt his chest constrict. Although he was part of the national NBC warfare team, he wasn’t privy to this high level of information unless he was called in to assist in the cleanup. The heaviness in Trayhern’s voice sent a frisson of fear through Reid. Clamping his teeth together, he stopped himself from launching into a barrage of questions. Trayhern would fill them in soon enough.

  “This doctor was one of three U.S. scientists who are considered experts on the virus Ebola. Dr. Gilroy was over in Zaire, Africa, looking for the reservoir—the animal, insect, reptile or bird—that Ebola makes its home within. The World Health Organization, the OID and many other countries have been teaming up and sending groups of scientists and virologists to Africa to try and locate it. To date, we haven’t found it.”