Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart Of The Warrior Read online

“Why? To put a bullet through my head?”

  Wincing, Julian held up his hand. “Oh, no, no…not that. There’s been so much speculation, even excitement, about you…the possibility of seeing you. That’s all.”

  She moved slowly toward the edge of the pond and said, “What about Colonel Marcellino? Does he still want to see me dead?” Her voice was flat and hard.

  Gulping, Julian raised his eyes. “That…my father has mixed feelings about you. I mean, it’s understandable…I never believed you did it. Not ever. But he was so full of anguish and grief that he had to blame someone. I don’t believe drug runners, and that is who said you killed Rafael.”

  Inca froze. Her eyes narrowed to slits. The moment she heard Julian say “my father,” her hand went to the pistol at her side. “Colonel Marcellino is your father?” she demanded.

  “Y-yes, he is. I’m Julian Marcellino. I apologize. I should have told you my last name. It’s just that…well, I’m a little shook up, afraid….” His voice drifted off.

  Looking at him, Inca growled, “You do not believe I killed Rafael?”

  Shaking his head adamantly, Julian said, “No…and now, seeing you in person, even more I do not believe you killed my older brother.”

  Inca knew that something greater was at play here. What were the chances of the brother of Rafael showing up where she was hiding? Very slim. She understood the karma of the situation. The soldier was white-faced now, and stood stiffly, the fruit clutched in his hands. Buffeted by his tumultuous feelings, Inca ruthlessly entered his mind to see if he was, indeed, telling her the truth.

  Julian winced. He took a step back, as if he’d been physically struck.

  “Sorry,” Inca called. She moved more gently into his mind. Julian staggered and sat down unceremoniously. As she moved through his psyche, she saw and felt many things. That was the problem with telepathy—it wasn’t just about getting information, it meant feeling all the damnable emotions that came along with the information. It was so hard on her that she rarely read minds. She didn’t want to deal with many emotions.

  In her mind, she saw Julian as a baby, a youngster, a teenager during his time spent in the military academy. As she withdrew her energy from him, he uttered a sigh of relief. Inca squatted down on her haunches and stared at him across the pond. “You are not a soldier at heart. This is not a job you love. You are doing this to please your father, not yourself.”

  Rubbing his head, Julian felt a slight headache. The power that Inca possessed stunned him. “Yes, well, my father wanted me to carry on in Rafael’s place. How could I say no? He put such importance on me carrying on the family name and tradition. All the firstborn men went into the army and distinguished themselves. It is expected.”

  Laughing harshly, Inca said, “Better that you go tend a garden, my young friend.” She knew now that Julian bore her no grudge. He wasn’t a killer. Inca seriously wondered if he could even pull the trigger of a rifle pointed toward an enemy. No, he was a peaceful, serene person who was not faring well in the military world. At all.

  “I like gardening,” Julian said, slowly getting to his feet. He retrieved his helmet and settled it awkwardly on his head. “Is there anything I can do for you? Do you need supplies? Food?”

  Touched by his thoughtfulness, Inca said, “No…thank you. I am waiting for Roan Storm Walker to return with the map.”

  “Oh, to see which direction we go tomorrow morning?” Julian smiled a little. “I’d give anything to be with you two as you take us into the rain forest.”

  The eagerness in his voice was genuine. Inca slowly relaxed. “Your father would never let you near me and you know it. Go back. Go back to your men and say nothing of our encounter. If your father finds out, he will be very upset about it.”

  “Yes, he would,” Julian admitted ruefully. He smiled a little hesitantly. “Thank you for the fruit. That was very kind of you, Inca. And if there is anything I can do to help you, please let me know?”

  She lifted her hand. “I will, Tenente. Go now.”

  Inca watched the soldier clamber awkwardly up the incline. Shaking her head, she realized that the entire company would struggle like that on this slick, leafy terrain. Turning, she went back to her hiding spot between the roomy wings of the tree roots, more than adequate to protect her from prying eyes. Sitting back down, she leaned against the smooth gray bark and closed her eyes.

  Missing Roan, Inca wondered if he was all right. She felt a connection to him, like an umbilical cord strung invisibly between them. She sighed. The fifteen-mile hike this morning had been hard on both of them. Wanting to take a nap now, but not daring to do so, Inca felt her jaguar guardian move around. Instantly, she sat up, her eyes flying open.

  There on the edge of the hill above the pool was Roan. He carried a map in his hand. She smiled and felt heat rush through her. How handsome he was in her eyes. And this time he was dressed in jungle fatigues and had a good pair of black leather boots on his feet instead of the sandals. Standing, she left the tree to meet him halfway down the hillside.

  “You look different.” She grinned and pointed to his face.

  Rubbing his jaw, Roan absorbed her teasing expression. “Yeah, the colonel wanted me clean shaven. Now I know why I got out of the Marine Corps.” He chuckled. Holding up the map, he said, “We’ve got work to do. Are you up to it?”

  Inca nodded and fell into step beside him. There was something wonderful about his height, and that feeling of warmth and protection that always surrounded her when he was near. “Of course. Are you?”

  Giving her an intimate look, Roan said, “Of course.” He saw she had some mangos for him in the small cotton knapsack tied to her web belt. It was spring in Amazonia, and far too early for such fruit to be ripe. When she’d reached into it and brought out fruit and nuts earlier, during one of the rests they had taken on their march, Roan had considered asking about them.

  “Where do you get this fruit? It’s out of season,” he said now, sitting down against the tree with her.

  Inca picked out a mango and handed it to him. “I will it into being.”

  Opening the map before her, he glanced up. “What do you mean?”

  “We are taught how to move and use energy in the Jaguar Clan village. If I will a mango into existence, it occurs. Or nuts.” With a shrug, Inca said, “Our will, our intent is pushed and ruled by our emotions. If I am in alignment with my feelings and really desire something, I can manifest it on a good day.” She grinned mirthlessly. “And on a bad day, when my concentration is not good, or I am emotionally shredded, I forage on the rain forest floor like all the rest of our relations to find enough food to stop my stomach from growling.”

  Taking the mango, Roan bit into it. “It’s real.”

  “Of course it is!”

  The flesh was juicy and sweet. He pointed to the map. “This is the army’s best attempt at defining the trails through Amazonia. We’re here—” he tapped his finger on the map “—and this is where we have to go. Now, you tell me—is there a better way to get there? I don’t see any trail marked between here and there.”

  Studying the map, Inca grimaced. “This map is wrong. I expected as much.” She tapped her head. “I know how to get us there.”

  “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.”

  Chapter 7

  “Well?” 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.