Morgan's Rescue Read online

  The guard laughed loudly. “Gringo pig! You not only stink like one that has rolled in garbage, you look like one!”

  Pilar’s breath snagged. The guard cursed Morgan richly for another moment. Would he test the door? Rigid with fear, she waited.

  The guard moved on, shuffling slowly on down the hall. Pilar sagged back against the wall, her knees limp with relief. Breathing raggedly, she waited again. The guard came back, racked the window bars once more with his weapon and left. Oddly, Morgan remained staring at the window, as if transfixed by it.

  Anxiously, Pilar craned her neck and studied the window. Thin yellow curtains hung on either side of it. They were dirty, with holes here and there, but they could be drawn across the aperture. How long did she have until the guard came back? she wondered.

  Moving slowly so as not to startle Morgan, she lifted her hand and carefully pulled the curtains across the window. There, it was covered. Breathing a small sigh of relief, Pilar moved over to Morgan and knelt in front of him.

  “Morgan?” she whispered, her voice unsteady. She watched his eyes. It took nearly a full minute for him to respond to the sound of his name. First, she saw his pupils contract slightly. Then, very slowly, he shifted his stare from the now-curtained window to her.

  Pilar sat quietly, hardly daring to breath beneath his cloudy gaze. Taking a risk, she followed her instincts and slowly placed her hand on his clasped ones, still hanging loosely between his thighs.

  “Morgan? Do you remember me? I’m Pilar Martinez. You met me three years ago at the American consulate in Lima. Morgan?”

  Pilar kept her voice low, and she saw him struggle with her words, as if he wasn’t absorbing all of them. His face was an expressionless mask, as if he were more dead than alive. Pilar saw the lurid red spots running up and down the insides of his arms, from his wrists up to the raggedly cut off sleeve of his shirt—needle tracks indicating he’d been repeatedly drugged.

  Worse, as she studied him more closely, she saw that his nose had been broken and had not been reset. It was swollen, with yellow-green bruises visible beneath his eyes. His mouth, which Pilar recalled as such a strong feature, was split at least four places on the lower lip, suggesting frequent beatings. She wanted to cry for him—for the pain he’d experienced at Ramirez’s hands. The odor of his unwashed body assailed her nostrils, and she forced herself not to react as Morgan continued to stare blankly at her.

  Pilar tightened her fingers around his scraped and bruised hands. His knuckles were puffy. Wincing, she saw that his fingernails were missing.

  “Oh, Dios,” she whispered, stricken. On the heels of her shock came the anger. She hated Ramirez. She hated his delight in inflicting intolerable pain. Pressing her brow against Morgan’s knuckles, she fought her tears.

  Choking back a sob, Pilar lifted her head and gently framed his bearded face with her hands. “Morgan?” She spoke slowly, in clear English. “Morgan, can you hear me? If you can, nod your head.”

  His head moved fractionally.

  Pilar’s smile was filled with relief. “Do you recognize me? Nod if you do.”

  He continued to stare at her, as if transfixed.

  “Morgan, I’ve come to help you escape. Do you understand me?” The look in his eyes didn’t change. Pilar tightened her hands on his face. “Morgan?”

  With an effort, he pulled out of her imprisoning hands. “Who—is Morgan?”

  Pilar’s heart slammed into her ribs, and her mouth fell open as she stared at him in shock. “Dios…oh, Dios… .” He didn’t even know his name! The drugs had taken everything from him, she realized as she knelt in front of him—even his identity. Trembling, she touched his knees, barely covered by the threadbare fabric.

  “You are Morgan,” she said firmly. “I am Pilar, your friend.” She spoke the words clearly and slowly and was rewarded by seeing his pupils contract slightly again. Pilar sensed a reaction in Morgan, but was unsure exactly what it was. Her mind whirled with options. With agony. No wonder the guards didn’t bother to lock his door. He was more vegetable than human. This was Ramirez’s way of getting even. She rose unsteadily to her feet.

  Looking around, she realized she must leave. Memorizing the layout of the small, smelly room, she leaned over. Did she dare tell Morgan they would rescue him later tonight? Would he slip and say something to his captors, thereby putting them in jeopardy? Under the circumstances, Pilar sensed she should say little. She placed her hands lightly on Morgan’s slumped shoulders, feeling huge, thick welts on his skin beneath the shirt. Looking more closely in the feeble light provided by the sole dim bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling, Pilar saw that his entire back was matted with yellow lymph fluid—the results of lashings he’d received probably a week or two earlier. Here and there, his shirt clung to the fluid.

  Overwrought at the thought of his pain, Pilar whispered, “Morgan, I will be back. Do you hear me? Nod if you do.”

  He inclined his head slightly, his stare fixed on the window again. It was as if he couldn’t see her, though she stood directly in his line of vision. Uttering a prayer, Pilar turned and carefully pulled open the curtains. Everything must be left as it had been before her visit so as not to arouse the guards’ curiosity.

  Listening intently, she heard the guitar music, brassy horns and jangling tambourines from below. The merriment was proceeding nonstop, and the drunken shouts of the men and women would provide good cover for her escape. Moving to the door, Pilar opened it a crack and looked both ways. No one was in sight. Giving Morgan a final glance she felt her heart plummet. He was staring at the window, unmoving.

  Slipping outside, she quietly closed the door and made her way swiftly down the darkened staircase. The fortress was surrounded by a ten-foot-high stucco wall. Thorny bougainvillea in many colors climbed the wall, providing an additional barrier. Pilar prayed she could find another way out of this place besides the main gate, though none was indicated on the blueprint. She needed to explore the possibility. Switching to the internal instincts that her Grandmother Aurelia called her “jaguar sense,” Pilar left the staircase and became a shadow in the night.

  Culver was chafing from inactivity and worry. Nearly an hour had passed and Pilar still hadn’t returned. His mind spun with possibilities—all of them frightening—as the music continued to float out into the night around the fortress. Cars and jeeps came and went in an almost ceaseless stream of partygoers now. The guards at the gate were lax. At least he could be grateful for that.

  Angrily wiping the sweat off his brow, Culver narrowed his eyes against the light emanating from the fortress and wondered what had happened to Pilar. A slight sound from behind him, so vague and indistinct that he nearly missed it, caught his attention. The night insects stopped their busy chirping and singing, and instantly, Culver went on guard, his pistol raised and ready.

  To his disbelief, he saw Pilar emerge from the jungle’s dark embrace to appear, almost magically, at his side. Was she a figment of his overwrought imagination? Stunned by her stealth, Culver wasn’t sure. Reaching out, he wrapped his fingers powerfully around her extended hand and saw her wince as he crushed it in his to prove to himself that she was real. As he relaxed his grip, a gasp slipped from his tightened lips.

  “You scared the hell out of me,” he snarled softly as she knelt down beside him. “I almost blew your head off. I thought you were the enemy.”

  Gulping, Pilar nodded, then reached out and gripped Culver’s left arm. He uttered her name, and she felt herself being dragged against him. Her body met his, and his arms swept around her. With a moan, she surrendered to his anxiety on her behalf, understanding his need to embrace her.

  “God,” he rasped thickly, his lips near her ear, “I thought you’d been captured.” Culver crushed Pilar hard against him, until he could feel the birdlike beat of her heart against his chest. Breathing raggedly, he felt the words I love you threatening to escape from his lips, but now was not the time or place to speak of such thing
s. Still, Pilar felt so warm and alive in his arms. He buried his face in her hair, never wanting to let her go, but knowing he must. But the fact that her arms had slid around his waist and she’d returned his viselike embrace told him much.

  Reluctantly, he eased her away from him and looked down into her distraught eyes, seeing terror there.

  “What happened?” he rasped, unwilling to release her completely.

  “Listen to me,” Pilar whispered as she held his hands in hers. “Morgan is heavily drugged.” Trying to steady her own frayed emotions, she sat close to him, her head bent near his ear to give him the information. For the next ten minutes, she went over every aspect of her foray into the fortress. Culver’s face tightened more with each passing moment. When Pilar detailed Ramirez’s torture methods, he cursed under his breath.

  Pilar divided her attention between their hiding place and the front gate of the fortress as she talked. “One good thing, though,” she went on breathlessly. “I found a small wooden door on the west side of the hacienda. It was covered with bougainvillea.” She held up her arms, marked with bloody scratches from easing her way through the thorny plants that nearly covered the entrance. “I broke the branches, but left them in place in case someone checks that area. I didn’t see a path to it, so I know it’s not used. The bougainvillea has grown over it, and the lock was rusty. I had to find a rock the size of my hand and hit it several times to get it open.”

  Gently, Culver skimmed his hand over her torn, bleeding arm. What a pity to mar her beautiful golden skin, like warm velvet beneath his fingertips. He examined her fingers in the darkness and realized the rock had cut them, too.

  “Can we use the door?” he asked, encapsulating her hand between his.

  Pilar nodded. Then, frowning, she studied the fortress. “There are at least two hundred people in there right now, singing, dancing and very drunk.”

  “That’s good,” Culver muttered. “I’m sure the guards would rather be partying than making their rounds.”

  “To a degree, they do make their rounds,” Pilar said, feeling the healing heat of Culver’s hand over hers. She saw the worry in his eyes at her small injuries—negligible in comparison to Morgan Trayhern’s horrible wounds. “We should go in about three. By then, everyone will be drunk and exhausted. If they aren’t asleep—”

  “They’ll be making love,” Culver finished grimly. Ramirez’s men were well known for their lusty capture of young women from the villages to satisfy their sexual appetites.

  Pilar nodded. “I worry about Morgan. I don’t know if he’ll come with us, Culver.”

  “He’ll come if I have to knock him out and carry him on my shoulders.”

  “You may have to.”

  “They’re probably shooting him up with a mind-altering drug every six hours or so. That’s why he looks like a robot,” he said. “Maybe, if we get lucky, the drug will be wearing off by three.” He glanced at his watch. It was one-thirty. “Morgan was probably injected shortly before you found him.”

  “Which would explain why he was so glazed and unresponsive.”

  Culver’s mouth twitched. “Exactly.” He reached for his pack. “I’m going to contact Major Houston now and start setting up the time frame for their landing after we get Morgan out of there.”

  Pilar sat back, suddenly drained by the danger she’d escaped. At any point, she could have been snatched by one of Ramirez’s guards. Leaning against a rubber tree, she felt the dull ache of her arms from the many scratches the bougainvillea had inflicted. Closing her eyes, she honed in on Culver’s deep voice as he made the necessary radio contact.

  She drew her knees up, wrapped her arms around them and tried to relax. But her mind swam with the trials still to come. So much still could go wrong.

  Just listening to Culver’s voice soothed Pilar’s taut nerves. Going into the fortress once had devastated her, and she felt overwhelmed by the thought of doing it again. But she had to—for Morgan’s sake. In her mind’s eye, she pictured Rane’s small, oval face, and her heart wrung with terror. A suffocating feeling threatened to overcome her, and she felt death stalking her.

  Forcing her eyes open, Pilar sat up. Culver’s knee barely grazed her hip from where he was sitting. To a degree, the physical contact ameliorated the terror she felt not at the idea of dying, but at leaving Rane, who so badly needed a mother—and a father. She stole a look at Culver’s hard, sweating features as he continued to trade information with Houston. He looked so capable, and strong—as if he could survive anything life threw at him.

  Yet when his gaze rose from the map laid out between his legs to meet her eyes, Pilar felt a trembling heat feather through her and her fear dissolved. She stared back at Culver, not daring to believe what she saw. Love? But how could he still love her? Hope sprang powerfully in her heart, flowing through her like a rainbow appearing after the dark of a storm.

  Pilar’s emotions felt battered. Being around Culver had aroused a whirlwind combination of guilt, shame and agony. She hated to hurt anyone—it went against her nature. And to hurt the only man she’d ever loved was the greatest of all crosses to bear. Culver broke eye contact and focused again on the map as he answered Houston. Pilar felt bereft. Culver’s kisses meant more than she’d realized, she thought as she sat absorbing the very special look he’d given her.

  Or, she wondered as she felt an ache center deep in her body, had it been merely her imagination working overtime because she smelled the presence of death? She hung her head, closed her eyes and blamed herself for the lack of healing between her and Culver—a healing that could never occur until she told him the truth. The real truth. But how could she? She feared that he would instantly reject her, and therefore reject Rane. Or he might try to take Rane away from her, which would be even worse. No man would stand still and accept what she’d done. It was beyond her to hope that Culver could be so much different. She sighed deeply. It was an impossible, heartbreaking situation. If she had to, she would go to her death with acceptance, and with one sincere regret—that she’d withheld the truth from Culver.

  Vaguely, Pilar heard Culver sign off. She lifted her head and studied his shadowed expression. She saw an aggression in the depths of his eyes that she knew must involve their coming plans. “What will happen?” she asked softly.

  Culver put the radio away. It was 2:15 a.m. In half an hour they would attempt to rescue Morgan. Handing Pilar the black nylon harness she would wear, he said, “They’re winding up the birds right now. Two gunships will be coming in, fully loaded with weapons and a squad of Peruvian soldiers. Major Houston is the advisor to the group. He can’t actively participate, but he’ll stay with the choppers and direct them by radio, if needed.” After putting on an armored vest beneath his shirt, he slipped his own harness across his shoulders. Hand grenades were snapped to it, as well as extra clips of ammo stored in special pockets. He strapped on the hearing device that curved around his ear; a black collar fit snugly around his throat so that as he adjusted the pencil-thin microphone against his lips, Pilar could hear him no matter how softly he spoke, and vice versa.

  To his right calf, he strapped a large, wicked-looking knife in a black nylon scabbard. Looking up, he saw Pilar hesitating over putting on her own harness. She’d donned the armored vest over her white blouse; it would help camouflage her.

  “I’m not wearing this,” she said, allowing the harness to drop. Pilar saw the expression in Culver’s eyes harden. “I can’t kill, Culver. I—I never could… .”

  “What if we need extra grenades? Or more clips of ammo?”

  Helplessly, she opened her hand. “I know you’re right… .”

  “Wear it…just in case,” he muttered. “If there’s any killing to be done, I’ll do it.” His eyes narrowed speculatively on her. “I don’t want you in the line of fire. Understand, Pilar?”

  Shaken by his roughened tone, she swallowed against the lump forming in her throat. “I—I’m sorry, Culver. You deserve someone who c
an protect you as well as you can protect me… .”

  His smile was mirthless as he checked his Beretta, then holstered it beneath his left arm. “You’ve never been able to hurt a fly, Pilar. Don’t look so guilty, okay? I know you can’t fire that weapon.”

  Tears gathered in Pilar’s eyes, and she nearly blurted, “I’ve hurt you more than you’ll ever know, mi querido.” Bitterness galled her as she watched Culver blacken his face, arms and hands. With no need for such camouflage because of her naturally dark skin, Pilar stood. Time was of the essence now. They were on a schedule. The helicopters would be in the air shortly, speeding toward them from an unknown point.

  Pilar fitted the ear-and mouthpiece over her head, making sure the collar was snug enough not to slip. The tiny microphones would be their only means of communication. Licking her dry lips, she took the lead; she would show Culver the way to the rear of the fortress.

  Damp leaves from the low bushes swatted her skirt and legs as she tried to focus and steady herself. She had to become the jaguar again—stalking silently through the jungle. Jaguars owned the night. They were the night in all its aspects. To become one with the jungle, the plants, the animals, the insects, the very ground her bare feet trod upon, was the challenge.

  Pilar’s need to focus began to override her aching heart and worries about Culver—and Rane. As she melted into the darkness around her, she felt a subtle shift in her consciousness that heightened her hearing, sharpened her vision and enlarged upon her ability to sift one odor from another. She was now the jaguar. Unerringly, she wove silently closer to Ramirez’s fortress.

  Soon they were on the western side of the complex. As Pilar slowed, reached out and encountered the rough, wooden door, she felt another subtle shift. What replaced her heightened senses was more emotionally devastating. She felt Culver nearby, the aura of protection bristling from him. People still sang and strummed guitars in the courtyard—not half as many as before, but enough to cover any slight sound they might make slipping into the fortress.