Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart Of The Warrior Read online

  Inca’s family. It was all she had, really. Roan was beginning to understand her loneliness, the lack of a man in her life who could love her, care for her and give her safe harbor from a world that wanted her dead at any cost. Frowning, he rubbed his face, the feeling of his beard spiky against his fingers.

  “Do you have any children by Sarah?”

  The question caught him off guard. Roan eased his hands from his face and met her inquiring gaze. “No…and I wish I did, now.”

  “She did not want children?”

  “We both wanted them. We’d been married only two years and wanted to wait a couple more before we settled down to having a family.”

  Inca rose slowly to her feet. She wriggled her bare toes in the red sand. “That is very sad. My heart goes out to you. Sarah was a warrior. She died loving what she loved to do, and in that there is great honor.” Inca looked up at the clouds that now had a golden cast because the sun was going to rise shortly. “But it was her time to pass over. She had accomplished all that she set out to do in this lifetime.” Giving Roan a dark look, she added, “We all have a time when we will die. When whatever we wanted to accomplish is complete. And when that happens, we leave. We walk over the Threshold to the other worlds.”

  He slowly got to his feet. He felt a little weak, but not bad, considering what had almost happened. “Speaking of dying…I owe you my life, Inca. Thanks.” He stuck out his hand to shake hers. “My mother could heal by touching a person, too, so I’m no stranger to what you did.”

  Inca stared at his hand and then slowly lifted hers. She slid her slender fingers into his roughened ones. Trying to tell herself she did not enjoy making such contact with this tall, stalwart warrior, she avoided the sincerity of his burning blue gaze and whispered unsteadily, “I did nothing. My spirit guide did it. You should thank him, not me.”

  Roan closed his fingers gently over Inca’s proffered hand. Her fingers were strong and yet, even as she gripped his hand, he felt her softness, her womanliness just waiting like a ripe peach to be lovingly chosen by the right man—a man who would honor her as an incredible woman and human being. He found himself wanting to be that man. The thought shook him deeply as he watched her hang her head and avoid his gaze. In some ways, she was so childlike, her innocence blinding him and making his heart open when he’d thought it impossible that anything could make him feel like this again.

  “Thank you and thank your guide,” he murmured, and released her hand. He saw relief in her features as she snatched it back. Inca wasn’t used to being touched. At least, not by a man who had heartfelt intentions toward her.

  “It was not your time to die,” Inca said briskly. She looked down at his bare feet. “Ernesto died in the attack,” Inca said sadly. “He was a good friend and helped me often.”

  Roan frowned. “I’m sorry, Inca.”

  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.

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nbsp; 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….”

  Chapter 6

  Jaime 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 signat
ure 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.