Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart of the Warrior

“Inca’s only responsibility is as a Green Warrior for Mother Earth,” Mike said quietly. “She has taken a vow to protect the Amazon Basin from encroachment and destruction by anyone. Twelve of these so-called murders were really self-defense situations. Plus, the twelve men who are dead are all drug dealers. Inca does not deny killing them, but she didn’t fire first. She shot back only to save herself and other innocent lives.” Mike held out a thick folder toward Jaime. “Here is the proof, colonel. I haven’t understood yet why the government of Brazil has not absolved Inca of those trumped up charges. I’d think Brazil would be happy to see those men gone.” He laid the file down. “But I don’t want to get off track here. You can read her sworn statements on each charge when you want.”

“It is well known she hates white men!” Marcellino snapped, his anger flaring.

“Not all,” Mike countered. “She’s my blood sister by ceremony. She respects men and women alike. Now, if someone wants to destroy, rip up, start cutting down timber, hurt the Indians or make them into slaves, then Inca will be there to stop him. She will try many ways to stop the destruction, but murdering a person is not one of them. And as I said, she will fire in defense, she will never fire the first shot.”

“And I suppose,” Marcellino rattled angrily, “that the thirteen men she killed fired on her first?”

“That’s exactly what happened in twelve cases,” Houston said gravely. “Your son is the thirteenth to her count, he shouldn’t have been added. Members of the Jaguar Clan can be kicked out of it by firing first or attacking first. She can only defend herself. So twelve men fired first on her, Colonel. And she shot back. And she didn’t miss.”

“She murdered my son! He’s one of the thirteen.”

“Inca was not there. She did not shoot your son.”

Morgan appealed to Marcellino. “Colonel, would you, as an officer, lead your entire company of men into an unknown area without proper help and guidance?”

“Of course not!”

“Inca knows the basin better than anyone,” Morgan said soothingly. He lifted a hand toward Roan at the end of the table. “This man will be standing between you and Inca. You won’t have to face her. You won’t have to see that much of her. He’s your liaison. Your spokesman, if you will. Inca can lead you and your men safely to this valley in the mountains. I know much is being asked of you, and that is why Roan is here—to assist and help you as much as he can. Anything she tells him, Roan will relay on to you or your officers. I realize the pain of your loss, and we tried to come up with a plan that would somehow protect you and her both during this mission.”

“I will kill her if I see her.”

“No,” Morgan said, his voice hard and uncompromising, “you won’t. If you really want to take this mission, you will promise to leave her alone.”

“And you will not order one of your men to shoot her, either,” Houston growled. “Any attempt on Inca’s life, and she’ll leave you and your company wherever you are. And if you’re in the middle of the rain forest, Colonel, without a guide, you’ll be in jeopardy.”

“Then I will hire an Indian guide to lead us.”

Houston shook his head. “There isn’t an Indian willing to lead you into the area, Colonel. If the drug lords find out that they did, they’d move into their village and murder everyone in retribution.”

Jaime tried to take a breath. It hurt to breathe. His heart was wild with grief. Rafael had been murdered two years ago, but it felt like only yesterday. Rubbing his chest savagely, Jaime snarled, “You cannot ask this of me. You cannot.”

Morgan moved around the table and faced him squarely. “Colonel, if I thought for a heartbeat that Inca had killed your son, I would not have asked you to head this mission. Nor would I have asked Inca to be your guide. I believe Mike Houston. I’ve never met her, I only know of her reputation in Brazil. I know that if a person becomes a legend, many times the truth gets tattered and distorted. I believe the old priest’s affidavit. He has no reason to lie to protect her. Priests don’t lie about something like this. I’ve also read her sworn statements on each charge. I believe she’s innocent in such charges.” Morgan eased his bulk down on the table next to Marcellino’s chair.

“Colonel, you are a man of consummate honor. Your family’s heritage stretches back to the kings and queens of Portugal. You were the only person we wanted for this mission. You are a brave and resourceful man. You are someone who is good at his word. Your love of your country has been obvious in the twenty years you’ve served in her military. You are one of the most decorated men in your country.” Morgan held the officer’s dark gaze. “I believe, Colonel, that if you will give me your word that you will not harm Inca for the duration of the mission, that you can be trusted. Look beyond her. Look at what you will accomplish for all the people of Brazil. You will be a hero.”

Morgan raised his hand and swept it toward the rest of the men sitting around the table. “And think of the glory you will receive, the recognition, for going in first to strike a blow for freedom from these drug runners. Your name will be on the lips of people around the globe. Is that not a credit to your son? Could this mission be undertaken in his name? In his memory?”

Morgan saw Marcellino sink back into the chair. He knew the officer’s ego and pride were tremendous. And typical of South American aristocracy, fame and power would appeal strongly to the colonel. Morgan was hoping it would break the logjam on this mission. He tried to sit there appearing at ease, even though his gut was knotted while he waited for the man’s answer.

Roan watched the proceedings with rapt attention. So, he was to be a bridge, a liaison between this wild woman from Amazonia and the colonel who wanted to kill her in the name of his lost son. Roan realized the immensity of his mission. Was this woman, Inca, sane? Was she manageable? Would she respect him enough to stay out of Marcellino’s way so they could successfully complete the assigned task? Roan wasn’t sure, and he had a helluva lot of questions to ask Houston when the time was right.

All eyes were on Marcellino as he sat back, deep in thought over Morgan’s softly spoken words. No one moved. The Brazilian finally looked at Houston. “What makes you think she will work with Storm Walker?”

“He’s Indian like she is. Inca respects Indians.”

“He’s a man.” Marcellino’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Inca doesn’t hate men. She respects men who have honor, who have morals and who aren’t destroying Mother Earth. Roan, here, comes from a similar background. He’ll be able to understand her, and vice versa. I believe it is a good match, and I believe Inca will get along well with him.”

“And what if she doesn’t?”

“Then,” Mike said, “the mission is off. Morgan and I realize your loss, Colonel. We’ve worked hard to put the right people in key positions to help you get through this mission successfully. If Roan can’t forge the bond of trust we need with Inca, in order to work with you, then this mission is scrubbed.”

Nodding, Marcellino glared up at Morgan. “If it had been anyone but you asking this of me, I would tell him to burn in hell.”

Relief shuddered through Morgan, though he kept his face expressionless. Reaching out, he placed his hand on the colonel’s proud shoulder. “Jaime, I share your grief and your loss. But I’m convinced Inca is innocent of your son’s death. She is the only person we know who can give you success on your mission. I know I’m asking a lot from you in begging you to rise above personal hurt, grief and rage, and look at the larger picture. You can be the deliverer of hundreds of people. The name Marcellino will be revered in many Indian villages because you had the courage to come and eradicate the drug lords from the basin. I know you can do this. And I don’t deny it will be difficult…”

The colonel slumped slightly. He felt Morgan’s grip on his shoulder, heard the sincerity in his rumbling voice. “Very well,” he whispered raggedly, “you have my word, Morgan. I will reluctantly work with Inca. But only through this man.” He pointed at Roan. “I don’t know what I’ll do if I see her. I want to kill her—I won’t deny it. He had best make sure that she never meets me face-to-face….”

Morgan nodded and swallowed hard. “I know Roan will do everything in his power to convey that message to Inca. She will be your scout, your point person, so the chances of seeing her are pretty slim. But I’ll make sure he tells her that. I have no wish to hurt you any more than you’ve already been hurt by your son’s loss.”

Eyes misting, Jaime forced back tears. He looked up at Morgan. “And do you know the terrible twist in all of this?”

“No, what?”

“My youngest son, Julian, who is a lieutenant, will be leading one of the squads under my command on this mission.”

Morgan closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he rasped, “Colonel, your son is safe. Inca is not going after him—or any of your men. She is on your side of this fight.”

“This time,” Marcellino said bitterly. “And for how long? She is infamous for turning on people when it suits her whims and wiles.”

“Roan will see that things go smoothly,” Morgan promised heavily, shooting him a glance down the table.

Roan waited patiently until the room cleared of all but him, Morgan and Mike. When the door shut, he slowly unwound from his chair.

“I didn’t realize what I’d be doing.”

Mike nodded. “I’m sorry I couldn’t brief you beforehand, Roan.”

Morgan moved toward the end of the table, where Roan stood. “More importantly, do you want to take this assignment?”

With a shrug, Roan said, “I wasn’t doing much of anything else.”

Morgan nodded and wiped his perspiring brow with a white linen handkerchief, then returned it to his back pocket. “I’ve never met Inca. Mike has. I think you should direct your questions to him. In the meantime, I’m going to join the officers at a banquet we’ve set up in their honor in the dining room. See me there when you’re done here?”

Roan nodded, then waited expectantly as the door closed behind Morgan. Silence settled over them, and Roan discovered Mike Houston’s expression became more readable once they were alone. Roan opened his hand.

“Well? Is she a killer or a saint in disguise?

Grinning, Mike said, “Not a killer and not a saint.”

“What then?”

“A twenty-five-year-old woman who was orphaned at birth, and who is responsible for protecting the Indian people of the Amazon.”

“Why her?”

“She’s a member of the Jaguar Clan,” Mike said, sitting down and relaxing. “You’re Native American. You have your societies up here in the north. Down in South America, they’re known as clans. One and the same.”

“Okay,” Roan said, “like a hunters’ society? Or a warriors’ society?”

“Yes, specialists. Which is why the societies were created—to honor those who had skills in a specific area of need for their community. The welfare and continuing survival of their families and way of life depends on it.”

“So, the Jaguar Clan is…what?”

“What kind of society?” Mike sighed. “A highly complex one. It’s not easy to define. Your mother, I understand, was a Yuwipi medicine woman of the Lakota people. She was also known as a shape-shifter?”

Roan nodded. “That’s right.”

“The Jaguar Clan is a group of people from around the world who possess jaguar medicine. They come from all walks of life. Their calling is to learn about their jaguar medicine—what it is and what it is capable of doing. It is basically a healers’ clan. That is why Inca would never fire first. That is why she defends well, but never attacks. Her calling is one of healing—in her case, to help heal Mother Earth. She does this by being a Green Warrior in Brazil, where she was born.”

“The colonel called her a sorceress.”

“Inca has many different powers. She is not your normal young woman,” Mike warned him. “Combine that with her passion for protecting the people of the Amazon, the mission she is charged with, and her confidence and high intelligence, and you have a powerful woman on your hands. She doesn’t suffer fools lightly or gladly. She speaks her mind.” Mike grinned. “I love her like a sister, Roan. I don’t have a problem with her strength, her moxie or her vow of healing Mother Earth and protecting the weak from drug runners. Most men do. I figured you wouldn’t because, originally, Native American nations were all matriarchal, and most still have a healthy respect for what women have brought to the table.”

“Right, I do.”

“Good. Hold that perspective. Inca can be hardheaded, she’s a visionary, and she can scare the living hell out of you with some of her skills. They call her the jaguar goddess in the basin because people have seen her heal those who were dying.”

“And do you trust Marcellino not to try and kill her?”

“No,” Mike said slowly, “and that is why you’ll have to be there like a rock wall between them. You’ll need to watch out for Inca getting shot in the back by him or one of his men. You’re going to be in a helluva fix between two warring parties. Inca has a real dislike for the military. According to her, they’re soft. They don’t train hard. They don’t listen to the locals who know the land because they are so damned arrogant and think they know everything, when in reality they know nothing.”

“So I’m a diplomat and a bodyguard on this trip.”

“Yes. You’re at the fulcrum point, Roan. It’s a messy place to be. I don’t envy you.” He smiled a little. “If my wife and child didn’t need me, and vice versa, I’d be taking on this mission myself. Morgan wanted someone without family to take it, because the level of risk, the chance of dying, is high. And I know you understand that.”

Nodding, Roan ran his long index finger across the highly polished surface of the conference table enjoying the feel of the warm wood. “Is Inca capable of killing me?”

Chuckling, Mike said, “Oh, she can have some thunderstorm-and-lightning temper tantrums when you don’t agree with her, or things don’t go the way she wants them to, but hurt you? No. She wouldn’t do that. If anything, she’ll probably see you as one more person under her umbrella of protection.”

“Will she listen to me, though? When it counts?”

Shrugging, Mike said, “If you gain her respect and trust, the answer is yes. But you don’t have much time to do either.”

“Where am I to meet her? Hopefully, it will be without Marcellino and his company.”

“On the riverfront, near Manaus, where the two great rivers combine to create the Amazon.”

“How will you get in touch with her?”

Houston gave him a lazy smile. “I’ll touch base with her in my dream state.”

Roan stood there for a second absorbing Houston’s statement. “You’re a member of the Jaguar Clan, too?”

“Yes, I am.”

Roan nodded. He vividly recalled the experience he’d had earlier—the dream of the woman with willow-green eyes. “What color are Inca’s eyes?” he asked.

Mike gave him a probing look. He opened his mouth to inquire why Roan was asking such a question, and then decided against it. “Green.”

“What shade?”

“Ever seen a willow tree in the spring just after the leaves have popped out?”

“Many times.”

“That color of green. A very beautiful, unique color. That’s the color of Inca’s eyes.”

“I thought so….” Roan said, his own eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he realized he and Inca might have already met….

Chapter 3

Inca was lonely. Frowning, she shifted on the large stack of wooden crates where she sat, her booted feet dangling and barely touching the dry red soil of the Amazon’s bank. Her fine, delicately arched brows knitted as she studied the ground. In Peru, they called the earth Pachamama, or Mother Earth. Stretching slightly, she gently patted the surface with the sole of her military boot. The dirt was Mother Earth’s skin, and in her own way, Inca was giving her real and only mother a gentle pat of love.

Sighing, she looked around at the humid mid-afternoon haze that hung above the wide, muddy river. The sun was behind the ever-present hazy clouds that hugged the land like a lover. Making a strangled sound, Inca admitted sourly to herself she didn’t know what it was to feel like a lover. The only thing she knew of romantic love was what she’d read about it from the great poets while growing up under Father Titus’s tutelage.

Did she want a lover? Was that why she was feeling lonely? Ordinarily, Inca didn’t have to deal with such an odd assortment of unusual emotions. She was so busy that she could block out the tender feelers that wound through the heart like a vine, and ignore them completely. Not today. No, she had to rendezvous with this man that her blood brother, Michael Houston, had asked her to meet. Not only that, but she had to work with him! Michael had visited her in the dream state several nights earlier and had carefully gone over everything with her. In the end, he’d left it up to Inca as to whether or not she would work as a guide for Colonel Marcellino—the man who wanted to kill her.

Her lips, full and soft, moved into a grimace. Always alert, with her invisible jaguar spirit guide always on guard, she felt no danger nearby. Her rifle was leaning against the crates, which were stacked and ready to take down the Amazon, part of the supplies Colonel Marcellino would utilize once they met up with him and his company downriver.

She was about to take on a mission, so why was she feeling so alone? So lonely? Rubbing her chest, the olive-green, sleeveless tank top soaked with her perspiration from the high humidity and temperature, Inca lifted her stubborn chin.

She had a mild curiosity about this man called Roan Storm Walker. For one thing, he possessed an interesting name. The fact that he was part Indian made her feel better about this upcoming mission. Indians shared a common blood, a common heritage here in South America. Inca wondered if the blood that pumped through Walker’s veins was similar to hers, to the Indians who called the Amazon basin home. She hoped so.

Her hair, wrapped in one thick, long braid, hung limply across her right shoulder with tendrils curling about her face. Inca looked up expectantly toward the asphalt road to Manaus. From the wooden wharves around her, tugs and scows ceaselessly took cargo up and down the Amazon. Right now, at midday, it was siesta time, and no one was in the wharf area, which was lined with rickety wooden docks that stuck fifty or so feet off the red soil bank into the turbid, muddy Amazon. Everyone was asleep now, and that was good. For Inca, it meant less chance of being attacked. She was always mindful of the bounty on her head. Wanted dead or alive by the Brazilian government, she rarely came this close to any city. Only because she was to meet this man, at Michael’s request, had she left her rain forest home, where she was relatively safe.

Bored by sitting so long, Inca lifted her right arm and unsnapped one of the small pouches from the dark green nylon web belt she always wore around her slender waist. On the other side hung a large canteen filled with water and a knife in a black leather sheath. On the right, next to the pouch, was a black leather holster with a pistol in it. In her business, in her life, she was at war all the time. And even though she possessed the skills of the Jaguar Clan, good old guns, pistols and knives were part and parcel of her trade as well.

Easing a plastic bag out of the pouch, Inca gently opened it. Inside was a color photo of Michael and Ann Houston. In Ann’s arms was six-month-old Catherine. Inca hungrily studied the photo, its edges frayed and well worn from being lovingly looked at so many times, in moments of quiet. She was godmother to Catherine Inca Houston. She finally had a family. Pain throbbed briefly through her heart. Abandoned at birth, unwanted, Inca had bits and pieces of memories of being passed from village to village, from one jaguar priestess to another. In the first sixteen years of her life, she’d had many mothers and fathers. Why had her real parents abandoned her? Had she cried a lot? Been a bad baby? What had she done to be discarded? Looking at the photo of Catherine, who was a chubby-cheeked, wide-eyed, happy little tyke, Inca wondered if she’d been ugly at birth, and if that was why her parents had left her out in the rain forest to die of starvation.

The pain of abandonment was always with her. Wiping her damp fingers on the material of the brown-green-and-tan military fatigues she wore, she skimmed the photo lightly with her index finger. She must have been ugly and noisy for her mother and father to throw her away. Eyes blurring with the tears of old pain, Inca absorbed the smiling faces of Michael and Ann. Oh, how happy they were! When Inca saw Mike and Ann together she got some idea of what real love was. She’d been privileged to be around these two courageous people. She’d seen them hold hands, give each other soft, tender looks, and had even seen them kissing heatedly once, when she’d unexpectedly showed up at their camp.

He’s coming.

Instantly, Inca placed the photo back into the protective plastic covering and into the pouch at her side, snapping it shut. Her guardian, a normally invisible male jaguar called Topazio, had sent her a mental warning that the man known as Storm Walker was arriving shortly. Standing, Inca felt her heart pound a little in anticipation. Michael had assured her that she would get along with Roan. Inca rarely got along with anyone, so when her blood brother had said that she had eyed him skeptically. Her role in the world was acting as a catalyst, and few people liked a catalyst throwing chaos into their lives. Inca could count on one hand the people who genuinely liked her.

The slight rise of the hill above her blocked her view, so she couldn’t see the approach of the taxi that would drop this stranger off in her care. Michael had given her a physical description of him, saying that Roan was tall with black hair, blue eyes and a build like a swimmer. Mike had described his face as square with some lines in it, as if he’d been carved out of the rocks of the Andes. Inca had smiled at that. To say that Roan’s face was rough-hewn like the craggy, towering mountains that formed the backbone of South America was an interesting metaphor. She was curious to see if this man indeed had a rugged face.

Inca felt the brush of Topazio against her left thigh. It was a reassuring touch, much like a housecat that brushed lovingly against its owner. He sat down and waited patiently. As Inca stared into the distance, the midday heat made curtains where heat waves undulated in a mirage at the top of the hill.

Anticipation arced through her when she saw the yellow-and-black taxi roar over the crest of the hill on the two-lane, poorly marked road. She worried about the driver recognizing her. Although there were only a few rough sketches of her posted, artists for the government of Brazil had rendered her likeness closely enough for someone to identify her. Once Storm Walker got out of the cab, it would mean a fast exit on the tug. Inca would have to wake the captain, Ernesto, who was asleep in the shade of the boat, haphazardly docked at the nearby wharf, and get him to load the crates on board pronto.

The taxi was blowing blue smoke from its exhaust pipe as it rolled down the long hill toward Inca. Eyes narrowing, she saw the shape of a large man in the back seat. She wrapped her arms against her chest and tensely waited. Her rifle was nearby in case things went sour. Inca trusted no one except Mike Houston and his wife, Rafe Antonio, a backwoodsman who worked with her to protect the Indians, Grandmother Alaria and Father Titus. That was all. Otherwise, she suspected everyone of wanting her head on a platter. Inca’s distrust of people had proved itself out consistently. She had no reason to trust the cab driver or this stranger entering her life.

The cab screeched to a halt, the brakes old and worn. Inca watched as a man, a very tall, well-built man, emerged from the back of the vehicle. As he straightened up, Inca’s heartbeat soared. He looked directly at her across the distance that separated them. Her lips parted. She felt the intense heat of his cursory inspection of her. The meeting of their eyes was brief, and yet it branded her. Because she was clairvoyant, her senses were honed to an excruciatingly high degree. She could read someone else’s thoughts if she put her mind to it. But rather than making the effort to mind read, she kept her sensitivity to others wide open, like an all-terrain radar system, in order to pick up feelings, sensations and nuances from anyone approaching. Her intuition, which was keenly honed, worked to protect her and keep her safe.