The cab turned around and roared back up the hill. Inca watched as the man leaned down and captured two canvas bags—his luggage—and then straightened up to face her. Five hundred feet separated them. Her guard was up. She felt Topazio get to his feet, his nose to the air, as if checking out the stranger.
The man was tall, much taller than Inca had expected. He was probably around six foot five or six. To her, he was like a giant. She was six foot in height, and few men in the Amazon stood as tall as she did. Automatically, Inca lifted her strong chin, met his assessing cobalt-colored eyes and stood her ground. His face was broad, with the hooked nose of an eagle, and his mouth generous, with many lines around it as well as the corners of his eyes. His hair was black with blue highlights, close-cropped to his head—typical of the military style, she supposed. He wasn’t wearing military clothing, however, just a threadbare pair of jean’s, waterproof hiking boots and a dark maroon polo shirt that showed off his barrel chest to distinct advantage. This was not the lazy, norteamericano that Inca was used to seeing. No, this man was hard-bodied from strenuous work. The muscles in his upper arms were thick, the cords of his forearms distinct. His hands were large, the fingers long and large knuckled. There was a tight, coiled energy around him as he moved slowly toward her, their gazes locked together. Inca dug mercilessly into his eyes, studied the huge, black pupils to find his weaknesses, for that was what she had to do in order to survive—find an enemy’s weakness and use it against him.
She reminded herself that this man was not her enemy, but her radarlike assessment of him was something she just did naturally. She liked how he moved with a boneless kind of grace. Clairvoyantly, Inca saw a female cougar walking near his left side, looking at her to size her up! Smiling to herself, Inca wondered if this man was a medicine person. Michael had said he was Lakota, and that his mother was a medicine woman of great power and fame. His face was rough-hewn, just as her blood brother had described. Storm Walker was not a handsome man. No, he looked as if his large, square face had been carved from the granite of the Andes. She spotted a scar on his left cheek, and another on the right side of his forehead. His brows were thick and slightly arched and emphasized his large, intelligent eyes as they held hers. Few men could hold Inca’s stare. But he did—with ease.
Her pulse elevated as he stopped, dropped the luggage and straightened. When his hardened mouth softened temporarily and the corners hooked upward, her heart pounded. Her response to him unnerved Inca, for she’d never responded to a man this way before. The sensations were new to her, confounding her and making her feel slightly breathless as a result. When he extended his large, callused hand toward her, and Inca saw a wand of white sage in it, she relaxed slightly. Among her people, when one clan or nation visited another, sacred sage, ceremonially wrapped, was always given as a token of respect before any words of greeting were spoken.
Just this simple acknowledgment by him, the sacred sage extended in his hand, made Inca feel a deep sense of relief. Only Indians knew this protocol. Something wonderful flittered through Inca’s heart as she reached out and took the gift. If the sage was accepted, it was a sign of mutual respect between the two parties, and talk could begin. She waited. The dried sage’s fragrance drifted to her flaring nostrils. It was a strong, medicinelike scent, one that made her want to inhale deeply.
“I’m Roan Storm Walker,” he said in a quiet tone. “I’ve been sent here by Mike Houston.”
“I am called Inca,” she said, her voice husky. He was powerful, and Inca wanted to back away from him to assess the situation more closely. Ordinarily, men she encountered were not this powerful. “I was not expecting a medicine person. I do not have a gift of our sacred sage to give you in return.”
Roan nodded. “It’s not a problem. Don’t worry about it.” His pulse was racing. He wondered if she could hear his heart beating like a thundering drum in his chest. Roan had realized for certain as he got out of the cab that Inca was the same woman who had entered his vision state that morning at his cabin. It was definitely her. Did she remember talking to him? Asking him to come down here to help her? If she did, she gave no hint to him. He decided not to ask, for it would be considered disrespectful.
She was incredibly beautiful in his eyes. There was a wildness to her—a raw, primal power as she stood confidently before him dressed in her military attire. Even though she wore jungle fatigues, black GI boots, a web belt around her waist and an olive drab T-shirt, she could not hide her femininity from him in the least. She wore no bra, and her small breasts were upturned and proud against the damp shirt that provocatively outlined them, despite the bandoliers of ammunition crisscrossing her chest. Her face was oval, with a strong chin, high cheekbones and slightly tilted eyes. The color of her eyes made him hold his breath for a moment. Just as Mike Houston had said, they were a delicious willow-green color, with huge, black pupils. Her black lashes were thick and full, and emphasized her incredible eyes like a dark frame. Her hair was black with a slightly reddish tint when the sun peeked out between the sluggishly moving clouds and shined on it. The tendrils curling around her face gave Inca an air of vulnerability in spite of her formidable presence. He rocked internally from the power that surrounded her.
Roan had spotted the rifle leaning up against the crates, and he sensed her distrust of him. He saw it in the guarded look of her eyes. Her mouth was full and soft, yet, as she turned her attention to him, he watched it thin and compress. Mike was right: he’d have to earn her trust, inch by inch. Did he have the necessary time to do it? To protect her? To work as a liaison between her and Marcellino’s troops?
“Why do you worry about me?” Inca growled. She turned and put the sage into a small, coarsely woven sack that sat on top of the crates. “I would worry more for you.”
Frowning, Roan wondered if she’d read his mind. Mike had warned him that she had many clairvoyant talents. He watched as she shouldered the rifle, butt up, the muzzle pointed toward the ground. Any good soldier out in a rain forest or jungle situation would do that. Water down the barrel of one’s weapon would create rust. Clearly Inca was a professional soldier.
“Come,” she ordered as she strode quickly to the dock.
“Olá! Hello. Ernesto! Get up!” Inca called in Portuguese to the tug captain. The middle-aged, balding man roused himself from his siesta on the deck of his tug.
“Eh?”
Inca waved toward the crates. “Come, load our things. We must go, pronto.”
Scrambling to his feet, the captain nodded and quickly rubbed his eyes. His face was round, and he hadn’t shaved in days. Dressed only in a pair of khaki cutoffs that had seen better days, he leaped to the wharf.
Inca turned to Storm Walker, who stood waiting and watching. “We need to get these crates on board. Why don’t you stow your gear on the tug and help him?”
“Of course.” Roan moved past her and made his way from wharf to tug. The boat was old, unpainted, and the deck splintered from lack of sanding and paint to protect it from the relentless heat and humidity of Amazonia. Dropping his luggage at the bow, he watched as Inca moved to the stern of the tug. Her face was guarded and she was looking around, as if sensing something. He briefly saw the crescent-shaped moon on her left shoulder though it was mostly hidden beneath the tank top she wore. Mike Houston had warned him ahead of time that the thin crescent of gold and black fur was a sign her membership in the Jaguar Clan.
Inca barely gave notice to the two men placing the supplies on board. Topazio was restless, an indication that there was a disturbance in the energy of the immediate area. A warning that there was trouble coming.
“Hurry!” she snapped in Portuguese. And then Inca switched to her English, which was not that good. “Hurry.”
“I speak Portuguese,” Roan stated as he hefted a crate on board.
Grunting, Inca kept her gaze on the hill. Nothing moved in the humid, hot heat of the afternoon. Everything was still. Too still for her liking. She moved restlessly
and shifted her position from the end of the wharf to where the asphalt crumbled and stopped. Someone was coming. And it wasn’t a good feeling.
Roan looked up. He saw Inca standing almost rigidly, facing the hill and watching. What was up? He almost mouthed the query, but instead hurried from the tug to the shore to retrieve the last wooden crate. The tug captain started up the rusty old engine. Black-and-blue smoke belched from behind the vessel, the engine sputtered, coughed like a hacking person with advanced emphysema, and then caught and roared noisily to life.
“Inca?” Roan called as he placed the crate on the deck.
His voice carried sluggishly through the silence of the damp afternoon air. The hair on his neck stood on end. Damn! Leaping off the tug and running along the dock, Roan ordered the captain to cast off. He had just gotten to the end when he saw two cars, a white one and a black one, careening down off the hill toward them. His breath jammed in his throat. He could see rifles hanging out the open windows of both vehicles.
“Inca!”
Inca heard Storm Walker’s warning, but she was already on top of the situation. In one smooth movement, she released her rifle and flipped it up, her hand gripping the trigger housing area and moving the barrel upward. She saw the guns stuck out of the windows. She felt the hatred of the men behind them. Turning on her heel, she sprinted toward the tug. It was going to be close!
To her surprise, she saw Storm Walker running toward her, his hand outstretched as if to grab her. Shaken by his protective gesture, she waved him away.
“You have no weapons!” she cried as she ran up to him. “Get back to the tug!”
Roan turned on his heel. He heard the screech of brakes. The first shots shattered the humid stillness. Bits of red dirt spurted into the air very near his feet. Damn! More shouts in Portuguese erupted behind them. Inca was following swiftly behind him. He didn’t want her to get shot. Slowing, he reached out and shoved her in front of him. He would be the wall between her and the attackers. Who the hell were they, anyway? Digging the toes of his boots into the red dirt, Roan sprinted for the wharf. Already the tug was easing away from the dock. The captain’s eyes were huge. He wanted out of here. Pronto!
More gunfire erupted. Inca cursed softly beneath her breath. She halted at the end of the wharf and shouldered her rifle. With cool precision, with wood exploding all around her, she squeezed off five shots in succession. She saw Storm Walker leap to the tug, which was sliding past her. Turning, she jumped from the wharf onto the deck of the vessel herself. It was a long jump, almost five feet. Landing on her hands and knees, she felt Roan’s large hands on her arm drawing her upward. He was pushing her behind the cockpit of the tug in order to protect her.
Growling at him, she jerked her arm free. “Release me!” she snarled, and then ran to the side of the cockpit closest to the riverbank. The men were tumbling out of the cars—six of them. They were heavily armed. Inca dropped to one knee, drew the leather sling around her arm and steadied the butt of the rifle against her shoulder and cheek. She got the first man in the crosshairs and squeezed off a shot. She watched as the bullet struck him in the knee. He screamed, threw up his weapon and fell to the earth, writhing in pain.
Rifle fire rained heavily around them. The captain was swearing in Portuguese as he labored hard to get the tug turned around and heading out to the middle of the mile-wide river. Pieces of wood exploded and flew like splinters of shrapnel everywhere. He ducked behind the housing of the cockpit, one shaking hand on the old, dilapidated wooden wheel.
Crouching, Roan moved up alongside Inca. He reached out. “Let me borrow your pistol,” he rasped, and leaned over her to unsnap the holster at her side.
Inca nodded and kept her concentration on the enemy. Ordinarily, she’d never let anyone use her weapons, but Roan was different. There was no time for talk. He took her black Beretta, eased away from her and steadied his gun arm on top of the cockpit. She heard the slow pop at each squeeze of the trigger. Two more men fell. He was a good shot.
Those left on the shore fell on their bellies, thrust their weapons out in front of them and continued to send a hail of fire into the tug. They made poor targets, and Inca worked to wound, not kill them. It wasn’t in her nature to kill. It never had been. To wound them was to put them out of commission, and that was all she strove to do. Wood erupted next to her. She felt the red-hot pain of a thick splinter entering her upper arm. Instantly, the area went numb. Disregarding her slight injury, Inca continued to squeeze off careful shots.
Finally the tug was out of range. Inca was the first to stop firing. She sat down, her back against the cockpit, the rifle across her lap as she pulled another clip from her web belt and jammed it into the rifle. Looking up, she saw Storm Walker’s glistening features as he stopped firing. This man was a cool-headed warrior. Michael had been right about him being a benefit to her, and not a chain around her neck. That was good. His face was immobile, his eyes thundercloud dark as he glanced down to see how she was doing.
“You’re hurt….”
Roan’s words feathered across Inca. She glanced down at her left arm. There was a bright red trail of blood down her left biceps dripping slowly off her elbow onto the deck.
Without thinking, Roan stepped across her, knelt down and placed his hand near the wound. A large splinter of wood, almost two inches long and a quarter inch in diameter, was sticking out of her upper arm. Her flesh was smooth and damp as he ran his fingers upward to probe the extent and seriousness of her wound.
“Do not touch me!” Inca jerked away from him. Her nostrils flared. “No man touches me without my permission.”
Shocked by her violent response, Roan instantly released her. He sat back on his heels. The anger in her eyes was very real. “I’m a paramedic…. I’m trained—”
“You do not presume anything with me, norteamericano,” she spat. Scrambling to her knees, Inca made sure there was at least six feet between them. He was too close to her and she felt panic. Why? His touch had been gentle, almost tender. Why had she behaved so snottily toward him? She saw the worry in his eyes, the way his mouth was drawn in with anxiousness.
Holding up his hands in a sign of peace, Roan rasped, “You’re right. I presumed. And I apologize.” He saw the mixture of outrage, defiance and something else in her narrowed eyes in that moment. When he’d first touched her, he’d seen her eyes go wide with astonishment. And then, seconds later, he saw something else—something so heart-wrenchingly sad that it had blown his heart wide open. And within a fraction of a second, the windows to her soul had closed and he saw righteous fury replace that mysterious emotion in her eyes.
Shaken by his concern and care for her, Inca got to her feet, despite the fact that she felt some pain in the region of the wound. They were a mile away from the dock now, the little tug chugging valiantly along on the currents. For now, they were safe. Placing the rifle on top of the cockpit, she turned her attention to the captain.
“Captain, I need a clean cloth and some good water.”
The grizzled old man nodded from the cockpit. “In there, senhorinha.” He pointed down the ladder that led below.
“Do you want some help removing that splinter?” Roan was behind her, but a respectful distance away. As Inca turned she was forced to look up at him. He was sweating profusely now, the underarms and center of his polo shirt dampened. His eyes were not guarded, but alive with genuine concern—for her. Inca was so unused to anyone caring about her—her pain, her needs—that she felt confused by his offer.
“No, I will take care of it in my own way.” She spun around and headed down the stairs.
Great, Roan, you just screwed up with her. He stood there on the deck, the humid air riffling around him, cooling him as he placed his hands on his narrow hips. Looking back toward shore, he saw the men leaving. Who were they? Who had sent them? Was Marcellino behind this? No one knew Roan’s itinerary except the good colonel. Worried about Inca, Roan stood there and compressed his lips. He
’d forgotten Native American protocol with her. In his experience and training, Indians did not like to be touched by strangers. It was considered invasive. A sign of disrespect. Only after a long time, when respect and trust were developed, would touching be permitted.
Running his fingers through his short hair, Roan realized that he had to think in those terms with her. He was too used to being in the Anglo world, and in order to gain her trust, he must go back to the customs he’d grown up with in his own nation—the Native American way of doing things.
Still, he couldn’t get the feel of her skin beneath his fingers out of his mind or heart. Inca was firm and tightly muscled. She was in superb athletic condition. There wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh on her tall, slender frame. Not many women were in such great shape, except, perhaps, some in the military. Rubbing his chin, he moved back to the cockpit.
Ernesto was mopping his forehead, a worried look in his eyes. He obviously hadn’t expected such an attack, and his hands still shook in the aftermath. He offered Roan a bottle of water. Roan took it and thanked him. Tipping his head back, he drank deeply.
Inca reemerged at that moment. She saw Roan, his head tipped back, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each gulp he took. Again, fear rippled through her as she made her way up the stairs. A soft breeze cooled her sweaty flesh as she moved topside. Wanting to keep distance between them, she took another bottle of water that Ernesto proffered to her. She thanked him and drank deeply of it.
Roan finished off the water. He’d felt Inca’s return. The sense of her power, of her being nearby, was clear to him. As he put the plastic bottle back into the box near the wheel, he glanced up at her. His mouth dropped open. And then he snapped it shut. Roan straightened. He stared at her—not a polite thing to do, but he couldn’t help himself.
The injury on her upper left arm was now completely healed. No trace of swelling, no trace of blood marred her beautiful skin. As she capped the bottle of water and gave him a glaring look, he shifted his gaze. What had happened to her wound? It looked as if she hadn’t even been injured. But she had been and Roan knew it. The captain, too, was staring with a look of disbelief on his face. He was afraid of Inca, so he quickly averted his eyes and stuck to the task of guiding the tug.
Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart Of The Warrior Page 5
