Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart of the Warrior. Lindsay McKenna
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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