Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart of the Warrior. Lindsay McKenna
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through him. Fight or flight? Run or stay and face combat? She was a warrior for something. What? Who? Who does she represent? The light or the dark? Walker knew she wasn’t of the darkness. No. Everything within him shouted that she was of the light, working on the side of goodness. Yet she was a combat soldier. A modern-day Amazon.
Roan felt his cougar rub against his thigh, and he draped his fingers across the female animal’s skull. She was purring and watching the jaguar with interest. Looking down, Roan saw Anna was once again relaxed, no longer on guard or in her protective stance. That was his answer.
Lifting his head, Walker looked over at the male jaguar. “Yes, I’ll come. I’ll be there for your people.”
Within seconds, the jaguar disappeared into the cloud of brilliant, swirling light. And in the blink of an eye, the light was also gone. She was gone. Inca…
The drip, drip, drip of the rain off the tin roof slowly eased Walker out of his altered state. This time, as he opened his eyes, the grayness of dawn through the thick fir trees caught his attention. Twisting his head to one side, he looked groggily at the clock on the bedstand: 0600. It was time to get up, make a quick breakfast, drive down the mountain to Philipsburg, fifty miles away, and meet with his boss, Morgan Trayhern, leader of the super secret government group known as Perseus. A messenger had been sent up the mountain two days ago to tell him to be at the Perseus office in the small mining town at 0900 for a meeting with him and Major Mike Houston.
As Roan swung his naked body upward and tossed off the sheet, his feet hitting the cool pine floor, he sighed. Hands curling around the edges of the mattress, he sat there in the grayish light of dawn and wondered who the hell Inca was. This lucid dream was no dream at all, he was sure. He’d never had an experience like this before. The stone against his upper chest still burned and throbbed. Rubbing the area, he slowly rose to his full six foot six inches of height, then padded effortlessly toward the couch, where a pair of clean jeans, a long-sleeved white Western-style shirt, socks and underwear were draped. First, make the coffee, then get dressed. He pivoted to the right and made his way to the small, dimly lit kitchen. Without coffee, no day ever went right for him. He grinned a little at that thought, although his mind, and his heart, were centered on Inca. Who was she? What had he agreed to? First, he had to see what Morgan Trayhern and Major Mike Houston had up their sleeves. Roan knew Houston had worked down in South America for a decade, and he might be the right person to share this experience with. Maybe…
“What the hell are we supposed to do?” Morgan Trayhern growled at Mike Houston from his place behind the huge dark maple desk in his office.
Army Special Forces Major Mike Houston turned slowly away from the window where he stood and faced his boss. “Inca must lead that Brazilian contingent into the Amazon basin or Colonel Jaime Marcellino and company will be destroyed by the drug lords. Without her, they’re dead,” he said flatly. Then his eyes snapped with humor. “They just don’t know it yet, that’s all.”
Rubbing his square jaw, Morgan dropped the opened file labeled Inca on his desk. “Damn…she’s a lone wolf.”
“More like a lone jaguar.”
“What?” Disgruntled, Morgan gave Mike a dark look.
“Jaguars,” Mike said in a calm tone, “always hunt alone. The only time they get together is to mate, and after that, they split. The cubs are raised by the mother only.”
Glaring down at the colored photo of a woman in a sleeveless, olive-green T-shirt, bandoliers across her shoulders, a rifle across her knees as she sat on a moss-covered log, Morgan shook his head. “You vaguely mention in your report that Inca’s a member of the Jaguar Clan.”
“Well,” Mike hedged, “kind of…”
“What is that? A secret paramilitary organization down in Brazil?”
Mike maintained a dour look on his face. He unwound from his at-ease position and slowly crossed the room. “You could say that, but they don’t work with governments, exactly. Not formally…” Mike wasn’t about to get into the metaphysical attributes of the clan with Morgan. He tiptoed around it with his boss because Mike felt Morgan would not believe him about the clan’s mysterious abilities.
“But you’re insisting that Inca work with the Brazilian government on this plan of ours to coordinate the capture of major drug lords in several South American countries.”
“Morgan, the Amazon basin is a big place.” Mike stabbed his finger at the file on the desk as he halted in front of his boss. “Inca was born near Manaus. She knows the Amazon like the back of her hand. The major drug activity is in the Juma and Yanomami Indian reservation around Manaus. You can’t put army troops into something like this without experts who know the terrain intimately. Only one person, someone who’s been waging a nonstop war against the drug lords in that area, knows it—Inca.”
With a heavy shake of his head, Morgan muttered, “She’s barely a child! She’s only twenty-five years old!”
Mike smiled a little. “Inca is hardly a child. I’ve known her since she saved my life when she was eighteen years old.”
“She’s so young.”
Mike nodded, the smile on his mouth dissolving. “Listen to me. In a few minutes you’ve got to go into that war room with emissaries from those South American countries that are capable of raising coca to produce cocaine, and sell them on this idea. Inca has a reputation—not a good one, I’ll grant you—but she gets the job done. It ain’t pretty, Morgan. She’s a Green Warrior. That’s slang for a tree hugger or environmentalist. Down there in Brazil, that carries a lot of weight with the Indian people. She’s their protector. They worship her. They would go to hell and back for her if she asked it of them. If that Brazilian army is going to make this mission a success they need the support of the locals. And if Inca is there, leading the troops, the Indians will fight and die at her side on behalf of the Brazilian government. Without her, they’ll turn a deaf ear to the government’s needs.”
“I read in your report that they call her the jaguar goddess.”
Raising one eyebrow, Houston said, “Those that love her call her that.”
“And her enemies?”
“A Green Warrior—” Houston grimaced “—or worse. I think you ought to prepare yourself for Colonel Marcellino’s reaction to her. He won’t have anything good to say when he hears we’re going to pair him up with Inca.”
Studying Houston, Morgan slowly closed the file and stood up. “Mike, I’m counting on you to help carry the day in there. You’re my South American expert. You’ve been fighting drug lords in all those countries, especially in Peru and Brazil. No one knows that turf better than you.”
“That’s why Inca is so important to this operation,” he said as he walked with Morgan toward an inner door that led to an elevator to the top secret, underground war room. “She knows the turf even better than I do.”
Morgan halted at the door. He rearranged the red silk tie at the throat of his white shirt. Buttoning up his pinstripe suit, he sighed. “Did you ever find anyone in our merc database who could work—or would want to work—with the infamous Inca?”
Grinning a little, Houston said, “Yeah, I think I did. Roan Storm Walker. He’s got Native American blood in him. Inca will respect him for that, at least.”
Morgan raised his brows. “Translated, that means she won’t just outright flatten him like she does every other male who gets into her line of fire?”
Chuckling, Mike put his hand on Morgan’s broad shoulder. The silver at the temples of his boss’s black hair was getting more and more pronounced, making Mike realize that running Perseus, a worldwide mercenary operation, would put gray hairs on just about anyone. “She’ll respect him.”
“What does that mean? She’ll ask questions first and shoot later?”
“You could say that, yes.”
“Great,”