Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart Of The Warrior by Lindsay McKenna Page A

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 thatthe 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 breathjammed 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