Morgan's Rescue

by Lindsay McKenna

  As Pilar turned and looked up into Culver’s face, she had a wild desire to reach up and kiss him one last time. Oh, she would give anything to feel his masterful mouth against her, guiding her, consuming her until she became one with him again. It was a ridiculous urge, and she sadly turned away, knowing full well she didn’t deserve such a final, parting gift from him. Instead, she draped her fingers across the old, rusty latch and gently pushed down. She heard a distinct click, and the door creaked open.

  Chapter 11

  Culver didn’t know what to expect when they slipped undetected into Morgan’s room. The chamber was dark, except for what little light danced into it from the huge bonfire still blazing below in the courtyard, and it stank of urine and vomit. At least a hundred of the harder-core celebrants were still going strong, and Culver and Pilar had managed to sneak up to the second floor of the hacienda undetected.

  Pilar closed the door and quickly pulled the thin curtains across the barred window. Culver crossed the room, his gaze pinned on Morgan, who was lying down. Was he asleep? As he closed the distance, he saw the man slowly lift his head. Leaning over Morgan, Culver gripped the man’s shoulder and whispered, “We’re friends, Morgan. Don’t make a sound. We’re going to get you out of here.”

  Pilar pulled Morgan into an upright position. Every second counted. If they didn’t get away from the fortress fast enough, the guards would hear the helicopters and realize something was wrong. She saw puzzlement on Morgan’s bearded features as she crouched before him to study his eyes, her hands on his knees.

  “Morgan? It’s Pilar. Remember me? I was here a little while ago.” Her voice was low and breathless, her heart pounding unremittingly. She saw confusion come to his cloudy gaze. He looked at her, then twisted to look up at Culver, who stood over him.

  “No,” he mumbled. “Who are you?”

  Crestfallen, Pilar said to Culver, “His eyes are the same. He’s no better or worse than the last time I saw him.”

  With a nod, Culver came around and knelt at Morgan’s side. “Do you remember me? Culver Lachlan?”

  Morgan stared at him. “No…”

  “That son of a bitch… .” Culver rasped as he straightened. Ramirez had wiped out Morgan’s memory completely with some drug. Fury sizzled through him, but Culver quickly clamped down on it and gestured sharply to Morgan. “Come on, we’re springing you from this pigsty. It’s time to go home.”

  “Home?”

  Pilar panicked. “Morgan, your home is in Washington, D.C.”

  “It is?”

  “Oh, no,” she whispered. “You’re married to Laura. You remember Laura, don’t you?”

  Morgan shook his shaggy head. “I…don’t know any of you.” Forlornly, he looked around the room and then back at Pilar. “Who is Laura?”

  Rising, Pilar bit back a cry of sadness. “You have two children, Morgan. A boy and a girl. Do you remember their names?”

  Rubbing his brow with his filthy, bloodied hand, Morgan whispered, “I don’t have any children… .”

  “Enough,” Culver snapped roughly. “Pilar, check the door to make sure the guards aren’t around. I’m going to get him on his feet.”

  Instantly, Pilar responded. Morgan was a big man, but Culver, built like a huge, powerful bull, was larger, and Morgan was pathetically thin, a mere shadow of his former self. Culver pulled his arm across his own shoulder and hefted him to his feet. With a groan, Morgan sagged against his rescuer’s tall frame, his knees buckling.

  “Try to stand,” Culver ordered gently, steadying him. The drugs they’d given him had not only made mush of his brain, they’d affected his entire nervous system. Morgan was weak and uncoordinated.

  “It’s clear,” Pilar whispered. She stepped out the door and opened it wide. Moving ahead, she heard the scraping of Morgan’s bare feet on the tiles. Her heart pounding, she hurried to the stairs. Shadows from the firelight danced along the walls. Shouts and loud laughter drifted up to her, and guitar music provided more dissonance as she carefully made her way down the darkened steps to the ground below.

  Turning, Pilar watched the corner of the hacienda and the men’s progress. Morgan was only semiconscious, leaning heavily against Culver, who was practically dragging him down the stairs. Breathing hard, Culver tottered beneath his load, added to the weight of the equipment he wore. Anxiously, Pilar looked on, her palms growing sweaty. She had no weapon. If someone came around the corner unexpectedly, she could do nothing. Culver wouldn’t be able to get to his own weapon because he was helping Morgan.

  The drugged man groaned as Culver guided him toward the west wall and the small wooden door. Pilar brought up the rear, constantly on guard. Morgan’s knees kept giving out on him, despite his pitiful attempts to walk.

  “Pilar!”

  She spun around at Culver’s rasping command. Understanding that he wanted her to open the door for them, she hurried ahead. The bougainvillea scraped and cut at her arms as she waded into it. Breathing through her mouth so she wouldn’t make too much noise, she groped about until her fingertips met the rough wooden door. She heard Culver’s heavy breathing through the earpiece she wore. Scrabbling to find the rusty lock, she wished for more light.

  “Hurry!” Culver snapped.

  Pilar heard the crunch of branches behind her. Morgan groaned again, the sound one of raw pain. She was sure those whiplash wounds that covered his back were being opened. Frantically, she moved her hands over the door’s surface. There! She jerked it open and the rusty hinges gave a loud creak of protest. It took all of Pilar’s weight to open the door far enough for Culver and Morgan to pass through.

  Once outside Culver propped Morgan against the now-open door. “Hold him.”

  She nodded and pressed her hands against Morgan’s chest to steady him. She watched as Culver removed his submachine gun.

  “Take it,” he ordered. “Cover our escape.”

  Nodding jerkily, Pilar stepped aside and took the safety off the weapon. The steel felt cold in her trembling hands. She hated violence of any kind. In her undercover work, although it had been dangerous, she’d refused to carry a weapon.

  Dividing her attention, she saw Culver heft Morgan under his arms and drag him away from the wall.

  ¡Hola!

  Sucking in a sharp breath, Pilar whirled around. Her eyes widened. A guard stood tensely at the corner, his face etched with surprise.

  “¡Altoi! Stop!” he yelled, and jerked the submachine gun off his shoulder.

  No! Pilar backed up and slammed into the wall. She saw the guard’s face turn ugly as he lowered the weapon, pointing it toward her. Culver was gone!

  “You there! Stop!”

  Whirling around, she lunged for the open door, hearing the instant spat of the weapon as she did so. Bullets whined around her as she reached the entrance, and wood exploded in splinters to her right. Stucco flew past her. With a small cry, she dropped to her knees and tried to get out the door, but a vine caught her foot and she tripped forward. Dios, no! Panicked, Pilar scrambled on hands and knees through the doorway.

  A siren started to wail behind her. Gasping, she struggled to her feet. Ahead of her, Culver had put Morgan in a fireman’s carry over his shoulder and was lumbering quickly into the jungle, she saw. Time. Culver had to have time to get far enough into the jungle that Ramirez’s men couldn’t find them. Jerking around, Pilar dropped the weapon and reached for the rusty latch. She heard more startled cries from the guards. They were coming her way.

  Wrapping her fingers around the latch, she yanked the wooden door closed. Then, picking up the submachine gun, she sprinted across the small clearing toward the wall of darkened jungle that stretched in front of her. It represented safety. She’d lost sight of Culver, but she knew from their game plan which direction he would go. Besides, with Morgan on his shoulders, he’d be making noise and moving slowly.

  Breathing hard, her bare feet digging into the moist leaves and sandy soil, Pilar ran as hard as she could, the
cries of the guards ringing out behind her. They sounded so close! Not daring to turn around and look, she lengthened her stride. Part of her wished she was taller, with longer legs to carry her away from the pursuing enemy more quickly.

  “Stop!”

  The command rippled through her, and Pilar winced at the fury in the male voice behind her. They were going to kill her, she knew. Running hard, gasping as she went, she dove into the jungle. Safe! At last she was safe!

  Pilar didn’t break stride. As if her feet had eyes, she felt each step across the lumpy ground. She keyed her ears to the crashing of foliage ahead that heralded Culver’s awkward progress. Would he make it to the landing zone in time? Pilar knew Major Houston would wait there only five minutes. If he didn’t see them, he’d have to order the two helicopters to lift off. To remain on the ground too long in Ramirez’s backyard was folly. A single guard could shoot a helicopter to oblivion.

  Bullets whined around her. Vines snapped; bark flew. Pilar hunched over and ran harder, her mind racing even faster. In another minute or so she would catch up with Culver. But he and Morgan needed protection, someone to stay behind and create a diversion to ensure their escape.

  Increasing her precarious speed, she was struggling to catch up when she heard someone fall. Then Culver grunted. Her eyes narrowing, Pilar saw Morgan sprawled on the ground, with Culver nearby, rising onto his hands and knees. Rasping for breath, she sped to his side.

  “They’re after us!” she gasped as she helped him stand. Culver had fallen over a thick, exposed root. Anxiously, she turned to Morgan, who was slowly sitting up, a dazed expression on his shadowed features.

  Culver grimly swung around. “It isn’t far,” he growled.

  “I’ll create a diversion.”

  “No!” He whirled, his eyes thundercloud black.

  “Don’t argue!” Pilar cried. Reaching out, she grabbed his arm. “Mi querido, whatever happens, take care of Rane for us, please… .”

  Culver opened his mouth to protest. Before he could say a word, Pilar had disappeared back into a jungle, like a jaguar on the hunt. Shaken, he got Morgan back up and across his shoulders. Groaning under the other man’s weight, he could do nothing but head forward again. He heard the yelps of the guards, like bloodthirsty dogs, then a sudden spate of gunfire. Swinging around, Culver dove onward, toward the landing zone. He wanted to stop, to turn around and help Pilar. She was right, he thought bitterly; a diversion had to be created or the guards would recapture Morgan.

  More gunfire sounded, off to Culver’s left. Pilar was leading them on a wild-goose chase, and they were following her. Breathing heavily, his muscles aching from the load he carried, Culver forced himself into a dogtrot toward the clearing he knew was ahead of them, but his heart and mind spun back to Pilar. She was risking her life for them. Again. As she had before, long ago. She was so small and delicate, yet she possessed such incredible courage.

  More gunfire erupted—heavier and more concentrated. Stray bullets whined past them, and Culver automatically cringed, tightening his grip on Morgan. They could just as easily be killed by ricocheting bullets. His heart ached with unadulterated fear for Pilar’s life. Oh, God, please protect her. I love her. I love her. It no longer mattered that she’d run out on him. He needed her, even as he needed each breath of air he forced into his heaving, burning lungs.

  Suddenly, the whap, whap, whap of helicopter blades caught his frantic attention. Honing in on the sound, Culver realized with a sinking sensation that they were behind schedule. Five minutes. That’s all they had before Houston lifted off without them, thinking that mission a failure. His heart pounding, Culver lengthened his stride. Leaves swatted heavily at them, branches slapping his face, cutting and jabbing at him. Still, his mind swung to Pilar. Behind him and to the left, he could hear the gunfire, almost nonstop. What if she was wounded? Dead? The thought nearly paralyzed him midstride. Shaking his head, Culver hunched forward, the weight of Morgan nearly unbearable despite the man’s emaciated con dition. Culver’s muscles screamed in protest. His knees ached with each footfall.

  Morgan groaned.

  “Hang on,” he panted. “Just hang on.”

  Morgan’s life for Pilar’s. The thought was startling. Horrifying. Culver breathed heavily through his mouth. No. No. Pilar couldn’t be dead—or worse, captured. She would catch up with them. She would be waiting in the clearing, signaling the helicopters. She had to be!

  His thoughts skewing wildly, Culver lifted his booted feet higher, hoping to avoid the lethal tangle of roots. Each step felt as if he were lifting a thousand pounds of weight. Burning pain flowed up from his cramping calves, affecting his thigh muscles and shortening his stride. Clenching his teeth against the searing pain, he crashed on through the foliage. The sound of the helicopters was growing louder. At any moment, they would land. How far away was the clearing?

  Sweat poured into his eyes, blurring his vision. Shaking his head in a bullish motion, Culver suddenly found himself at the edge of the huge, open space. The sky was just turning gray with dawn and he saw the black, silhouetted shapes of the choppers appear out of the night sky. Breathing raggedly, Culver turned around. Where was Pilar? Damn! Where was she? Anxiously, he scanned the jungle.

  The helicopters would arrive within the minute. Culver shoved off on cramping legs toward the center of the clearing, where they would land. Morgan hung limply over his shoulders now, unconscious. The soil here was soft, and Culver struggled to keep his balance with his heavy load. Somewhere in the distance, above the powerful beating of the helicopter blades, another spate of gunfire broke the dawn. Pilar? Was she coming? She knew the timetable. She knew five minutes was between landing and lift-off.

  The helicopters set down, their blades still whirling at full power. Culver saw the nearest chopper door slide open. The aircraft had no landing lights—nothing to give it away to the enemy. Tottering, his knees like jelly beneath the weight, Culver moved forward again and saw a man in tiger fatigues running toward him full tilt. It had to be Mike Houston. Culver felt his strength draining with each step he took. As the man neared, Culver recognized his old friend from Army Special Forces. Houston’s square face was painted in green, yellow and black stripes, his expression hard and set as he reached out toward Morgan.

  “Let’s go!” Houston yelled above the roar of the aircraft. He hauled Morgan off Culver’s shoulders.

  Culver staggered as the weight was taken away. Two Peruvian soldiers grabbed Morgan and hauled him quickly toward the first helicopter. Culver felt Houston’s steadying grip on his arm. Turning, he met the grim-faced major, who was near his own age.

  “Mike, Pilar isn’t here. She decoyed for us,” he panted.

  Houston turned on his booted heel and lifted a pair of infrared binoculars to his eyes. “I don’t see her, Lachlan.”

  “Damn!”

  Every muscle in Culver’s body ached, but nothing more so than his heart. “She shouldn’t have done it!” He swore loudly. Glancing past the major, he saw that Morgan was now safely stowed on board the chopper.

  Lowering the binoculars, Houston faced him. “We’ve got three minutes.”

  Frustration ate at Culver. He couldn’t argue with Mike. If they waited for her, they could all be killed. Ramirez’s men had powerful weapons capable of putting the helicopters out of commission. Compressing his lips, he gazed at the dark line of the jungle. “She’s in trouble.”

  “What?” Mike shouted, leaning forward.

  Culver cupped his hands around his mouth. “I said Pilar is in trouble. I feel it.”

  Houston straightened. He glanced at his watch. “It’s time to go, Lachlin.”

  Culver reached over and took the submachine gun that hung from Houston’s shoulder. “No. I’m staying. I’ve got to find her.”

  Houston eyed him. “That’s stupid. Ramirez’s men are crawling all over this place.”

  Terror gripped Culver. “I’m staying behind, Mike. You’ve got Trayhern. Take off
.”

  “Dammit, Lachlan—”

  Culver waved him away. “Somehow, we’ll make it out of here—together.”

  “You’re crazy!”

  “Maybe.”

  Houston traded looks with him. Rubbing his jaw, he said, “All right, if you can find her, contact me on the same radio frequency. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try to talk the Peruvian government into giving us a chopper to come in and pick you up—wherever you are.”

  Gripping Houston’s hand, Culver nodded. “Thanks, Mike.”

  “Just be damn careful,” Houston warned, then he turned and trotted back to the waiting aircraft.

  Culver moved quickly back into the jungle’s cover. He knew the sound of the helicopters would bring Ramirez’s men running. He had to take some swift tactical action to get out of the immediate area. When things quieted, and dawn broke, he would try to track down Pilar.

  His stomach turned with nausea. Pilar was either dead, wounded or captured. Tears burned in his eyes, but he fought them. Moving swiftly, his legs aching in protest, he headed away from the clearing, but parallel to the fortress, which was at least a mile away. His hunting and tracking instincts moved to the fore. He would need every ounce of jungle skill he possessed to avoid capture. In the distance, he heard the helicopters already growing fainter as they headed out of danger.

  Pilar? His heart lurched with dread. Sweat covered him. The foliage was damp from the night’s fog, stealing silently around him, just above his head. His hearing keyed, Culver caught the sound of several men talking in excited Spanish to his right. Crouching down, he became invisible, swallowed up by the thick bushes. He listened carefully but, heard no mention of Pilar. They were crashing through the jungle toward the clearing where the helicopters had been. Good.

  The moment they’d passed him, Culver eased to his feet and moved in the opposite direction. His mind spun. What had Pilar meant by “Take care of Rane for us”? Us? A strange word to use and he’d already promised, so why had she repeated it like that? Stymied, his terror for her very real, Culver pushed on. He consulted his compass every now and then in the dim gray light. Mentally fixing in his mind where the fortress was and which direction Pilar had headed, Culver kept his eyes trained to the ground.