In the Arms of a Hero. BEVERLY BARTON

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СКАЧАТЬ Lockhart.” She had instantly thought of using her mother’s maiden name.

      “Sí, Señorita Lockhart.” Smiling, Ernesto nodded agreement.

      “We need to make preparations for the children’s immunizations this afternoon. Sister Maria is expecting us at two o’clock.”

      Ernesto hesitated, but when Victoria smiled reassuringly, he turned to leave. Just as he reached the doorway, he paused momentarily and, without looking back, said, “We will find a way to keep you safe.”

      Before Victoria could reply, Ernesto slipped away quietly. She sighed. The thought that her presence here might put her friends’ lives in danger unnerved her. She had to make Ernesto and Dolores understand that she didn’t expect anyone to put their own lives on the line to protect her.

      She had willingly chosen to come to Santo Bonisto, to live and work in the tragically poor little town of Palmira. Before she had set up a clinic here, the nearest medical facility had been a hundred miles away in Las Palomas. She had known the civil war would eventually reach her town, but she had hoped it wouldn’t be this soon. Her father had demanded, in the way only Ryan Fortune could demand, that she return to the United States immediately. In attempting to make him understand why she couldn’t leave, she had only made him angry. And she knew his anger was a result of fear. He loved her and wanted her safety above all else. She had promised him that she could stay in Palmira without endangering her life. But now she realized that there was every possibility she had lied to herself as well as her father. In her devotion to her duty, she had refused to admit the obvious. And now it was too late.

      Just being an American in Santo Bonisto these days could be dangerous, if you were captured by the rebels. But if it was known that she was the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in the United States, nothing and no one could save her.

      One

      Quinn landed his new Cessna on an abandoned airstrip near a wide-open savanna halfway up Mt. Simona. Jungle surrounded the freshly cleared area. He could have demanded and gotten a more expensive plane from Ryan Fortune, but he had chosen a hundred-and-forty-thousand-dollar jewel. A larger plane would have had great difficulty landing, but the Skyhawk 172R breezed onto the narrow strip. The 172 didn’t excel at anything in particular, not in style nor performance. But no other plane, on as little as 145 hp, could equal its overall performance. Quinn had chosen this particular plane for its dependability. In his chosen profession, that quality outweighed any other.

      The airstrip built on the mountain plateau known as El Prado prior to World War II and left to the jungle in the early seventies had been forgotten by all but a few old-timers. Quinn never began an assignment without knowing the terrain of the country and searching out “associates” who could assist him. Julio Vargas, who waited for Quinn to disembark, had come highly recommended by “friends.”

      The short, stocky native, a machete in his hand, greeted Quinn with a wide smile. “Bienvenido! Welcome to Santo Bonisto.”

      The sun kissed the mountain peaks above them, creating a colorful twilight. The sounds of oncoming night in the jungle resonated like distant music as a hushed stillness encompassed the secluded mountain plateau. A mad, high-pitched cry announced that a laughing falcon was nearby. The sound, so close to human hilarity, grated on Quinn’s nerves. He scanned the area. A three-toed sloth hanging from a fig tree branch seemed to be staring at him. Ugly creature, he thought.

      “Let’s camouflage the plane and get out of here. I don’t want to set up camp anywhere close by,” Quinn said.

      Coming in at night would have been ideal, except it would have required Julio to light the runway. Any unidentified light up so high in the mountains would have been suspect if seen by rebel soldiers. So coming in at dusk had been the wisest alternative. The plane, once hidden by brush, a lot of it removed from the runway itself, would be safe enough. As safe as any isolated spot on this godforsaken island.

      He had done his homework on Victoria Fortune before flying out of Puerto Rico, after refueling there earlier in the day. The more he knew about the woman beforehand, the better his chances of persuading her to leave Santo Bonisto. The picture that had been included in the folder Sam had given him didn’t look much like a sophisticated heiress. The fresh-faced redhead, with a splattering of freckles across her nose, looked more like the girl next door than a multi-millionaire’s daughter. But her do-gooder complex marked her as lady who had more money than sense. Any woman in her right mind wouldn’t be playing nursemaid to a bunch of peasants in a Third World country ready to blow sky-high at any moment. Just what was Ms. Fortune trying to prove? With her college degrees, she could be working in any hospital or clinic of her choice in the U.S. Or with her daddy’s millions, she could be part of the jet-setting idle rich. So why had she become a member of the World Health Institute? And why had she stayed in Santo Bonisto when civil war broke out? Didn’t she know that by staying in Palmira, she risked not only her life, but the lives of anyone who befriended her? And now she was risking his life—the sucker her father had hired to save her spoiled little butt.

      “There is no time to set up camp, Señor McCoy.” After laying aside his machete, Julio began dragging up brush to cover the plane. “You must go to Palmira as quickly as possible, if you wish to bring Señorita Fortune back with you.”

      Quinn lifted a heavy tree limb that lay on the ground. “What’s happened?” He positioned the limb against the side of the plane.

      “The rebel forces will be in Palmira no later than day after tomorrow. Perhaps as early as late tomorrow.” Julio continued the process of hiding the plane from any aerial observance. “In order to reach Palmira before daybreak, you must get started immediately.”

      “I thought I’d have more time.”

      “Your supplies are ready.” Julio removed a rolled parchment from his jacket and handed it to Quinn. “The quickest and safest way to reach Palmira is to take a boat upriver. I have a boat waiting for you when you reach the Rio Blanco. Here’s a map to guide you down the mountain and to the river. I have marked the exact location of the clinic in Palmira. I understand that Señorita Fortune has a room there.”

      “Just what will I run into on my way?” Quinn asked.

      Julio disappeared inside the thicket to his right, then returned leading a heavily laden mule. He retrieved an M-16 and tossed it to Quinn. “Going in will be relatively safe. Coming out is another story altogether.”

      Julio grinned, exposing a wide expanse of rosy gum above a row of white teeth. He removed the backpack from the mule.

      Quinn strapped on the pack, checked the M-16 and then opened the map. Scanning the map quickly, he noticed that Julio had outlined the rebel troop movements in the area. They were advancing toward Palmira at this very moment. If he didn’t get in as soon as possible, he might not be able to find Victoria Fortune and get her to safety before all hell broke loose.

      “I couldn’t make any arrangements to aid you in returning from Palmira,” Julio told him. “The rebel forces have spies everywhere. Just a hint that someone from the outside was in the area would send off alarm signals. If you need help while in Palmira, contact Segundo. He works at the Cantina Caesar. You can trust him.”

      Quinn gripped Julio’s shoulder and shook his hand soundly. “Keep an eye on my plane. If all goes as planned, I should be back with my passenger before nightfall tomorrow.”

      “If anything goes wrong, your best course of action is to head to Gurabo. There’s a U.S. consulate there, and for now, the capital city is still held by the president’s СКАЧАТЬ