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

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СКАЧАТЬ he lay hiding. The soldier was dressed in camouflage fatigues and heavily armed, his black eyes narrowed with a sort of savage pleasure. There was no denying his murderous intent, and Mike sensed this intruder into his domain had tortured many victims and enjoyed their pain, their screams. Blinking, Mike saw a dark gray color around the man. It wasn’t at all like the clear, unbeguiling light he saw around the plants and trees. No, this man’s light was murky. Evil.

      Instinctively, Mike crouched, every fiber of his being set to defend himself. He didn’t know where the strength came from, but he felt his hind legs tense, lower slightly, and then he lunged out of his hiding place, his body a projectile, his claws aimed at the man’s exposed neck.

      The soldier shrieked and tried to halt. Too late! Everything went black in front of Mike. As he slashed savagely at the soldier’s neck, he heard the man’s scream die in his throat. Within seconds, three more soldiers arrived. Though Mike did not see them, he heard their choking cries and screams of surprise, felt the powerful, flowing movement of his well-muscled, sleek body. The only thing he knew was that his life was at stake and he had to kill them before they killed him.

      Once the killing was over, he felt blackness rimming his vision, the gold-and-white light rapidly beginning to fade. With a groan that seemed more like a low growl to his ears, he felt himself running, or more appropriately, loping. He could feel the slap of leaves against his body, but he couldn’t see anything! His energy began to seep away. Strength left his legs, flowing up through his torso. He felt the damp earth beneath his hands and he suddenly collapsed onto it with a groan. The light was gone; the darkness rapidly moved toward him. He was dead. He was sure of it as he lay there on the jungle floor, covered in the humid mist that divided this world and the next.

      Houston regained consciousness slowly. Prying his heavy lids open languidly, he stared upward. He lay on his back, hidden by the thick, luxuriant growth around him. Yes, he could see the dark silhouettes of the trees outlined in the mist. But something was different. What? His mind was groggy and he was having trouble remembering much of anything. Above the dense, humid white clouds above the canopy, the sun had shifted. It was almost dusk, he realized.

      Little by little, strength flowed back to him. He groaned and rolled slowly onto his left side. Recalling his deadly wound, he propped himself up against a tree and groggily looked down at his right thigh. Blood was everywhere across his lower body. Yet where was the wound? Weakly lifting his hand, his fingers trembling badly, he tried to find the rip in the material where the bullet had entered. There was none. Frowning, he tried to think. It was impossible.

      Was he dead and just didn’t know it? Looking up, he realized he felt different, but very much alive. He dug his fingers into the damp, rotting leaves to assure himself of the reality of his surroundings. As he continued to stare down at the place where his wound should have been, he realized something else had changed. The entire front of his uniform was splattered with blood. He hadn’t been wounded in the chest. What would cause blood to cover the front of his shirt? Moving his hand slowly up his wrinkled, muddy uniform, Houston realized the blood had dried, stiffening the fabric. The metallic odor clung nauseatingly to his flaring nostrils.

      How did he get covered with so much blood? It couldn’t be his own. His mind railed at the illogic of it all. Lifting his head, Mike slowly tried to absorb everything around him. Yes, he was still in a jungle. The same one he’d crash-landed into, as far as he could tell. Monkeys screamed in the distance, their howling somehow comforting him. A few colorful parrots flew above him looking for a night perch before dusk ended in darkness.

      As his gaze dropped from the jungle around him to his left arm, hanging at his side, he felt a jolt. There were gold hairs on his arm. Gold and black. He frowned, thinking he was seeing things. Using what little strength he had left, he lifted his arm and stared at it. What the hell? His vision blurred and then cleared once again. There, on his forearm near his wrist, was an irregular patch of gold hair with two black crescent-moon shapes. This couldn’t be real, he reasoned. As he moved his fingers across the patch of hair, his heart thudded hard, once, in his chest. It was fur. Soft, short, thick fur, surrounded by his own hair. But as he explored it, it disappeared beneath his fingertips.

      Overwhelmed, Houston leaned his head back against the tree and drew several deep breaths of air into his lungs. His senses were no longer as acute, but he heard voices not too far from where he lay. Escovar’s men? Snapping his eyes open, Mike waited. For some reason, he didn’t feel danger. That was silly, too. Just moments ago, several of Escovar’s men were going to kill him. Confused, Mike narrowed his eyes and gazed toward the sound.

      An aged white man, barefoot and wearing dark blue pants, with a jaguar skin draped over his shoulders, appeared out of the jungle in front of him. Houston raised his eyes to the gray-haired man’s bearded face and met his crinkled gray eyes. The old man nodded in greeting and exposed strong white teeth in a welcoming smile. The man’s two cohorts came toward Mike, an African man and a young Indian girl with willow green eyes.

      “I was told you were out here,” the old man said, leaning heavily against a staff that had brightly colored macaw feathers attached to its top. He touched the claw necklace around his neck and chuckled. “I see your guardian has left you your life, hombre. We will take you back to the village. You will be safe with us. Come….”

      Chapter 1

      “Mike? Mike, it’s time to get up!”

      Groaning, Houston turned on his side, jamming his face into the feather pillow. Damn, he thought groggily, he’d had that nightmare again. A flashback really, the same one he’d had a hundred times before…

      “Mike?”

      “Uh, yeah…I’m awake….” he muttered.

      Where was he? Rolling over, he forced his eyes open. The plain timbers of the Santa Fe architecture of the room met his eyes, reminding him he was no longer in the jungle. The sounds were different here. He heard the crow of a nearby rooster and the soft snort of some horses in a corral. As he blinked the sleep out of his eyes, he heard the lowing of cattle, too. Oh yeah, he remembered suddenly. He was staying at the Donovan Ranch near Sedona, Arizona. Helluva long way from his normal digs.

      He shoved himself upright in the old brass bed, the covers falling away to expose his naked chest and upper body. When he got the chance, he never slept with clothes on—even pajamas—preferring nakedness instead. All too often in his work he had to sleep in his fatigues, ready to leap up and start moving at a moment’s notice. In fact, sleeping in a bed was a luxury for him.

      Savagely rubbing his face to wake up, Mike felt the stiff prickle of beard beneath his fingers. He’d had that post-traumatic-stress-disorder dream again, reminding him of who he really was, of what made him different from other men, other human beings. Scowling, he shook his head and sent the fragments of memory back into the depths of that cauldron, his subconscious. More like Pandora’s box with an ugly twist, he thought with a sleepy grin.

      What time is it? he wondered, shoving his feet from beneath the covers and placing them on the cool cedar floor. The clock on his bed stand said 0800.

      Dr. Ann Parsons had called him from the next room, he realized belatedly. The alarm clock must have gone off and he hadn’t heard it. Damn. He’d promised Morgan Trayhern that he’d meet him at 0800 to get the details of his next mission. Grunting, Mike launched himself out of bed and stretched. He liked the feeling of each group of muscles in his body bunching, stretching and relaxing. Arcing his arms over his head, he closed his eyes and appreciated his physical strength. It was one helluva body, one that had more scars on it, had taken more blows and survived more than most.

      Exhaling loudly, he ran his fingers through his military СКАЧАТЬ