Make Mine a Marine (36 page)

He'd hacked his way to an undetected spot past the next curve before he shivered with the
awareness of being followed. He flattened himself on the ground and hid from the unseen stalker. He breathed against his hand to dispel his breath and prevent the canopy of greenery from moving and giving away his location.

Where had the fifth man come from? Maybe Martín had only been wounded. Or was Raul recklessly trying to help?

The thunder of the engines approached. Hawk could not be seen from the road, and the first truck passed him by. The prickle on his neck froze into an outright chill as the sensation behind him moved closer. He turned his knife in his grip, prepared to kill.

The second truck hit a rut and tossed mud across his shoulders and back before bouncing on by. The unnatural awareness shimmied down his spine and he stopped breathing.

Rolling over, he looked up in grim horror and saw a glimmering chimera of gold and black and prismatic colors hovering in the air above him. Sweat popped out on his top lip despite the arctic cold front seeping from the swirling miasma.

No.
He mouthed the word and closed his fist around his burning sicun. A combative heat radiated from the smooth obsidian pendant.

The third truck wheezed around the bend, its engine grinding with an earsplitting roar as the driver shifted into a higher gear. The distorted air above Hawk flashed and jerked as though startled by the sound.

The spinning whirlpool stopped, and the two-dimensional being elongated itself, listening.

Hawk gave the specter human characteristics even though he knew the thing was not human. It hadn't been for centuries.

But it was alive.

It was angry.

It was full of hate.

And it sped after the retreating truck, disappearing inside beneath a slim flap of canvas.

Chapter
Seven

Hawk's footsteps resounded like hoofbeats on the densely packed jungle floor. He retraced his path without the silent finesse he'd used to follow the convoy. If that
thing
—if
he
—was loose, then he would have passed right through the camp on his way to Salazar.

Luis Salazar didn't believe in the spirit world. He clearly didn't respect it or he would never have violated Meczaquatl's burial chamber. Hawk not only believed in the immortal existence of spirits, but he believed in the sentience of such beings. His own tribal history and the Christian tenets of his faith taught him of an everlasting afterlife.

But Meczaquatl's spirit had yet to find peace with this world, had yet to pass over into the next. Something had disturbed the Aztec king's immortal slumber long before Salazar and his men opened up the walls of the tomb with plastique explosives and pry bars. Hawk had felt it when he'd entered the antechamber the night before.

The king's restless spirit had touched Hawk's mind then, exploited his clairvoyance into the spirit realm. Channeling through Hawk, he'd seen Sarah as an intruder. A threat to all he held dear. Using Hawk's own hands, he'd tried to kill her.

Would he still see her as a threat? Would Meczaquatl equate Sarah's presence with Salazar's crime? Would he turn someone else against her? Someone who wouldn't know that they were killing her until it was too late?

"Sarah!" he shouted, panic pushing him to ignore the painful pressure of his lungs expanding against his bruised ribs. The beating he'd taken was nothing compared to the pain squeezing his heart.

Sarah had pulled him from that spell. Her gentle touch, her sensual innocence, her selfless concern had reached the man in him. She had broken through Meczaquatl's control and found his spirit. She'd touched his soul and his heart and his body, and made him human again.

Not a mystic. Not a soldier. Not a freak.

A man.

He'd be damned if he'd allow that vengeful entity to hurt her again.

"Sarah!" The heavy, humid air swallowed up his cry like a sponge soaking up water. "Colleen! Lyndsay!"

He hadn't found Jonathan. Alive or dead.

He prayed he'd find Sarah and the girls unharmed.

"This never should have happened!"

"I'm supposed to be taking pictures for my scrapbook."

"If Andrea can't fix the radio, we're history. And it's all your fault!"

Hawk heard agitated young voices and burst into the clearing, counting four healthy teenagers in a circle around the broken radio. "Is everyone all right?" he asked. "Where's Colleen?"

Lynnette spun around and launched herself at his chest. Wincing at the tight hug around his middle, Hawk lowered a comforting arm around her trembling shoulders. "I want to go home," she said, sobbing against his shirt.

"I'll get you there," he promised, unsure he believed those words yet.

"This looks so different from the pictures." Andrea spoke her thoughts aloud.

Hawk released Lynnette and knelt beside Andrea. "Do you know what you're doing?"

The young blonde frowned at the open back of the radio. She chewed on the stub of a fingernail before glancing up to answer Hawk's question. "I read one of my brother's books on electronics. I think if we switch the circuits around, we can still transmit. But we won't be able to tell if anybody answers us."

Hawk squeezed her shoulder. "Do what you can."

His mind flashed briefly on his old buddy, Rafe Del Rio, and his former comrade's uncanny ability to fix anything. If Del Rio were here now, he could turn that archaic piece of junk into a broad-based scanner.

Better still, Rafe would have sabotaged those trucks' engines in the first place, and helped Hawk take out the enemy. Then, like a mechanical miracle, he'd have the trucks up and running again, and their transportation to safety would still be on hand.

But Rafe wasn't here. These barely grown children had only him. Hawk hoped he could rise to the challenge this time. He cupped the back of Andrea's head and reassured her. "I know you'll do your best."

When Hawk stood, Raul stepped forward, his hand clenched tightly around Lyndsay's. The boy wore a man's brave face, but Hawk could see the doubt clouding around him. "Did you catch my uncle?"

"No. But I don't think they'll get very far." Hawk worried about the spirit finding its way into the truck and wondered at its evil intent.

"I am sorry," said Raul, looking at his feet.

"Your apology doesn't do Miss Mack much good." Hawk shifted his focus at the sharp accusation in Denise's voice.

"This isn't Raul's fault." Lyndsay jumped to his defense. "He didn't know what Señor Salazar was up to."

Denise moved closer, and Lyndsay stepped out. "If he wasn't so greedy, he wouldn't have been on this trip in the first place."

The two friends advanced to argue further. Hawk grabbed Denise, and Raul tugged on Lyndsay. "Where are Sarah and Colleen?" asked Hawk, defusing the situation before it got out of hand.

In answer, all four turned toward the mess tent. Undisguised fear flooded their auras with coppery hues. A reborn sense of urgency propelled him across the compound in just a few long strides.

He found Colleen in the doorway. A strident plea distorted her calm, sweet voice. "Miss Mack, please. Just come outside with the others and I'll find the scissors for you."

"Colleen?" He whispered her name so he wouldn't startle her with his touch. He gripped her strong shoulders in his hands and held her until some of the tension eased out.

She reached up and covered his hand, offering an almost adult reassurance to him. "I'm fine," she said, "but I don't know what's wrong with her."

Hawk followed her gaze to the tall metal storage cabinet at the far end of the mess hall. The doors had been flung open. Pans and plates were strewn across the floor and nearby tables. Sarah hovered in front of the cabinet.

She slammed shut the top drawer and whisked open the second. She reached in and pulled out cooking utensils. She glanced at the ladle in her fist, then slung it over her shoulder. Two other large spoons sailed through the air before Hawk spoke again.

He whispered firm instructions into Colleen's ear. "Tell the others to lighten their packs. They won't need extra clothes or sleeping bags. Load up any food you brought and blankets only. Tell Raul we're trekking through the jungle on foot. He should be able to help."

Colleen nodded. "Do you think she'll hurt herself?"

Hawk knew the girl's immediate concern was Sarah. Hawk brushed his fingers across her cheek and smiled, as proud of this girl's strength as if she were his own daughter. "I'll take care of Sarah. I'll keep her safe."

Colleen smiled gamely and hurried off to the others. Hawk sucked in a fortifying breath and expelled it slowly, observing and analyzing Sarah before taking any action. Her hair haloed around her head and shoulders in wild disarray, blocking him from seeing her face. But he could interpret the invisible signals she sent out. Fear and confusion and driving need warred for dominance. Cause for concern, yes, but to his trained counselor's eye, this was a much healthier reaction to what had happened and what she needed to face than denial and shutting down had been.

"Sarah." He called her name across the room. She halted her manic search for an instant, then resumed digging through and tossing aside utensils, hot pads, and storage containers.

"Scissors," she said in a hiss between her teeth. "I have to find scissors."

A long strand of hair fell over her shoulder and she jerked as though a live snake had fallen there instead. "Get away!"

She clutched the strand in a tight fist and tucked it back behind her ear. She released it abruptly, as though the snake had sunk its fangs into her hand. "Get off me!"

Hesitating no longer, Hawk crossed the room. He dodged a flying fork and called her name again. "I'm going to touch you," he explained, struggling to remain the counselor in control of the situation and not the man frightened by her shaking form.

She allowed him to take her by the arms, pull her away from the mess she had created, and turn her slowly to face him. His resolve to stay impersonal nose-dived at the sight of her blanched skin and huge, tear-swollen eyes.

She rubbed at the shredded placket of her blouse. "I can't get it off." Her teeth nearly chattered with the strain of emotions overtaking her. She ripped the material in her hands, tearing off a patch and flinging it to the floor. Then she tore at it again. That long strand of hair fell over her shoulder one more time and she jerked.

"Get it off me!"

She captured the curly tendril in one fist and pulled ruthlessly at the ends of it with the other. Then she flipped it behind her back, scoured her palms together and went back to work at the front of her blouse. "I can't get it off me."

Hawk finally understood.

Blood had caked in the tips of her hair, and the front of her blouse was soaked in de Vega's blood. He must have been right on top of her, close enough for her to see his eyes when she’d shot him. With an eerie similarity to the madness of Lady Macbeth, she worked feverishly to rid herself of the damning reminders of taking a man's life and surviving an attempted rape.

He wanted to shelter her in his arms to share his sorrow and pledge an apology to her. But she didn't need his guilt. And he wasn't sure what more he had to offer her. Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut and looked inside himself, not to that peaceful center of strength, but to that cold, unconnected place that allowed him to be a soldier. He tapped into the ancient brotherhood of warriors that he'd laid to rest so long ago and allowed their clarity and cunning to flow through him.

Tightening his hands around her shoulders, he steeled himself against her pain. "Come with me."

"I can't get it off." Her hoarse voice reached his heart, but he didn't allow his sensitivities to sway him from his purpose.

He pulled her out the door, sweeping her up in his arms when her stumbling feet threw her off balance. She curled into a ball, concentrating on rubbing her stained fingers. Devoted to her task, she seemed unaware that her feet had even left the ground.

But Hawk was keenly aware of every hill and hollow of her slim figure pressed against him. His skin tingled with a surging heat where her hip and shoulder brushed his stomach and chest, and his lips throbbed with the desire to taste her beautiful mouth again.

He half hoped that she would come to her senses, slap his face and chastise him for his improper thoughts. But the feisty schoolmarm who had come to his tent last night and warned him not to touch her was absent. In her place was this tortured waif of subtle beauty.

The spirit of the warrior, driven to protect his own, swelled in his heart. He pulled her closer and pressed a kiss to her temple. He held her there, tasting the salty tang of her heated skin and inhaling the fresh, unperfumed scent that was Sarah.

He rocked her close a moment longer, calming her and his own need. But he stilled when his nostrils picked up a very different scent. The spoiled odor of sweat tainted her hair. De Vega's smell.

And suddenly the same madness that consumed Sarah swept through him. Her subconscious desires became a very conscious need for Hawk.

He carried her toward the path to the lagoon, snapping orders to the others. "Colleen, bring me soap and a towel. Andrea, pack up the radio. Raul, find a way to carry any fresh water you can find."

"But we do not have that much…"

"Do it!"

He took Sarah to the water's edge, setting her on her feet in a clearing blocked from view of the others by an outcropping of ferns and wild hyacinths. Putting aside a half-formed fantasy, he stripped off her clothes with doctor-like precision. He pushed aside her hindering hands and peeled away the material to reveal her pale beauty.

Hawk's breath lodged in his throat when he saw her naked figure. Unadorned perfection. In his eyes, Sarah McCormick represented the essence of woman the way nature intended her to be. Proud, slender shoulders.  Elegant, eloquent
hands, small breasts, seductively tipped in pale peach.  Full, flaring hips that could welcome a man or nurture an unborn child.

He savored a rush of heat, the answering cry of his body to hers. But that base reaction of his manhood reminded him why he had brought her here in the first place. He wanted to cleanse her. To wash away her fears, her shock, and another man's vile touch.

Her conscious mind might not welcome his attention, but she had not welcomed de Vega, either. She had offered to sacrifice her body to protect her girls, then sacrificed her peaceful existence by destroying the threat to them all.

He owed her this duty. As a counselor, as a protector, and as a man.

Shoving aside possessive motives, he quickly pulled off his boots, socks and shirt, and scooped her into his arms. In his native Pawnee language, he whispered to her, pledging fealty and offering soothing reassurances as he walked into the water with her. He went in to his waist and bent his knees, pulling her down with him.

Startled by the wet, sluicing warmth on her chilled body, Sarah screeched and scrambled up his chest. She clutched him around the neck and clung to him like the mast of a sinking ship.