Morgan's Rescue (27 page)

     
His mouth dry with worry, Culver eased his bulk down until his knees sank into the damp carpet of decaying leaves near the huge rubber tree where he hid. He had no way to know if Pilar got in trouble. Though they'd brought state-of-the-art technology with them, she couldn't chance wearing a mike and radio. She must do nothing to rouse the curiosity of the guards. Never had Culver prayed more than he did now—for Pilar. He was relatively safe in comparison. If she was discovered, she'd be taken immediately to Ramirez. . . . Culver shuddered, unable to follow that devastating line of thought.

     
Still, his mind veered this way and that, filled with terrible fear for Pilar. Dammit, he should be protecting her. She shouldn't have to enter that pit by herself. Yet he knew she was an excellent undercover agent with an uncanny ability to camouflage herself, blending easily into her surroundings. She had jaguar medicine, he reminded himself as he rested his hands on the taut fabric covering his thighs. Jaguars moved like shadows in the jungle—undetected until the moment they revealed themselves to freeze their victim with a mesmerizing stare.
Then and only then would they pounce.

     
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Culver tried to keep his nervousness at bay. His mind swung to safety measures he could institute if, God forbid, Pilar should be taken prisoner. Unfortunately, he had very few options. If the Special Forces came in, blasting away, Ramirez would counter with his army of loyal followers, and the fortress bristled with equal, if not better, firepower. Besides, Ramirez would likely put a gun to Pilar's head and blow her brains out even if they were able to breach his defenses.

     
Rane's face flashed before him—her delicate features and huge, light brown eyes with their look of innocence. Shaking his head, Culver wondered what in the hell that was all about, but he didn't have time to think it through. Pilar's life was on the line. How brave she was—courageous in a way few would ever be. Because Morgan had helped her and her people, she had boldly taken this mission—even knowing Culver would be her partner. That decision alone took guts, he admitted grimly. And he hadn't been kind to Pilar, either. Yet she'd braved his withering anger and had magically turned his fury back into burning desire. Her jaguar medicine again, Culver thought with a slight smile.

     
The Indians believed that jaguars could shape-shift into different forms, human and animal. Well, Pilar would need all of those talents and more to get to Morgan. So much could go wrong. What if Morgan was dead? Or so ill he was unable to leave the compound under his own power? Pilar could hardly carry him out
on her own
. Suddenly, Culver remembered Pilar's vision-vine ceremony. She had seen Morgan—like a robot, but able to move about.
And without guards?
Culver found it very hard to believe.

     
But he'd lived in
Peru
for five years, and he knew better than to laugh at mystical visions. Rubbing his jaw, his eyes narrowed, he continued staring at the entrance, praying for Pilar to hurry up and come out. Come out with good news of Morgan Trayhern.

     
P
ilar released a ragged breath of relief. Her vision-vine experience hadn't been wrong. She stood on the second floor of the hacienda, at the western corner, which was dark and hidden from the lights of the celebration taking place down in the courtyard below. Peeking through a small, barred window in a heavy door, she saw Morgan Trayhern sitting on a narrow cot.

     
Pressing herself back against the stucco of the hallway, Pilar
gulped,
her heart pounding. Risking a second look, she watched Morgan for several moments, hardly daring to believe it was really him. Because of a huge shipment of cocaine successfully delivered to the
United States
, she'd been able to gather, Ramirez had ordered a party for his soldiers and the many people of the surrounding villages who collected and grew coca leaves for him.

     
It had been relatively easy to slip past the guard at the gate, who had looked at her with lascivious eyes. She'd told him she was one of the dancers for the celebration, and he'd easily accepted her explanation. Having memorized the blueprint of the fortress, Pilar had headed straight for the area where she believed Morgan was being held. Now she watched Morgan closely. His face was unshaven, his unkempt black beard slightly streaked with gray. He sat on the cot, his elbows on
this thighs
, his hands loosely clasped between his legs. His hair was long, unwashed and uncut, giving him a wild look. Obviously they had not allowed him to shower.

     
His clothes were threadbare and of the type a peasant farmer would wear. What bothered
Pilar
most, though, was the blank look in Morgan's usually intelligent gray eyes. His pupils appeared dilated, and she wondered if he was drugged. He sat motionless, staring into space, his face slack.

     
Suddenly she heard footsteps approaching up the stairs at the rear of the hacienda. It was one of the guards! The man wore a white cotton shirt with two bandoliers across his wide chest, a submachine gun resting on his left hip as he slowly climbed upward. Her heart pounding, Pilar realized she would be discovered. The black iron railing that enclosed the balcony leading to the second-floor rooms curved to an end a hundred feet away. Only one stairway reached it, and the sentry was on it.

     
Desperate, Pilar moved quickly to Morgan's door. Sliding her fingers over the knob, she twisted savagely. It opened! Not daring to believe her luck, she shoved the door open and slipped inside, praying Morgan would remember her, or at least realize she was friend, not foe. She knew drugs could distort a person's senses. Pilar had seen people turn paranoid—even against their loved ones.

     
She quietly shut the door and whirled to face Morgan. The window was open, and she could hear the guard's boots scuffing lazily against the red-tiled floor as he came closer.

     
Morgan didn't move. Pilar stared at him in utter disbelief, but he didn't so much as bat an eyelash at her unexpected presence. The guard drew closer. Pilar swallowed hard, her mouth dry, her heart pounding heavily in her chest. What if he came in to check on Morgan? She had nowhere to hide. The tiny room had no closets or bathroom.

     
Pilar didn't want to die. The feeling struck her so hard that a ragged breath tore from between her compressed lips. Her hearing keyed to the shuffling gait of the guard, and she pressed herself flat against the wall, out of view of the window. A sudden sound of metal striking the iron bars made her jump.

     
"Hey, gringo!" the guard snarled in Spanish.
"Pig.
You stink! Look at you.
Big Norte Americano
pig! You're filthy!"

     
Pilar's eyes widened tremendously as the guard ran what she thought must be the barrel of his weapon against the bars. She watched Morgan closely as he lifted his head at the sound. He stared at the iron bars, his face still completely blank.

     
The guard laughed loudly.
"Gringo pig!
You not only stink like one that has rolled in garbage, you look like one!"

     
Pilar's breath snagged. The guard cursed Morgan richly for another moment. Would he test the door? Rigid with fear, she waited.

     
The guard moved on, shuffling slowly on down the hall. Pilar sagged back against the wall, her knees limp with relief. Breathing raggedly, she waited again. The guard came back, racked the window bars once more with his weapon and left. Oddly, Morgan remained staring at the window, as if transfixed by it.

     
Anxiously, Pilar craned her neck and studied the window. Thin yellow curtains hung on either side of it. They were dirty, with holes here and there, but they could be drawn across the aperture. How long did she have until the guard came back?
she
wondered.

     
Moving slowly so as not to startle Morgan, she lifted her hand and carefully pulled the curtains across the window.
There, it was covered. Breathing a small sigh of relief, Pilar moved over to Morgan and knelt in front of him.

     
"Morgan?" she whispered, her voice unsteady. She watched his eyes. It took nearly a full minute for him to respond to the sound of his name. First, she saw his
pupils
contract slightly. Then, very slowly, he shifted his stare from the now-curtained window to her.

     
Pilar sat quietly, hardly daring to breath beneath his cloudy gaze. Taking a risk, she followed her instincts and slowly placed her hand on his clasped ones, still hanging loosely between his thighs.

     
"Morgan? Do you remember me? I'm Pilar Martinez. You met me three years ago at the American consulate in
Lima
. Morgan?"

     
Pilar kept her voice low, and she saw him struggle with her words, as if he wasn't absorbing all of them. His face was an expressionless mask, as if he were more dead than alive. Pilar saw the lurid red spots running up and down the insides of his arms, from his wrists up to the raggedly cut off sleeve of his shirt—needle tracks indicating he'd been repeatedly drugged.

     
Worse, as she studied him more closely, she saw that his nose had been broken and had not been reset. It was swollen, with yellow-green bruises visible beneath his eyes. His mouth, which Pilar recalled as such a strong feature, was split at least four places on the lower lip, suggesting frequent beatings. She wanted to cry for him—for the pain he'd experienced at Ramirez's hands. The odor of his unwashed body assailed her nostrils, and she forced herself not to react as Morgan continued to stare blankly at her.

     
Pilar tightened her fingers around his scraped and bruised hands. His knuckles were puffy. Wincing, she saw that his fingernails were missing.

     
"Oh,
Dios,
" she whispered, stricken. On the heels of her shock came the anger. She hated Ramirez. She hated his delight in inflicting intolerable pain. Pressing her brow against Morgan's knuckles, she fought her tears.

     
Choking back a sob, Pilar lifted her head and gently framed his bearded face with her hands. "Morgan?" She spoke slowly, in clear English. "Morgan, can you hear me?
If you can, nod your head."

     
His head moved fractionally.

     
Pilar's smile was filled with relief. "Do you recognize me? Nod if you do."

     
He continued to stare at her, as if transfixed.

     
"Morgan, I've come to help you escape. Do you understand me?" The look in his eyes didn't change. Pilar tightened her hands on his face. "Morgan?"

     
With an effort, he pulled out of her imprisoning hands. "Who—is Morgan?"

     
Pilar's heart slammed into her ribs, and her mouth fell open as she stared at him in shock. "
Dios
…oh,
Dios. . . .
" He didn't even know his name! The drugs had taken everything from him, she realized as she knelt in front of him—even his identity. Trembling, she touched his knees, barely covered by the threadbare fabric.

     
"
You
are Morgan," she said firmly. "I am Pilar, your friend." She spoke the words clearly and slowly and was rewarded by seeing his pupils contract slightly again. Pilar sensed a reaction in Morgan, but was unsure exactly what it was. Her mind whirled with options.
With agony.
No wonder the guards didn't bother to lock his door. He was more
vegetable
than human. This was Ramirez's way of getting even. She rose unsteadily to her feet.

     
Looking around, she realized she must leave. Memorizing the layout of the small, smelly room, she leaned over. Did she dare tell Morgan they would rescue him later tonight? Would he slip and say something to his captors, thereby putting them in jeopardy? Under the circumstances, Pilar sensed she should say little. She placed her hands lightly on Morgan's slumped shoulders, feeling huge, thick welts on his skin beneath the shirt. Looking more closely in the feeble light provided by the sole dim bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling, Pilar saw that his entire back was matted with yellow lymph fluid—the results of lashings he'd received probably a week or two earlier. Here and there, his shirt clung to the fluid.