Morgan's Rescue (32 page)

     
Pilar's heart felt as if it was shattering with pain. Hot tears blinded her. "I have failed so many people," she sobbed. "I love him, Fernando. He's the only man I will ever love! I know in my soul he is for me. I saw it in his eyes, in the way he loved me."

     
"My child," Fernando said heavily, "I'm sure Culver cares deeply for you. How could he not?
But enough to accept that you are pregnant?
Do you think he will marry you in this condition? Even if he lives, he will not want you. What will his family think? Think clearly now, Pilar. You are a South American woman. His
family are
Norte Americanos.
Would they accept you?"

     
Miserably, Pilar shook her head. "I have sinned so badly, Fernando. Even God will not forgive me for what I have done." She lifted her head and sniffed. "I do not deserve what you offer me."

     
"Your life has been hard,
Pilar
. I saw you struggle as a young girl growing up. Your mestiza blood has caused you much pain and hardship. I do not wish you to stain your family's name before the rich and powerful of
Lima
. Let me marry you. I will never ask for a husband's rights. You will be a daughter to me, not a wife. My heart has room only for my dear Angelica, who died in childbirth with our baby girl. But I can be your friend. Let me help you. . . ."

     
Fernando had married her that very evening in front of a priest at his church. And he had saved her family name and made good on his promise to treat her as his beloved daughter. Pilar knew he had done it for her father, and she was grateful. When Fernando passed on, he'd left a half-million-dollar estate and his name to continue his powerful protection. And no one, outside of Dr. Sanchez, who had never breathed a word and her grandparents, knew the truth.

     
Pilar tried again to force her eyes open. How many times in her feverish state had she hallucinated that Culver was here to rescue her? She knew the infection of her bullet wound was creating the dream—mingled with her deep longing to see Culver again.

     
A cooling hand settled on her brow. She opened her eyes. This physical sensation wasn't a fevered hallucination. The hand—Culver's large hand—moved caressingly from her sweaty brow to her cheek.

     
Her dry, cracked lips parting, Pilar watched as Culver leaned closer. His face was smeared with mud to camouflage his white skin. He put a finger to his lips in caution. Pilar gulped and nodded that she understood. How had he gotten here? Her mind gyrated wildly with questions,
then
suddenly blanked out from the fever. She wanted to laugh hysterically and sob with relief. Sudden fear gutted her: if Culver was here, he was in great danger.

     
"Pilar," Culver rasped close to her ear as he crouched down by the cot, his arm moving protectively across her, "I'm going to carry you out of here. Whatever you do, don't cry out. Just hang on. You hear me? I'll get you to safety."

     
His eyes glittered with a feral quality she'd never seen before. And she saw tears in his eyes, along with blazing anger. Since her capture, Pilar had received no medical attention for the bullet lodged in her left shoulder. Ramirez's last order before he'd boarded a helicopter for
Bogota
was to let her lie without antibiotics or medical intervention until she told what she knew of the raid. Pilar had refused to talk, but in some ways felt thankful for her injury. There were many worse ways to die at Ramirez's hands. So she had lain here, preparing to die. . . .

     
Culver left her side and she heard him rummaging around. Then she heard glass breaking, and he was back at her side. He scrubbed the inside of her right arm with an alcohol swab,
then
she felt the jab of a needle.

     
"Antibiotics," he rasped.

     
Sighing, Pilar felt relief flowing through her. Culver had accurately read the situation. For the first time in days, she allowed herself some hope that she might not die. She closed her eyes.

     
Pilar felt Culver's hands sliding beneath her body.
She still wore her same clothes, now mud caked and foul smelling. She felt Culver lift her as if she were a feather. Instantly, pain ripped through her shoulder, and Pilar stiffened in his arms. This definitely was no dream. Biting down hard on her lower lip to keep from crying out, she squeezed her eyes shut.

     
Her head lolled against his shoulder, and her face pressed into the side of his neck as he carried her to the door. Pilar wanted to help him somehow, but weakness flooded her. Struggling to keep a hold on consciousness, she focused on remaining quiet. The guards had said she was dying and then had laughed at her. They had stopped coming to check on her, saying that in another twenty-four hours they would carry her out in a body bag.

     
Now Pilar felt the powerful beat of Culver's heart against her side. The warm jungle air flowed across her, a welcome contrast to the antiseptic odors of the dispensary. Pilar knew they were still in serious danger of being discovered, but she couldn't think about it. The last of her reserves had to go toward fighting to maintain a thread of consciousness and to not cry out in pain. Each soundless step Culver took tore at her wound. Pilar heard insects singing. Opening her eyes, she looked up. For once, the fog hadn't formed above the jungle. Miraculously, she saw stars shining softly in the ebony sky.

     
Just as quickly, they disappeared as Culver eased her through a door and back into the jungle's dense foliage. Her energy was leaking away with each step he took, and she felt his sharp, punctuated breath as he moved deeper into the leafy darkness. They still weren't safe, and Pilar knew it. But with Culver's arms holding her tightly, she felt beautifully protected, even as the last vestiges of her practical mind told her it was an exaggerated sense of safety.

     
At one point, Culver stopped and laid her gently against a tree trunk. Pilar watched him through blurred vision as he called Major Houston and asked for a helicopter to meet them at certain coordinates. Pilar struggled to speak, but couldn't form words.

     
"Hold still," Culver ordered gruffly as he pulled the stained and bloody blouse away from her left shoulder. His eyes narrowed at the sight of her swollen, purplish skin. "Those sons of bitches," he rasped as he gently replaced the material.

     
Pilar looked dazedly up into his fiery gaze. "Th-they said they would give me medical treatment if I told them everything," she managed to whisper. Her lips pulled into a grimace. "I told them nothing,
mi querido.
"

     
Culver touched her feverish face. "I know," he whispered thickly. "Hang on, Pilar. Just hang on. We've got an hour's hike to the LZ, where
Houston
will meet us."

     
Pilar barely managed to nod her understanding. Then, as Culver picked her back up, she felt herself floating out of her body. No longer was she in pain, and because of her shamanic training, she recognized that she had slipped into an altered state of consciousness. Culver's mouth pressed momentarily to hers as he lifted her against him. Weakly, Pilar tried to respond, but it was impossible. Still, his mouth was natural and strong against her lips, feeding her strength and energy.

     
Moving in and out of consciousness, Pilar was barely aware of leaves swatting against them, splattering them with dew. At least it was clean water and how she'd longed, at first, for a shower. But, more than anything, she was thirsty. The guards had withheld even water. Her mouth was cottony, and she felt nearly delirious for moisture in any form. As Culver carried her through the dense jungle, droplets of water occasionally splashed on her lips, and she ran her tongue across them to absorb the precious liquid.

     
A siren began to wail.

     
"Damn!" Culver muttered, turning briefly back toward the compound. They had come nearly a mile. A guard must have discovered
Pilar
missing. The hunt was on. His arms tightened around Pilar's light body. Glancing down at her, he saw that she was unconscious again, her head lolling back across his arm.

     
His heart rate soaring with anxiety, Culver began to trot awkwardly with his load. Pilar moaned softly with each footfall, and he knew the jarring motion was hurting her. His fingers flexed, holding her even more snugly against him.

     
If the guards found them, they'd kill them. He increased his stride, lifting his boots higher to avoid tripping over roots. Leaves and branches swatted at him continuously, some of them cutting mercilessly at his face and arms. Pilar might die. The thought terrified him. He knew the bullet was still in her body. What if it was near an artery? This jostling could sever it, and she'd bleed to death in minutes.

     
The added sound of barking dogs made his skin crawl. Ramirez's men had called in guard dogs to follow their scent through the jungle. Culver increased his speed. He had to run. Despite Pilar's thinness, she still weighed at least a hundred pounds, and the muscles in his back began to protest. Culver knew he had another twenty minutes before they reached the small clearing north of the compound. Would Mike get there in time with the helicopter? If he was late, Ramirez's men and dogs would catch them without question, and Mike, too, would be endangered.

     
His mind gyrated back to Pilar. He loved her. He loved her more than life. And still he hadn't told her. If she died, what would he do? How could he go on living? Culver hadn't realized how dark his days had been for those years without her, until she'd magically reentered his life, like rays of pure sunlight and fresh breezes filling a room too long closed away. He no longer cared about the past or her reasons for what she'd done. He'd forgiven her. All he wanted now was a second chance, and with each step, he prayed to be given it.

     
The baying of the dogs grew closer. He and Pilar were ten minutes from the clearing. Culver pressed her head and shoulders tightly against his chest as he ran, covering the ground in long, loping strides. He was grateful she had passed out, so she no longer felt the awful pain of her wound. Then, to his terror, he felt something sticky and warm trickling across his arm. He jerked his head, glancing downward. Pilar's wound was bleeding heavily.

     
From far in the distance, Culver began to hear the faint sounds of a helicopter speeding toward them. The dogs were closing in. Five minutes. Just five minutes to the clearing. The guards were firing wildly through the trees in a wide arc, though they couldn't yet see him. Bullets whined and gasping for breath, Culver hunched over, using his body to shield Pilar. He heard her moan,
then
cry out as he leapt over an exposed root.

     
"Hang on," he gasped, tearing through the foliage and brush like a madman. He felt her hand weakly try to grasp his shirt, without success.

     
Suddenly, Culver burst out into the clearing. He jerked to a halt, panting heavily. The helicopter was close, though he couldn't see it. The dogs were closer, too. Placing Pilar on the ground, he allowed her to lean against his body as he knelt beside her. Pulling out his radio, he contacted
Houston
.

     
"Roger, White Raven, our ETA is two minutes. Out,"
Houston
said.

     
Culver shoved the radio back into the web belt around his waist. Anxiously, he looked down at Pilar. She had slumped against his left side, her head sagging wearily on his chest. Culver tried to steady his breathing as he glanced behind them. He pulled out his revolver, knowing that any minute now the dogs would find them. The vicious Dobermans were trained to kill. He'd have no remorse about shooting them.

     
"Culver…"

     
He leaned down, struggling to catch his breath as he placed his ear near Pilar's mouth. She was speaking softly, in delirious fragments.

     
"What is it?" he rasped, dividing his attention between her, the approaching aircraft and the howling dogs.