Heart of the wolf (2 page)

Wolf Harding had been commander of the three-man
Perseus
team. And his condition was only fair. What had gone wrong? Morgan tried to appear attentive as the soft- spoken doctor completed her analysis of his men's conditions.

"When may I see them, Dr. Shepherd?"

"0800 tomorrow morning, Mr.
Trayhern
."

"Not any sooner?"

She gave him a sympathetic smile. "I'm sorry. Both men are exhausted and are sleeping deeply right now."

Curbing his impatience, Morgan gave her a curt nod. "I appreciate all your help, Dr. Shepherd."

"Of course.
If you'll excuse me, Mr.
Trayhern
, I have my rounds to complete."

Morgan nodded,
then
remained standing in the gloomy visitors' lounge as she disappeared down a corridor. The silence ate away at him as his mind traveled back in time. Two years ago, he'd formed
Perseus
—a security consulting company—and hired twenty mercenaries. His men and women would go anywhere in the world, aiding those in jeopardy who were beyond the help of direct U.S. government intervention. Today, Morgan had more demands for his people's services than he had people to fill those requests. And
Perseus
had an unblemished record of success—until now.

Rubbing his sandpapery jaw, he decided to stay at the hospital—just in case Wolf took a turn for the worse. He wouldn't abandon his men the way he'd been left—to die alone in some foreign country's hospital. He didn't care whether his men knew he stood guard over them. When he'd started his company, Morgan had made a promise to his people and to himself: He'd treat them the way he'd want to be treated.

Morgan's connections in the upper levels of government meant
Perseus
lacked for nothing. He had state-of-the-art communications with the FBI and CIA, satellite links, and the eager help of friendly countries. The government had been only too happy to hear he was setting up shop. There were many cases involving American citizens that they couldn't become directly involved in- shadowy political cases that could threaten the progress of diplomacy if the government was implicated.
Perseus
came in and quietly handled the problem.

Slowly pacing the length of the visitors' lounge, Morgan felt exhaustion tugging at him. He'd had a sixth sense about this long mission, which involved three of his best men. Stopping, he looked around at the gloom and sighed. He was lucky they hadn't been killed. And for that he was grateful.
Perseus
employees were culled from the top mercenaries in the world. They were at the top of their craft, highly intelligent, loyal, and emotionally stable—unlike many mercenary types, who might have skills, but lacked the stable psychological profile
Morgan
demanded.

He thought of Laura, his wife, who would still be sleeping soundly in their nearby Washington, D.C., home. She'd become accustomed to him bailing out of bed at ungodly hours to meet his returning mercenaries, arriving from a mission at one of the region's two major airports—or sometimes at the Bethesda Naval Hospital. He'd call and leave Laura a message on the answering service so that she'd know where he was and not to worry.

Frowning, Morgan loosened his paisley tie and unbuttoned his shirt collar. He sank down onto the plastic cushions of a visitors' room sofa, which creaked in protest as he relaxed for the first time in hours. Two of the three men he'd sent to Peru had been injured. Jake, the third—not requiring medical transport—would be returning on a later flight. Morgan would have to wait to hear his version of events. Morgan wished he could get used to this part of his job, but he knew he never would.
Once a leader of a company of men, the old Marine Corps saying went, always a leader of a company of men.
Well, he'd had his men caught in one hell of a vise. They were lucky they'd survived at all.

With a sigh, Morgan tipped his head back and closed his eyes. He needed to talk to Wolf Harding. He needed to find out what had happened.

A groan pulled Wolf out of his deep, healing sleep. The noise sounded as if it came from
faraway
, but as he slowly forced his eyes open a fraction he realized he was the one doing the groaning. Pain lapped at the edges of his semiconscious confusion. Where was he? The room was quiet, white and clean. The hell he'd lived in for over a month had been dark, dank and torturous.

I'm alive.

The thought congealed in his
groggy
mind. Wolf forced his awareness outward. He was in a bed—unshackled. Every muscle in his body felt as if it were on fire. Widening his attention span, Wolf took in two IV's dispensing life-giving fluids into both his arms. Blips of memory from the nightmarish past sped through his mind.

He saw faces, inhaled horrible smells. He heard screams.
The scream of a woman.
Oh,
God. . .

The door to his room slowly opened.

Wolf blinked back the tears that had welled up in his eyes. Though his vision was blurred, he recognized his boss, Morgan
Trayhern
, who look disheveled, his face darkly in need of a shave, his tie askew over the open collar of his white silk shirt.

A wall of emotion funneled up through Wolf. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was an animal groan. He saw Morgan's pale features grow taut as he
approached,
his mouth thinning. Wolf knew he must look like death warmed over.

"You look like hell," Morgan said by way of greeting as he halted at Wolf's bedside. Wolf's face was bruised, cut and swollen, the flesh around his eyes puffy, allowing Morgan only a glimpse of gray through the
slitted
eyelids.

Wolf nodded and dragged in a ragged breath.
"Where?" he croaked.

"Bethesda Naval Hospital.
The Peruvian police called me, and we sent the jet down for you and Killian. You arrived around midnight last night."

At the mention of his Irish friend's name, Wolf tried to speak, but he found it impossible.

"He's in better shape than you are," Morgan said, reading the question in Wolf's bloodshot eyes. "And Jake is fine. He caught a military flight out of the country and will be arriving here shortly." Morgan frowned. "You're the one we were worried about."

"Yeah?"

"You in much pain?"
Morgan recalled all too vividly the times after his own surgery when his pain medication had worn off and he'd sweated in agony for hours before some harried, overworked nurse finally came by to check on him.

Wolf nodded once. He saw Morgan lean over and press the button that would bring a nurse with a shot to numb his physical pain. But as much as he wished there was a shot or pills that could dull the raging pain in his heart,

Wolf knew there was nothing to lessen that shattering ache. A clawing sensation tugged at his chest—something he wanted to escape but couldn't. The emotional wall of pain nearly suffocated him as he lay beneath Morgan's concerned gaze. From somewhere, he dredged up the strength to speak.

"Leave," he muttered thickly, his words slurred. "I want to go away, Morgan."

Morgan's eyes narrowed. "Oh?"

"I want to leave the field for a while."

Morgan watched as a parade of emotions crossed Wolf's battered features. "
Perseus
has an automatic policy to grant returning mercenaries time out of the field after a mission's completed, Wolf—you know that."

"More than a month," Wolf rasped, struggling to speak, struggling to overcome the pain. At least the intensity of the physical pain seemed to temporarily override the emotional pain. That was something.

Morgan looked up toward the window. The bright May sunlight was spilling into the room. "Something happened down there."

Wolf's breath began to come faster, and his heart began to pound, as it thought of—
Savagely
he slammed the door shut on the too-fresh memories that haunted him. "
I.
. .want. . .time. . .Need time, Morgan." He forced his eyes as far open as possible. "Get away. Get me a
job.
. .any job. . .away. . ."

Hearing the desperation in the rising pitch of Wolf's husky voice, Morgan raised his hand. "Just tell me what you need, and I'll make sure it happens, Wolf."

Collapsing against the bed, the tension bleeding out of him, Wolf closed his eyes. His voice was wobbly with raw feelings. "Something
safe.
. . quiet. . .
The mountains.
Somewhere away from everything."

"People?"

Wolf was always startled by Morgan's insight. Maybe it was because he'd suffered so much himself that he could read Wolf's suffering so easily. "No people.
Got.
. . to be alone. . ."

Rubbing his jaw, Morgan thought for a moment. "Dr. Shepherd said it would be at least three weeks before you can leave the hospital."

"After that," Wolf forced out violently. He had to escape! He had to be alone in order to start dealing with the horrible atrocities he'd managed to survive in Peru—and the emotional ones he feared he hadn't survived. . . .

"Montana far enough away?"
Morgan asked.

Wolf nodded.

"I can get you a job as a forest ranger. I've got the connections. You'd be fairly isolated.
Working alone in the wilderness.
Interested?"

Again Wolf nodded. He was afraid to speak, afraid that if any noise escaped him it would be a sob—and he'd start crying for all those months of hell he'd endured.

"It's yours, then," Morgan promised. "All I ask is that when you're feeling up to it you write me a report on what the hell happened down there. I'll have my assistant, Marie
Parker,
have the job ready for you when you walk out of this place." Morgan reached down and gripped Wolf's large, callused hand, which bore many recent pink scars.
"Just get well, Wolf.
Take the time you need.
Perseus
needs your talents, your abilities.
I
need you."

Oh, no!
Sarah sucked in a sharp breath as the Douglas fir she was working under gave a sharp, splintering crack. Scrambling, she tried to throw herself upward, out of the cavernous hole beneath its twisted roots.

A gasp broke from her as she was slammed back onto the dusty white earth and its carpet of dried fir needles. The sixty-foot tree had arched to one side, missing her head and torso, but pinning her ankles and feet beneath the massive roots. Trapped! She was trapped! And then pain shot up her legs. Groaning, Sarah lay still a moment, reorienting herself, before she struggled to a sitting position. She was in the shallow depression she had dug beneath the fir as she searched for the sapphire gravel concentrate that collected beneath the roots.

"How could I?" she whispered disgustedly, her fingers trembling as she frantically dug in and around the roots, trying to locate her ankles. "This is an amateur's mistake, Sarah Thatcher." And then she grimaced and stiffened. The agony was real.

Pushing strands of damp blond hair away from her furrowed brow, Sarah clawed at the loose soil, trying to remove enough from under her legs to free her trapped feet. The sapphire gravel—the gemstones in their natural state, as small, round pebbles—were piled around her with the rest of the debris.

Gasping, Sarah arched back suddenly, her fingers clutching her jean-clad thigh. The pain had increased tenfold. Had she broken one or both of her ankles? Anger at her stupidity warred with her fear of the situation. Glancing up through the fir trees, Sarah could see the clouds building. It was late
August,
and here in the Rocky Mountains near her tiny hometown of Philipsburg, Montana, it was common for afternoon thunderstorms to pop up, sending furious torrents of rain at a moment's notice.