Midnight Rainbow (3 page)

           
 
The night sounds of the jungle began to build
around him: the screams of the howler monkeys, the rustles and chirps and
coughs of the night denizens as they went about their business. Somewhere down
close to the river he heard a jaguar cough, but he never minded the normal
jungle sounds. He was at home here. The peculiar combination of his genes and
the skills he'd learned as a boy in the swamps of
south
Georgia made him as much a part of the jungle as the jaguar that prowled the
river's edge. Though the thick canopy blocked out all light, he didn't light a
lamp or switch on a flashlight; he wanted his eyes to be perfectly adjusted to
the dark when he began moving. He relied on his ears and his instincts, knowing
that there was no danger close to him. The danger would come from men, not from
the shy jungle animals. As long as those reassuring noises surrounded him, he
knew that no men were near.

           
 
At
midnight
he rose and began easing along the route
he'd marked in his mind, and the animals and insects were so unalarmed by his
presence that the din continued without pause. The only caution he felt was
that a fer-de-lance or a bushmaster might be hunting along the path he'd
chosen, but that was a chance he'd have to take. He carried a long stick that
he swept silently across the ground before him. When he reached the edge of the
plantation he put the stick aside and crouched down to survey the grounds,
making certain everything was as expected, before he moved in. From where he
crouched, he could see that the guards were at their normal posts, probably
asleep, except for the one who patrolled the perimeter, and he'd soon settle
down for a nap, too. They were sloppy, he thought contemptuously. They
obviously didn't expect any visitors in as remote a place as this upriver
plantation. During the three days he'd spent observing them, he'd noted that
they stood around talking a great deal of the time, smoking cigarettes, not
keeping a close watch on anything. But they were still there, and those rifles
were loaded with real bullets. One of the reasons Grant had reached the age of
thirty-eight was that he had a healthy respect for weapons and what they could
do to human flesh. He didn't believe in recklessness, because it cost lives. He
waited. At least now he could see, for the night was clear, and the stars hung
low and brilliant in the sky. He didn't mind the starlight; there were plenty
of shadows that would cover his movements.

           
 
The guard at the left corner of the house
hadn't moved an inch since Grant had been watching him; he was asleep. The
guard walking the grounds had settled down against one of the pillars at the
front of the house. The faint red glow near the guard's hand told Grant that he
was smoking and if he followed his usual pattern, he'd pull his cap over his
eyes after he'd finished the cigarette, and sleep through the night. As
silently as a wraith, Grant left the concealing jungle and moved onto the
grounds, slipping from tree to bush, invisible in the black shadows.
Soundlessly, he mounted the veranda that ran alongside the house, flattening
himself against the wall and checking the scene again. It was silent and
peaceful. The guards relied far too heavily on those trip lines, not realizing
they could be dismantled. Priscilla's room was toward the back. It had double
sliding glass doors, which might be locked, but that didn't worry him; he had a
way with locks. He eased up to the doors, put out his hand and pulled silently.
The door moved easily, and his brows rose. Not locked.
Thoughtful
of her.
Gently, gently, a fraction of an inch at a time, he slid the
door open until there was enough room for him to slip through. As soon as he
was in the room he paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust again. After the
starlight, the room seemed as dark as the jungle. He didn't move a muscle, but
waited, poised and listening.

           
 
Soon he could see again. The room was big and
airy, with cool wooden floors covered with straw mats. The bed was against the
wall to his right, ghostly with the folds of mosquito netting draped around it.
Through the netting he could see the rumpled covers, the small mound on the far
side of the bed. A chair, a small round table and a tall floor lamp were on
this side of the bed. The shadows were deeper to his left, but he could see a
door that probably opened to the bathroom. An enormous wardrobe stood against
the wall. Slowly, as silently as a tiger stalking its prey, he moved around the
wall, blending into the darkness near the wardrobe. Now he could see a chair on
the far side of the bed, next to where she slept. A long white garment, perhaps
her robe or nightgown, lay across the chair. The thought that she might be
sleeping naked made his mouth quirk in a sudden grin that held no real
amusement. If she did sleep naked, she'd fight like a wildcat when he woke her.
Just what he needed.
For both their sakes, he hoped
she was clothed.

           
 
He moved closer to the bed, his eyes on the
small figure. She was so still… The hair prickled on the back of his neck in
warning, and without thinking he flung himself to the side, taking the blow on
his shoulder instead of his neck. He rolled, and came to his feet expecting to
face his assailant, but the room was still and dark again. Nothing moved, not
even the woman on the bed. Grant faded back into the shadows, trying to hear
the soft whisper of breathing, the rustle of clothing, anything. The silence in
the room was deafening. Where was his attacker? Like Grant, he'd moved into the
shadows, which were deep enough to shield several men.

           
 
Who was his assailant? What was he doing here
in the woman's bedroom? Had he been sent to kill her or was he, too, trying to
steal her from
Turego
?

           
 
His opponent was probably in the black corner
beside the wardrobe. Grant eased the knife out of its sheath,
then
pushed it in again; his hands would be as silent as the
knife. There… just for a moment, the slightest of movements, but enough to
pinpoint the man's position. Grant crouched then moved forward in a blurred
rush, catching the man low and flipping him. The stranger rolled as he landed
and came to his feet with a lithe twist, a slim dark figure outlined against
the white mosquito netting. He kicked out, and Grant dodged the blow, but he
felt the breeze of the kick pass his chin. Moving in, he caught the man's arm
with a numbing chop. He saw the arm fall uselessly to the man's side. Coldly,
without emotion, not even breathing hard, Grant threw the slim figure to the
floor and knelt with one knee on the good arm and his other knee pressed to the
man's chest. Just as he raised his hand to strike the blow that would end their
silent struggle, Grant became aware of something odd, something soft swelling
beneath his knee. Then he understood. The too-still form on the bed was so
still because it was a mound of covers, not a human being. The girl hadn't been
in bed; she'd seen him come through the sliding doors and had hidden herself in
the shadows. But why hadn't she screamed? Why had she attacked, knowing that
she had no chance of overpowering him? He moved his knee off her breasts and
quickly slid his hand to the soft mounds to make certain his weight hadn't cut
off her breath. He felt the reassuring rise of her chest, heard the soft,
startled gasp as she felt his touch, and he eased a little away from her.

           
 
"It's all right," he started to
whisper, but she suddenly twisted on the floor, wrenching away from him. Her knee
slashed upward; he was unguarded, totally vulnerable, and her knee crashed into
his groin with a force that sent agony through his whole body. Red lights
danced before his eyes, and he sagged to one side, gagging at the bitter bile
that rose in his throat, his hands automatically cupping his agonized flesh as
he ground his teeth to contain the groan that fought for release.

           
 
She scrambled away from him, and he heard a
low sob, perhaps of terror. Through pain-blurred eyes he saw her pick up
something dark and bulky; then she slipped through the open glass door and was
gone. Pure fury propelled him to his feet. Damn it, she was escaping on her
own. She was going to ruin the whole setup! Ignoring the pain in his loins, he
started after her. He had a score to settle.

           
 
Jane had just reached for her bundle of
supplies when some instinct left over from her cave-dwelling ancestors told her
that someone was near. There hadn't been any sound to alert her, but suddenly
she was aware of another presence. The fine hairs on the back of her neck and
her forearms stood up, and she had frozen, turning terrified eyes toward the
double glass doors. The doors had slid open noiselessly, and she had seen the
darker shadow of a man briefly outlined against the night. He was a big man,
but one who moved with total silence. It was the eerie soundlessness of his
movements that had frightened her more than anything, sending chills of pure
terror chasing over her skin. For days now she had lived by her nerves, holding
the terror at bay while she walked a tightrope, trying to lull
Turego's
suspicions, yet always poised for an escape
attempt. But nothing had frightened her as much as that dark shadow slipping
into her room.

           
 
Any faint hope that she would be rescued had
died when
Turego
had installed her here. She had
assessed the situation realistically. The only person who would try to-get her
out would be her father, but it would be beyond his power. She could depend on
only herself and her wits. To that end, she had flirted and flattered and
downright
lied
, doing everything she could to convince
Turego
that she was both brainless and harmless. In
that, she thought, she'd succeeded, but time was fast running out. When an aide
had brought an urgent message to
Turego
the day
before, Jane had eavesdropped; Luis Marcel's location had been discovered, and
Turego
wanted Luis, badly.

           
 
But by now
Turego
surely would have discovered that Luis had no knowledge of the missing
microfilm, and that would leave her as the sole suspect. She had to escape,
tonight, before
Turego
returned. She hadn't been idle
since she'd been here; she'd carefully memorized the routine of the guards,
especially at night, when the terror brought on by the darkness made it
impossible for her to sleep. She'd spent the nights standing at the double
doors, watching the guards, clocking them, studying their habits. By keeping
her mind busy, she'd been able to control the fear. When dawn would begin to
lighten the sky, she had slept. She had been preparing since the first day
she'd been here for the possibility that she might have to bolt into the
jungle. She'd been sneaking food and supplies, hoarding them, and steeling
herself for what lay ahead. Even now, only the raw fear of what awaited her at
Turego's
hands gave her the courage to brave the black
jungle, where the night demons were waiting for her. But none of that had been
as sinister, as lethal, as the dark shape moving through her bedroom. She
shrank back into the thick shadows, not even breathing in her acute terror. Oh,
God, she prayed, what do I do now? Why was he there?
To
murder her in her bed?
Was it one of the guards, tonight of all nights,
come to rape her?

           
 
As he passed in front of her, moving in a
slight crouch toward her bed, an odd rage suddenly filled Jane. After all she
had endured, she was damned if she'd allow him to spoil her escape attempt!
She'd talked herself into it, despite her horrible fear of the dark, and now he
was ruining it!

           
 
Her jaw set, she clenched her fists as she'd
been taught to do in her self-defense classes. She struck at the back of his
neck, but suddenly he was gone, a shadow twisting away from the blow, and her
fist struck his shoulder instead. Instantly terrified again, she shrank back
into the shelter of the wardrobe, straining her eyes to see him, but he'd
disappeared. Had he been a wraith, a figment of her imagination?

           
 
No, her fist had struck a very solid shoulder,
and the faint rippling of the white curtains over the glass doors testified
that the doors were indeed open. He was in the room, somewhere, but
where?
 
How could
a man that big
disappear
so completely?

           
 
Then, abruptly, his weight struck her in the
side, bowling her over, and she barely bit off the instinctive scream that
surged up from her throat. She didn't have a chance. She tried automatically to
kick him in the throat, but he moved like lightning, blocking her attack. Then
a hard blow to her arm numbed it all the way to her elbow, and a split second
later she was thrown to the floor, a knee pressing into her chest and making it
impossible to breathe.

           
 
The man raised his arm and Jane tensed,
willing now to scream, but unable to make a sound. Then, suddenly, the man
paused, and for some reason lifted his weight from her chest. Air rushed into
her lungs, along with a dizzying sense of relief,
then
she felt his hand moving boldly over her breasts and realized why he'd shifted
position. Both terrified and angry that this should be happening to her, she
moved instinctively the split second she realized his vulnerability, and
slashed upward with her knee. He sagged to the side, holding himself, and she
felt an absurd sense of pity. Then she realized that he hadn't even groaned
aloud. The man wasn't human! Choking back a sob of terror, she struggled to her
feet and grabbed her supplies, then darted through the open door. At that point
she wasn't escaping from
Turego
so much as from that
dark, silent demon in her room.

           
 
Heedlessly, she flung herself across the
plantation grounds; her heart was pounding so violently that the sound of her
blood pumping through her veins made a roar in her ears. Her lungs hurt, and
she realized that she was holding her breath. She tried to remind herself to be
quiet, but the urge to flee was too strong for caution; she stumbled over a
rough section of ground and sprawled on her hands and knees. As she began
scrambling to her feet, she was suddenly overwhelmed by something big and warm,
smashing her back to the ground. Cold, pure terror froze her blood in her
veins, but before even an instinctive scream could find voice, his hand was on
the back of her neck and everything went black. Jane regained consciousness by
degrees, confused by her upside down position, the jouncing she was suffering,
the discomfort of her arms. Strange noises assailed her ears, noises that she
tried and failed to identify. Even when she opened her eyes she saw only
blackness. It was one of the worst nightmares she'd ever had. She began kicking
and struggling to wake up, to end the dream, and abruptly a sharp slap stung
her bottom. "Settle down," an ill-tempered voice said from somewhere
above and behind her. The voice was that of a stranger, but there was something
in that laconic drawl that made her
obey
instantly.

           
 
Slowly things began to shift into a
recognizable pattern, and her senses righted themselves. She was being carried
over a man's shoulder through the jungle. Her wrists had been taped behind her,
and her ankles were also secured. Another wide band of tape covered her mouth,
preventing her from doing anything more than grunting or humming. She didn't
feel like humming, so she used her limited voice to grunt out exactly what she
thought of him, in language that would have left her elegant mother white with
shock. A hard hand again made contact with the seat of her pants. "Would
you shut the hell up?" he growled. "You sound like a pig grunting at
the trough."

           
 
American!
she
thought, stunned. He was an American! He'd come to rescue her, even though he
was being unnecessarily rough about it… or was he a rescuer? Chilled, she
thought of all the different factions who would like to get their hands on her.
Some of those factions were fully capable of hiring an American mercenary to
get her, or of training one of their own to imitate an American accent and win
her trust. She didn't dare trust anyone, she realized. Not anyone. She was
alone in this. The man stopped and lifted her from his shoulder, standing her
on her feet. Jane blinked her eyes,
then
widened them
in an effort to see, but the darkness under the thick canopy was total, she
couldn't see anything. The night pressed in on her, suffocating her with its
thick darkness. Where was he? Had he simply dropped her here in the jungle and
left her to be breakfast for a jaguar? She could sense movement around her, but
no sounds that she could identify as him; the howls and
chittering
and squawks and rustles of the jungle filled her ears. A whimper rose in her
throat, and she tried to move, to seek a tree or something to protect her back,
but she'd forgotten her bound feet and she stumbled to the ground, scratching
her face on a bush.

           
 
A low obscenity came to her ears,
then
she was roughly grasped and hauled to her feet.
"Damn it, stay put!"

           
 
So he was still there. How could he see? What
was he doing? No matter
who
he was or what he was doing,
at that moment Jane was grateful for his presence. She could not conquer her
fear of darkness but the fact that she wasn't alone held the terror at bay. She
gasped as he abruptly lifted her and tossed her over his shoulder again, as
effortlessly as if she were a rag doll. She felt the bulk of a backpack, which
hadn't been there before, but he showed no sign of strain. He moved through the
stygian darkness with a peculiar sure-footedness, a lithe, powerful grace that
never faltered. Her own pack of pilfered supplies was still slung around her
shoulders, the straps holding it even though it had slid down and was bumping
against the back of her head. A can of something was banging against her skull;
she'd probably have concussion if this macho fool didn't ease up. What did he
think this was, some sort of jungle marathon? Her ribs were being bruised
against his hard shoulder, and she felt various aches all over her body,
probably as a result of his roughness in throwing her to the floor. Her arm
ached to the bone from his blow. Even if this was a real rescue, she thought,
she'd be lucky if she lived through it.

           
 
She bounced on his shoulder for what seemed
like days, the pain in her cramped limbs increasing with every step he took.
Nausea began to rise in her, and she took deep breaths in an effort to stave
off throwing up. If she began to vomit, with her mouth taped the way it was,
she could suffocate. Desperately she began to struggle, knowing only that she
needed to get into an upright position.

           
 
"Easy there,
Pris
."
Somehow he seemed to know how she was feeling. He stopped and lifted her off
his shoulder, easing her onto her back on the ground. When her weight came down
on her bound arms she couldn't suppress a whimper of pain. "All
right," the man said. "I'm going to cut you loose now, but if you
start acting up, I'll truss you up like a Christmas turkey again and leave you
that way. Understand?" She nodded wildly, wondering if he could see her in
the dark. Evidently he could, because he turned her on her side and she felt a
knife slicing through the tape that bound her wrists. Tears stung her eyes from
the pain as he pulled her arms around and began massaging them roughly to ease
her cramped muscles.

           
 
"Your daddy sent me to get you out of
here," the man drawled calmly as he began easing the tape off of her
mouth. Instead of ripping the adhesive away and taking skin with it, he was
careful, and Jane was torn between gratitude and indignation, since he'd taped
her mouth in the first place. Jane moved her mouth back and forth, restoring it
to working condition. "My daddy?" she asked hoarsely.

           
 
"Yeah.
Okay,
now,
Pris
, I'm going to free your legs, but if you
look like you're even thinking about kicking me again, I won't be as easy with
you as I was the last time." Despite his drawl, there was something
menacing in his tone, and Jane didn't doubt his word.

           
 
"I wouldn't have kicked you the first
time if you hadn't started pawing at me like a high school sophomore!" she
hissed.

           
 
"I was checking to see if you were
breathing."

           
 
"Sure you were, and taking your time
about it, too."

           
 
"Gagging you was a damned good
idea," he said reflectively, and Jane shut up. She had yet to see him as
anything more than a shadow. She couldn't even put a name to him, but she knew
enough about him to know that he would bind and gag her again without a
moment's compunction. He cut the tape from around her ankles, and again she was
subjected to his rough but effective massage.

           
 
In only a moment she was being pulled to her
feet; she staggered momentarily before regaining her sense of balance.