In the Arms of a Hero. BEVERLY BARTONЧитать онлайн книгу.
known that she was the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in the United States, nothing and no one could save her.
One
Quinn landed his new Cessna on an abandoned airstrip near a wide-open savanna halfway up Mt. Simona. Jungle surrounded the freshly cleared area. He could have demanded and gotten a more expensive plane from Ryan Fortune, but he had chosen a hundred-and-forty-thousand-dollar jewel. A larger plane would have had great difficulty landing, but the Skyhawk 172R breezed onto the narrow strip. The 172 didn’t excel at anything in particular, not in style nor performance. But no other plane, on as little as 145 hp, could equal its overall performance. Quinn had chosen this particular plane for its dependability. In his chosen profession, that quality outweighed any other.
The airstrip built on the mountain plateau known as El Prado prior to World War II and left to the jungle in the early seventies had been forgotten by all but a few old-timers. Quinn never began an assignment without knowing the terrain of the country and searching out “associates” who could assist him. Julio Vargas, who waited for Quinn to disembark, had come highly recommended by “friends.”
The short, stocky native, a machete in his hand, greeted Quinn with a wide smile. “Bienvenido! Welcome to Santo Bonisto.”
The sun kissed the mountain peaks above them, creating a colorful twilight. The sounds of oncoming night in the jungle resonated like distant music as a hushed stillness encompassed the secluded mountain plateau. A mad, high-pitched cry announced that a laughing falcon was nearby. The sound, so close to human hilarity, grated on Quinn’s nerves. He scanned the area. A three-toed sloth hanging from a fig tree branch seemed to be staring at him. Ugly creature, he thought.
“Let’s camouflage the plane and get out of here. I don’t want to set up camp anywhere close by,” Quinn said.
Coming in at night would have been ideal, except it would have required Julio to light the runway. Any unidentified light up so high in the mountains would have been suspect if seen by rebel soldiers. So coming in at dusk had been the wisest alternative. The plane, once hidden by brush, a lot of it removed from the runway itself, would be safe enough. As safe as any isolated spot on this godforsaken island.
He had done his homework on Victoria Fortune before flying out of Puerto Rico, after refueling there earlier in the day. The more he knew about the woman beforehand, the better his chances of persuading her to leave Santo Bonisto. The picture that had been included in the folder Sam had given him didn’t look much like a sophisticated heiress. The fresh-faced redhead, with a splattering of freckles across her nose, looked more like the girl next door than a multi-millionaire’s daughter. But her do-gooder complex marked her as lady who had more money than sense. Any woman in her right mind wouldn’t be playing nursemaid to a bunch of peasants in a Third World country ready to blow sky-high at any moment. Just what was Ms. Fortune trying to prove? With her college degrees, she could be working in any hospital or clinic of her choice in the U.S. Or with her daddy’s millions, she could be part of the jet-setting idle rich. So why had she become a member of the World Health Institute? And why had she stayed in Santo Bonisto when civil war broke out? Didn’t she know that by staying in Palmira, she risked not only her life, but the lives of anyone who befriended her? And now she was risking his life—the sucker her father had hired to save her spoiled little butt.
“There is no time to set up camp, Señor McCoy.” After laying aside his machete, Julio began dragging up brush to cover the plane. “You must go to Palmira as quickly as possible, if you wish to bring Señorita Fortune back with you.”
Quinn lifted a heavy tree limb that lay on the ground. “What’s happened?” He positioned the limb against the side of the plane.
“The rebel forces will be in Palmira no later than day after tomorrow. Perhaps as early as late tomorrow.” Julio continued the process of hiding the plane from any aerial observance. “In order to reach Palmira before daybreak, you must get started immediately.”
“I thought I’d have more time.”
“Your supplies are ready.” Julio removed a rolled parchment from his jacket and handed it to Quinn. “The quickest and safest way to reach Palmira is to take a boat upriver. I have a boat waiting for you when you reach the Rio Blanco. Here’s a map to guide you down the mountain and to the river. I have marked the exact location of the clinic in Palmira. I understand that Señorita Fortune has a room there.”
“Just what will I run into on my way?” Quinn asked.
Julio disappeared inside the thicket to his right, then returned leading a heavily laden mule. He retrieved an M-16 and tossed it to Quinn. “Going in will be relatively safe. Coming out is another story altogether.”
Julio grinned, exposing a wide expanse of rosy gum above a row of white teeth. He removed the backpack from the mule.
Quinn strapped on the pack, checked the M-16 and then opened the map. Scanning the map quickly, he noticed that Julio had outlined the rebel troop movements in the area. They were advancing toward Palmira at this very moment. If he didn’t get in as soon as possible, he might not be able to find Victoria Fortune and get her to safety before all hell broke loose.
“I couldn’t make any arrangements to aid you in returning from Palmira,” Julio told him. “The rebel forces have spies everywhere. Just a hint that someone from the outside was in the area would send off alarm signals. If you need help while in Palmira, contact Segundo. He works at the Cantina Caesar. You can trust him.”
Quinn gripped Julio’s shoulder and shook his hand soundly. “Keep an eye on my plane. If all goes as planned, I should be back with my passenger before nightfall tomorrow.”
“If anything goes wrong, your best course of action is to head to Gurabo. There’s a U.S. consulate there, and for now, the capital city is still held by the president’s army.”
Getting Victoria Fortune out of Santo Bonisto sounded as if it would be a simple operation. Travel to Palmira, tell the woman her father had sent him to fetch her home, bring her with him down the Rio Blanco and up Mt. Simona, then fly her back to Texas. An uncomplicated task—if rebel soldiers didn’t already have Palmira practically surrounded. “My gut instincts tell me not to count on this being easy.”
“Sí,” Julio said. “A man should always listen to his gut instincts.”
Victoria studied the man’s face—young, handsome, and deadly still. His big brown eyes stared sightlessly up at the ceiling. She had lost him. Tears clouded her vision. Emotion clogged her throat. She had seen people die before, had attended elderly patients on their deathbeds and children passing away after suffering with incurable diseases. But this was her first experience with a soldier whose body was riddled with shrapnel. And he was only one of many who had been brought to the clinic from a battle less than twenty miles from Palmira. Nationalist soldiers were trying valiantly to protect Palmira from the horde of savage rebels blazing a path of death and destruction on their march toward Gurabo.
With gentle fingers she closed the youth’s eyes, then lifted the sheet to cover his bloody body.
“Move this man onto the back porch,” Victoria instructed Felipe, an elderly Palmira resident who had volunteered to help with the onslaught of wounded men being brought into the clinic. “There was nothing I could do for him. And I’m sure there will be others who will die tonight. Go to the church and bring Father Marco. He’s needed here. Then see if you can round up some men to…” She took a deep, calming breath. “Someone will have to bury this man and any others who die.”
“Sí, señorita,” Felipe said. “I go now.” His weary, faded brown eyes gazed at her with the same adoration she often saw in Ernesto’s eyes. “You care for the soldiers who are alive. Let me take care of the dead.”
Victoria nodded, then brushed her damp bangs from her forehead. Nightfall had brought cooler temperatures, but the day’s humidity lingered inside the stucco walls, creating a steam bath effect. The crowded clinic, filled beyond capacity, reeked with body odor, medicinal scents, fresh blood and the unmistakable