Читать книгу Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart of Stone - Lindsay McKenna - Страница 7

“Morgan, I’ve got to warn you. Captain Maya Stevenson is a modern-day woman warrior,” Mike Houston said as he sat down with his boss at a round table beneath a red-and-white-striped umbrella. “She kicks butt and takes names later.”

Morgan sipped his fragrant Peruvian coffee, his gaze restless as he looked down the narrow, red tiled walk toward the entranceway of the India Feliz Restaurant, where they were shortly to meet the clandestine and legendary Maya Stevenson. Directly in front of them rose the massive, loaf-shaped dome of Machu Picchu. It was December, summertime, and the landscape was dotted with orchids.

Morgan and Mike had arrived a half hour earlier by helicopter from Cuzco. Agua Caliente was a small, bustling tourist town, the closest community to the archeological wonder that was Machu Picchu.

“She’s kind of like a real-life Lara Croft,” Mike continued, using the action heroine and the popular video game to describe Maya.

“My son, Jason, is in love with Lara Croft, the female archeologist in his Tomb Raider game.” Morgan chuckled. “He’s fourteen years old and plays that game every chance he gets.” Quirking one eyebrow toward Mike, he said, “A living Lara Croft. That’s saying a lot.”

Mike, dressed in the typical tourist gear of a Machu Picchu T-shirt, jeans and hiking boots because he didn’t want to draw attention to himself, grinned and sipped from his china coffee cup. “You know, for years while we were out here chasin’ the bad guys—the drug dealers—my soldiers and I would come busting into the area north of Machu Picchu. We’d fly in with helicopters, then drop down and start raiding. Our goal was to stop shipments from getting into Bolivia. Every once in a while we’d get outnumbered and out-gunned, trapped by the druggies, who were trying to take us out. I knew there was no help coming to save our butts. We performed our missions alone, with the government’s approval, but they didn’t have the money to bankroll us like we needed. So if we got into trouble, we were on our own.”

Mike’s eyes sparkled. “And out of nowhere would come these black Boeing Apache assault helicopters. Two of them. And I mean out of nowhere.”

“You’ve told me about these unmarked black helos coming in and saving your neck from time to time,” Morgan acknowledged. “Way back when, we didn’t know it was a spec ops—special operations—that was behind them. Now we do.” He looked up at the late morning sky, a pale blue with thin white clouds silently wafting overhead. Every now and again a snakelike wisp would coil around the top of one of the towering mountains that literally surrounded Agua Caliente. At six thousand feet in altitude, the small Peruvian town looked to Morgan like a mystical Shangri-la, hidden deep in the mountainous jungle, in the middle of nowhere. The roar of the mighty Urubamba river, less than a half mile away, was clearly audible from the restaurant patio.

Watching the ceaseless flow of tourists passing the India Feliz, Morgan heard snatches of German, French, Italian, as well as British and American accents. It was a Tower of Babel, quite literally, a baby United Nations.

Morgan had boned up on Machu Picchu and found out that what drew people from around the world was the spiritual nature of this old Incan temple complex. It was said to be the center of feminine energy on the planet, just as the Tibetan Himalayas, on the opposite side of the globe, were considered the masculine center. New Agers came here, from the looks of it—many on some kind of spiritual quest, he supposed.

“This is a very peaceful place,” he murmured. “And drop-dead gorgeous. Look at the thousands of orchids clinging to that lava cliff face in front of us. That’s pretty astounding.”

Mike grimaced. “Yeah, it is. On the surface it’s peaceful.” He pointed at the hazy, mist-shrouded canyon, where a whole series of mountains nestled shoulder-to-shoulder along the raging, unharnessed Urubamba. The mountains looked like soldiers at attention to him. “Go twenty miles north or east or west, and you’re going to meet drug runners trying to get their cocaine crop across the Peruvian border into Bolivia, where they know they won’t be pursued by us.”

“At least the Peruvian government let Maya come in here with U.S. support. The records suggest she and her squadron of women pilots are slowing the trade out of Peru more than a little. Fifty percent reduction isn’t a bad figure considering what she’s up against.”

Mike nodded and lifted his chin. “Yeah, she’s done one helluva job on a shoestring budget. Normally, spec ops get money thrown at them. Millions of dollars, as a matter of fact. But not her program. It was her idea to start an all-women squadron hidden deep in the mountain jungles to take out the bad guys. The only reason the idea took off was because her father’s an army general and backed it. If he hadn’t been, she wouldn’t be here today or done the incredible job she and her band of women rebels have done.” Mike grinned, respect in his tone.

“My wife, Laura, who is a military archivist and history buff, is very taken with Maya’s legend.” Morgan waved his hand. “Not that I’ve told her that much, but Laura is gung ho about what she knows, and glad we’ll be supporting Maya’s mission now, in place of the CIA.”

Rubbing his jaw, Mike sat back and stretched out his long legs. Two local dogs came up to the table and lay down between them. One was a black-and-white terrier type and the other looked like the descendant of a golden retriever who’d met an ugly mutt in one of the back alleys of Agua Caliente one night. The dogs sat contentedly near their feet, hoping for a few handouts. “Personally, I think the spooks wanted Maya to fail,” he stated.

“Of course they did.” Morgan chuckled as he finished his coffee. “She’s a woman. And she has a band of women doing a ‘man’s job’ better, probably, than any male squadron would do it. Doesn’t look good to the Pentagon to have women outshining men in spec ops, you know?” He smiled across the white-linen-draped table at Mike, who was also grinning like a fox.

“I think she’ll be happy to hear that her squadron has been transferred over to you.”

Raising his thick black brows, Morgan said, “I hope so. You’ve met her, right?”

“Yes, a number of times.”

“Anything I should know so I don’t put my foot into it with her? I’d like to get off to a good start with Maya, since I’m going to be her new boss.”

Mike smiled hugely. “She doesn’t suffer fools gladly or for long. She shoots straight from the hip, doesn’t waste words. She was raised an army brat, flew civilian helicopters when she was just a teenager, and went directly into the warrant officer program the army offered. Took her training in Apache combat helicopters at Fort Rucker, Alabama, which is where everyone takes their training to fly an assault helo. When she volunteered for this spook spec ops, she suggested a very provocative idea to the head honchos—let her choose a band of trained women Apache pilots, hand-pick the crews, and come down here to stop the cocaine drug trade from getting into Bolivia. They promoted her from the warrant ranks and made her a captain because she was going to be C.O.—commanding officer—for this mission. She makes Indiana Jones look like pabulum compared to what she and her women pilots do down here.”

“And why does she have such determination to do this? That’s what I don’t understand,” Morgan murmured. “It’s the one piece of her background I can’t integrate.” He gazed over at Mike. “Do you know why she would scuttle a potentially brilliant army career and go into a spec ops mission like this?”

Mike moved uncomfortably. “I know some of it. The rest, you’ll have to ask her.” He propped his chin on his folded hands and placed his elbows on the table. “I know you have Maya’s personnel records. She was adopted as a baby. General Stevenson was an attaché in São Paulo, Brazil, for the U.S. ambassador. At that time, he was a light colonel. He and his wife hadn’t been able to conceive a child. They’d tried everything and nothing worked. One day, a Brazilian Indian woman came to the embassy asking for Eugenia Stevenson. She carried a baby girl no more than two weeks old in her arms. When Mrs. Stevenson came to the back gate to see the Indian woman, she found the baby lying on the walk, alone. That’s how Maya was adopted—she was dropped on the U.S. Embassy’s doorstep. Eugenia fell in love with her, and they went ahead with formal adoption, giving her the name Maya, which means ‘mystery.’” Mike smiled a little. “No one knows Maya’s real origins. I’d say she was part Brazilian Indian and part Portuguese aristocracy, judging from her features and skin color.”

“So, Maya has a stake down here in South America because of her bloodlines?”

“Yes, I’d say so. Just like bloodhounds need to hunt, she needs to be down here with her people, would be my guess.”

“That makes sense with what I know. From what I understand, Inca is her fraternal twin sister,” Morgan said. “They were born in the Amazon. Somehow, Maya was taken to the city, while Inca was left behind in the jungle to be raised.”

“Yes, and Inca didn’t know she was a twin until just recently, when you worked with her on that drug mission in the Brazilian Amazon jungle.”

“Which is how we learned of Maya and her spec ops,” Morgan murmured. “If she’d never shown up that night after Inca got wounded, we’d still been in the dark about her and her mission.”

“I think we got lucky,” Mike said. “Fate, maybe.”

“What else can you tell me about her?”

“I think you know that Inca belongs to a secretive spiritual group known as the Jaguar Clan?”

“Yes. Does Maya, too?”

“Yes and no. She’s a member of the Black Jaguar Clan, a branch of the main clan.”

“What does that all mean? I know you have Quechua Indian blood running through your veins, and you’re more educated about this mystical belief system than I am.”

Mike avoided Morgan’s incisive gaze. He knew more than a little, but he wasn’t willing to bet the farm that Morgan was ready for the bald truth. Mike’s wife, Ann, had had enough trouble grasping what it meant to be member of the Jaguar Clan, when she’d learned her husband was one. Mike hedged. “As I understand it, genetically speaking, there’s a strong spiritual mission bred into the people who belong to the Jaguar Clan. They’re here to help people. To make this a better world to live in. The Black Jaguar Clan is the underbelly, so to speak. They do the dirty work with the ugliness of our world, handle the confrontations in the trenches.”

“And you think that’s why Maya sacrificed her army career to become a pain in the ass to the drug lords down here in Peru?”

Chuckling, Mike nodded. “Would be my guess.”

“She’s more like a laser-fired rocket,” Morgan murmured. “Almost a zealot or fanatic.”

“Isn’t that what it takes to be successful at something like this?” Mike questioned. “And aren’t you a little bit of a fanatic yourself? Didn’t your own background, your unsavory experiences in Vietnam, turn you into a do-gooder for those who couldn’t fight and win for themselves?”

Lifting his hands, Morgan said, “Guilty as charged. I’m the pot calling the kettle black.”

“Glad you can see that you and Maya have the same jaguar spots.” Mike chuckled. “It takes one to know its own kind.”

Morgan raised his chin, suddenly alert. “Is that her?”

Mike cocked his head, his eyes narrowing. There, turning into the entrance of the French restaurant, was a woman who stood six foot tall. Her long black hair, slightly curled from the high humidity, swung loosely about her proud shoulders and full breasts. She wore khaki-colored shorts and hiking boots with thick black socks peeking over the tops. Her dark brown T-shirt had a picture of a cream-colored Condor, its wings spread wide, across it. Over her left shoulder hung a fairly large olive-green backpack. A pair of sunglasses on a bright red cord swung between her breasts.

“Yeah, that’s her,” he told Morgan in a low tone.

Morgan watched Maya with a keen, assessing eye. He knew warriors, and he knew how to size up someone astutely. Captain Maya Stevenson looked like a tourist, plain and simple. She was dressed in what rich travelers from foreign countries wore around here. Only her golden skin and long, rippling black hair suggested that she might be South American. Morgan liked the way she moved; on those firm, long legs of hers—with a bold, confident stride. Maya’s eyes were wide and alert. Their emerald depths showed interest, excitement and wariness all at the same time as she pinned her gaze directly on Morgan.

There was no wasted motion about this army aviation officer. Morgan found himself smiling to himself. The energy, the power, the confidence around Maya Stevenson was something to behold. She was at least a hundred feet away from them, yet Morgan could swear he felt her stalwart presence, as if the sun itself was shining directly upon him. No photo did her justice, he thought. She was beautiful and looked very similar to Inca, her fraternal twin sister. But there were dissimilarities, too. Maya was six foot tall and a big-boned woman. She had a slight cleft in her chin, and Inca did not. Her face was oval, cheekbones high, shouting of her Indian heritage. Yet the aristocratic thin nose, flaring nostrils and full mouth were very similar to Inca’s features.

Morgan was fascinated with this story of twins separated at birth, one becoming an environmental warrior in the Amazon jungles for the rights of the Indians, and the other a maverick military helicopter pilot. While Inca was calm, proud and quiet there was an edginess to Maya, he noted. Maya wore her brazenness, her strength, without fear. He admired that. Getting to his feet, Morgan was glad he was over six feet tall. Yet as she approached him, he saw Maya’s eyes narrow speculatively on him, as if she was using x-ray vision to see right through him. Did she read minds, as Inca was purported to do? Morgan hoped not. If Maya knew that he thought her statuesque and possessing a bold, primal quality few women willingly showed, she’d probably deck him where he stood. This was a woman who brooked no bull from anyone—ever. No, she was an equal and it was obvious in every step she took that she expected to be treated as such.

Mike rose. He moved forward, his hand extended toward Maya.

She glared at him and halted. Glancing back toward the street, she whispered, “Follow me. And don’t look so damned obvious, will you?”

Morgan looked at Mike, who lowered his hand, a contrite expression on his features. They both watched as Maya headed into the restaurant. It was 11:00 a.m. and there were few people in the usually popular place.

“Let’s go,” Morgan murmured, a cockeyed grin tugging at one corner of his mouth.

Mike good-naturedly grinned back and gestured for Morgan to go first.

Inside the restaurant, Morgan saw the owner, Patrick, standing behind the mahogany bar. Maya was leaning up against the counter, speaking to him in fluid French. As they approached, she swung her head in their direction. Her eyes grew slitted.

“Come on. Patrick has a table he reserves for me and my friends when I come into town.” She brushed between them and moved up the mahogany stairs, taking the steps two at a time to the second floor.

The restaurant was light and airy, with many green jungle plants and bright red, pink and yellow bromeliads in brightly painted pots here and there. Each table had a starched and pressed white linen cloth across it, and there were fresh flowers on every one. As Morgan climbed the stairs, classical music, soft and haunting, wafted through the restaurant. He shook his head, finding it odd that a five-star French chef would come to Peru and set up a gourmet restaurant in such a little backwater town. He wondered what the man was running from.

Maya was sitting at a rectangular table at the rear of the second floor of the restaurant, her back against the wall. It was a good position, Morgan thought. From her vantage point she could see everyone coming up and down those stairs. She’d put her pack down beside her chair and was speaking in Quechua to the waiter. As they approached, she looked up at them.

“Patrick makes the best mocha lattes in Peru. You two want some?”

“Sounds good,” Morgan said, making himself at home across from Maya. “Mike? How about you?”

“Make it three,” Mike said in Spanish to the Peruvian waiter, who was a Quechua Indian. The waiter nodded and quickly moved to the bar nearby to make the drinks.

Maya held Morgan’s glacial blue gaze. She knew he was sizing her up. Well, she was sizing him up, too, whether he knew it or not. As she folded her long, spare hands on the white linen tablecloth, she said, “Mike said you’re my new boss. Is that right?”

Nodding, Morgan said, “I’d prefer to say that you’ve joined our international team and we’re glad to have you on board.” He stretched his hand across the table toward her. “I’m Morgan Trayhern. It’s nice to meet you.” She took his hand. Not surprised by the strength of her grip, he met her cold, flinty eyes. She reminded him of a no-nonsense leader capable of split-second decisions, with a mind that moved at the speed of light, or damn near close to it. Already Morgan was feeling elated that he’d fought to get her spec ops as part of his organization, Perseus.

“Don’t bite him, Maya,” Mike intoned humorously as they released their mutual grip. “He’s the only junk-yard dog in town that’s friendly to you and your squadron.”

Taking the napkin, Maya delicately opened it and spread it across her lap. “It looks like I owe you some thanks, Mr. Trayhern. Mike, here, tells me that my number was up at spook HQ and with the boys over at the Pentagon. You certainly look the part of a white knight. Where’s your horse?”

Grinning, Morgan met her humor-filled eyes. Her laughter was husky and low. “I can’t ride a horse worth a damn. My daughter, Katy, now, she can,” he answered. “I like to watch her, but that’s as close as I get to a four-legged animal.”

“Got a picture of her?”

Taken off guard, Morgan nodded, moved his hand to the back pocket of his chinos and took out his well-worn, black leather wallet. Opening it on the table, he noted Maya’s sudden, intense interest. Her gaze was pinned on the color photos he kept within his wallet. Taking them out, he turned them around for her to look at.

“This is my oldest son, Jason. He’s fourteen.”

“He looks a lot like you,” Maya murmured. “That same dark, handsome face.”

Morgan warmed beneath her praise because he could tell already that Maya wasn’t one to make small talk or say things just to be polite. “Thanks. This is Katherine Alyssa, my oldest daughter. She’s riding her Welsh pony, Fred. And this last one is of my wife, Laura, holding our latest children, fraternal twins….”

Maya picked up the photo, her brows arching with surprise. “So, you have twins….” She studied it with renewed intensity. “You have beautiful children.”

“Thanks. My wife and I agree, though we are a little partial toward our children.” He said nothing more, realizing that because Maya was a fraternal twin, she would make a positive connection with his children. He liked the fact that despite her being a hardened military veteran, she had a soft heart, too. The more he got to know Maya, the more he liked her.

Handing him back the photos, she looked up. “Ah, here are our lattes. You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this….” And she reached out to take a cup and saucer from the waiter, thanking him warmly in his own language. He bowed his head and shyly smiled at her.

Mike thanked him also. When the waiter left, he chuckled quietly and sipped his mocha latte. “See? I told you Trayhern wasn’t the typical male bastard that you’re used to working with.”

Wrinkling her nose, Maya again met the solid blue gaze of her new boss. She sipped the rich coffee with delicious slowness and allowed the sweetness to run delectably across her tongue. Placing the flowered china cup on the saucer, she folded her hands on the table.

“I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into, Mr. Trayhern.”

“Call me Morgan. I don’t stand on ceremony with my people.”

“All right,” Maya murmured. “Do you know anything about us or did you buy us sight unseen, Morgan? A pig in a poke, maybe?”

Her direct and uncompromising gaze would have been unsettling had Morgan not liked that kind of straight-across-the-board honesty. When she lifted her lips and smiled, it was with a carnivore’s grin. She was playing with him, like a jaguar might with its helpless quarry. Houston was right: she shot from the hip. Good. “Yes, I saw the bottom line.”

“And the fact that I used to have three Boeing Apaches, but because spookdom decided to strangle me slowly by cutting my budget yearly, I had to cannibalize one to keep the other two flying?”

“I saw that.”

“And that I’ve got twelve overworked pilots who need some help and relief?”

“Yes, I saw that, too.”

“And that the men don’t like us women showing them up?” Her eyes glinted and she leaned forward slightly.

Morgan wasn’t intimidated by her low, furious tone or her directness. He met and held her stare. “I saw that, too, Maya.” When he used her first name, rolling it gently off his tongue, she recoiled. At first, Morgan wondered if she didn’t like his informality with her. And then, intuitively, he figured it out: Maya was expecting a hard-nosed bastard to show up and try to push her around, keep her outside the circle, like other men had before him. The look in her eyes was one of surprise—and then naked suspicion. Morgan knew he was going to have to sell himself to Maya. He would have to prove that, although male, he was trustworthy. That he would fully support her and the hardworking women comprising the secret squadron hidden in the mountains of Peru.

Leaning down, Morgan pulled out several papers from his own backpack. He looked around. The place was deserted. He wanted no other eyes on the material that he was going to lay out before her.

“Don’t worry,” Maya said. “Patrick knows who we are. He and I are good friends. He protects me and my women when we come into town and need a little R and R. This is our home away from home. He’ll make sure no one comes up here during lunch. We’ve got this place all to ourselves.”

“Good.” Morgan placed the first sheet of paper in front of Maya. “This is an acquisition form showing that two Boeing Apache Longbow helicopters have just been purchased for your squadron by me.” He put a second paper in front of her. “This is a Blackhawk helicopter to replace the Vietnam era Cobra that you’re flying.” He put a third document in front of her. “Within a week, you will be receiving three I.P.s—instructor pilots—to train you and your team on the new Apache D model, and three enlisted men who will train your crews in software, armaments and mechanics. And lastly—” he put a fourth piece of paper in front of Maya “—here’s your new budget. As you look it over, you’ll see the financial strangulation your squadron has been experiencing is over.”

Maya took all the papers, intently perusing them. Did she dare believe her eyes? Was this really true? She’d gone for three years with so little, watching her people bear the brunt of their financial distress. The task before them had seemed almost impossible, and yet they’d managed to strangle the drug trade to Bolivia by fifty percent, despite the odds, despite the fact that the U.S. government had practically choked off the mission through lack of funding. Looking up, Maya regarded Morgan through her thick, black lashes. He was at ease, almost smiling. She knew the sparkle in his eyes was not there because he was laughing at her. It reflected his pride in the job he’d done getting her the aircraft and help she so desperately needed.

Cutting her gaze to Houston, she growled, “Is this for real, Mike?” After all, Mike was one of her kind, a Jaguar Clan member, and she relied on him heavily at times like this. No clan member would ever lie to another.

“It’s for real, Maya. Every word of it. Morgan is your sugar daddy.” And he gave her a playful, teasing grin.

Maya grimaced. “What a sexist you are, Houston.”

He scratched his head ruefully. “I was teasing you, Maya. Morgan Trayhern runs a first-class operation known as Perseus. You and your squadron are officially moved under his wing and command.” Mike tapped the budget paper. “Look at the bottom line. That’s money. U.S. funds, not Peruvian soles.”

Maya looked at it. Her heart thudded with excitement. “I’m afraid to believe this,” she whispered as she looked through the pages again. “We’re really going to get two new D models? The ones with radar? I’ve heard so much about them…. I tried to get them, but they kept telling me they didn’t have the budget to let us have the upgraded model.”

Morgan tempered his excitement over the joy he saw in Maya’s face. This woman was used to running her squadron her way. And he respected that. Still, he needed to be able to gently move her in the direction that he saw her duties down here heading, now and in the future. Maya’s plan had been a greenhouse experiment—an all-woman military contingent doing some of the most demanding, most dangerous work in the world. Despite the difficulties of going up against drug runners who flew the Russian Kamov Black Shark assault helicopters, which were nearly equal to an Apache, and flying in this nasty, always changing weather at some of the highest altitudes on the planet, she’d been more than successful. She’d never lost a helicopter or a pilot in the three years since she’d started this operation, and that was a phenomenal record of achievement in Morgan’s eyes.

He knew that it was Maya’s careful selection of the right women pilots and crews that made this mission successful. Furthermore, she was a charismatic leader, someone people either hated or loved on sight. Morgan understood that, because he had that quality himself. Only Maya was a much younger version of him; she was only twenty-five years old. She had a lot going for her. And he admired her deeply for her commitment to Peru and its people.

“There’s just one hitch,” Morgan told her quietly. He saw her eyes narrow speculatively on him.

“What?” she growled, putting the papers aside.

Seeing her tense, Morgan said, “I know you have an all-woman squadron. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find women IPs to come down here to upgrade you on flying the Apache D models. Do you have a problem with men coming in for six weeks and staying at your base to teach your people?”

“I don’t have a problem with men, Mr.—Morgan. They have a problem with me. If you can guarantee they won’t be gender prejudiced, I won’t kick and scream about it.”

“Good,” Morgan said, breathing a sigh of relief. He turned and dug into his pack again, producing a set of orders that had been cut by the army. “Here’s the list of men who will be coming in shortly. We haven’t been able to tell them they are coming down here yet, but that’s a mere formality. I give you my personal guarantee that they are the best. The army’s cream of the crop of teachers, to move your people into the D models as rapidly as possible. Because you are so shorthanded, you can’t afford to send your pilots back to Fort Rucker for training. Instead, we’re bringing the training to you, so it won’t interfere with your ongoing missions.”

Taking the list of names, Maya frowned as she rapidly perused it. She knew just about everyone in the training field. The Apache team was a small unit within the army as whole—a tight, select family, for better or worse.

Morgan started to lift the cup to his lips when he heard Maya curse richly beneath her breath. She jerked her head up, her green eyes blazing like the hounds from hell. Her glare was aimed directly at him. His cup froze midway to his lips.

“There’s no way I’m letting this son of a bitch anywhere near me or my pilots,” she hissed, jabbing her finger at the paper she flattened between them. “You can take Major Dane York and shove him where the sun never shines, Mr. Trayhern. That sexist bastard is never going to step foot onto my base. Not ever!”

Houston scowled and took the paper. “Major Dane York? Who is he?”

Maya breathed angrily and sat back in the chair, her arms folded across her breasts. “You didn’t do your research, Mr. Trayhern. I’m really disappointed in you.”

Carefully setting the cup down in the saucer, Morgan allowed a few moments to stretch between them. The anger in her eyes was very real. Her nostrils were flared, her full lips flattened and corners pulled in with pain. Taking the set of orders, he stared at the name.

“Major York is the most accomplished I.P. in the Apache D model instruction unit.”

“Yeah, and he could walk on water, too, and it wouldn’t mean a damn thing to me.”

“You have words with this guy back at Fort Rucker?” Mike asked, a worried look on his face.

“Words?” Maya clenched her teeth as she leaned toward Morgan. “That bastard damn near had me and all the other women going through Apache training five years ago washed out! Why? Because we were women. That’s the only reason.” She jabbed at the paper Mike held. “I’m not letting that Neanderthal anywhere near me or my crews. Over my dead body.”

“Hold on,” Morgan murmured. “Major York’s credentials are impeccable. I wanted the best for you and your pilots, Maya.”

“I can’t believe this!” Maya suddenly stood up, energy swirling around her. She moved abruptly away from the table and walked over to the row of windows that overlooked the busy street below. Hands on her hips, she said, “He’s gender prejudiced. He didn’t like me. He didn’t like my flying skills. He didn’t like anything I did because I was a woman. Well—” Maya turned around and glared at them “—I had the last laugh on him and his not-so-subtle tactics. He didn’t know my father was an army general. When York was unable to acknowledge some of the women’s superior flying skills and wouldn’t grade them accordingly, I got angry. When he did nothing to stop his other instructors from harassing us with innuendos, I called my father.”

Morgan frowned. “What happened then?”

Moving slowly toward the table, Maya tried to settle her rapidly beating heart. “You know, York is like a black cloud that follows me around.” She laughed sharply. “Here I am in backwater Peru, and he manages to find me anyway. What kind of karma do I have?”

Houston glanced at Morgan and noticed the worry in his boss’s eyes. “Maya, what happened?”

“My father had a ‘talk’ with York’s commanding officer. I don’t know what was said. I do know that from that day forward, York straightened his act out. He doesn’t like women. At least, not military women pilots.” Her nostrils quivered. She stood in front of them, her legs slightly apart for good balance and her arms crossed. “He was never fair with any of us. I challenged him. I called him what he was to his face. I’d like to have decked him.” She balled her hand into a fist. “Just because we were women, he wanted to fail us.”

“But you didn’t fail,” Morgan said.

With a disgusted snort, Maya moved to her chair, her hands gripping the back of it as she stared malevolently down at him. “Only because I had my father’s influence and help. Otherwise, he’d have canned every one of us.” Maya jerked a thumb toward the windows where Machu Picchu’s black lava sides rose upward. “And you know the funny thing? Every woman in that company volunteered to come down here with me and take this spec ops. They didn’t like the odds, the army’s obvious gender preference toward males getting all the good orders and bases, while the women got the dregs. Screw ’em. I said to hell with the whole army career ladder and came up with a plan for this base. My father backed it and I got it.”

Maya’s voice lowered with feeling. “I’m sure the army was glad to see all of us go away. Out of sight, out of mind. Well, that’s okay with us, because we have a higher calling than the army. We couldn’t care less about our career slots or getting the right bases and orders to advance. We love to fly. All any of us wanted was a chance to fly and do what we love the most. We’re linchpins down here, holding the balance between the good people and the bad guys, and we know it. What we do makes a difference.”

Morgan stood and placed his napkin on the table. “I’m sorry to hear how tough it was on you and your women friends, Maya. I’m sure the army realizes what assets you are. Your stats speak for themselves.” He held her angry green gaze. “But York is the best. You have my personal promise that when he arrives, he will not be the same man you trained under before.”

“I will not allow him to step foot on my base.”

Morgan held her challenging stare. He heard the low, angry vibration in her tone. “You’ve got to learn to trust me, Maya,” he said huskily. “I want only the best for your squadron. You’ve earned that right. If Major York steps out of line, you call me and I’ll take care of it. I promise.”

“I don’t want him back in my life!”

Her explosion of anger and pain echoed around the room.

“If you don’t accept him as your I.P., you forfeit everything on those papers.” Morgan pointed to the table where they lay.

Still glaring, Maya looked from him to the papers. She desperately needed those new D models. Her pilots deserved to have the safety the new copters would afford them. And she was dying without the necessary funds for spare parts for her old Apaches. Swallowing hard, she looked slowly back up at Trayhern.

“Very well,” she rasped, “authorize the bastard to come down here.”