Midnight Rainbow (3 page)

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.

J
ANE 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.”