the canopy, the sun had shifted. It was almost dusk, he realized.
Little by little, strength flowed back to him. He groaned and rolled slowly onto his left side. Recalling his deadly wound, he propped himself up against a tree and groggily looked down at his right thigh. Blood was everywhere across his lower body. Yet where was the wound? Weakly lifting his hand, his fingers trembling badly, he tried to find the rip in the material where the bullet had entered. There was none. Frowning, he tried to think. It was impossible.
Was he dead and just didn’t know it? Looking up, he realized he felt different, but very much alive. He dug his fingers into the damp, rotting leaves to assure himself of the reality of his surroundings. As he continued to stare down at the place where his wound should have been, he realized something else had changed. The entire front of his uniform was splattered with blood. He hadn’t been wounded in the chest. What would cause blood to cover the front of his shirt? Moving his hand slowly up his wrinkled, muddy uniform, Houston realized the blood had dried, stiffening the fabric. The metallic odor clung nauseatingly to his flaring nostrils.
How did he get covered with so much blood? It couldn’t be his own. His mind railed at the illogic of it all. Lifting his head, Mike slowly tried to absorb everything around him. Yes, he was still in a jungle. The same one he’d crash-landed into, as far as he could tell. Monkeys screamed in the distance, their howling somehow comforting him. A few colorful parrots flew above him looking for a night perch before dusk ended in darkness.
As his gaze dropped from the jungle around him to his left arm, hanging at his side, he felt a jolt. There were gold hairs on his arm. Gold and black. He frowned, thinking he was seeing things. Using what little strength he had left, he lifted his arm and stared at it. What the hell? His vision blurred and then cleared once again. There, on his forearm near his wrist, was an irregular patch of gold hair with two black crescent-moon shapes. This couldn’t be real, he reasoned. As he moved his fingers across the patch of hair, his heart thudded hard, once, in his chest. It was fur. Soft, short, thick fur, surrounded by his own hair. But as he explored it, it disappeared beneath his fingertips.
Overwhelmed, Houston leaned his head back against the tree and drew several deep breaths of air into his lungs. His senses were no longer as acute, but he heard voices not too far from where he lay. Escovar’s men? Snapping his eyes open, Mike waited. For some reason, he didn’t feel danger. That was silly, too. Just moments ago, several of Escovar’s men were going to kill him. Confused, Mike narrowed his eyes and gazed toward the sound.
An aged white man, barefoot and wearing dark blue pants, with a jaguar skin draped over his shoulders, appeared out of the jungle in front of him. Houston raised his eyes to the gray-haired man’s bearded face and met his crinkled gray eyes. The old man nodded in greeting and exposed strong white teeth in a welcoming smile. The man’s two cohorts came toward Mike, an African man and a young Indian girl with willow green eyes.
“I was told you were out here,” the old man said, leaning heavily against a staff that had brightly colored macaw feathers attached to its top. He touched the claw necklace around his neck and chuckled. “I see your guardian has left you your life, hombre. We will take you back to the village. You will be safe with us. Come….”
Chapter 1
“Mike? Mike, it’s time to get up!”
Groaning, Houston turned on his side, jamming his face into the feather pillow. Damn, he thought groggily, he’d had that nightmare again. A flashback really, the same one he’d had a hundred times before…
“Mike?”
“Uh, yeah…I’m awake….” he muttered.
Where was he? Rolling over, he forced his eyes open. The plain timbers of the Santa Fe architecture of the room met his eyes, reminding him he was no longer in the jungle. The sounds were different here. He heard the crow of a nearby rooster and the soft snort of some horses in a corral. As he blinked the sleep out of his eyes, he heard the lowing of cattle, too. Oh yeah, he remembered suddenly. He was staying at the Donovan Ranch near Sedona, Arizona. Helluva long way from his normal digs.
He shoved himself upright in the old brass bed, the covers falling away to expose his naked chest and upper body. When he got the chance, he never slept with clothes on—even pajamas—preferring nakedness instead. All too often in his work he had to sleep in his fatigues, ready to leap up and start moving at a moment’s notice. In fact, sleeping in a bed was a luxury for him.
Savagely rubbing his face to wake up, Mike felt the stiff prickle of beard beneath his fingers. He’d had that post-traumatic-stress-disorder dream again, reminding him of who he really was, of what made him different from other men, other human beings. Scowling, he shook his head and sent the fragments of memory back into the depths of that cauldron, his subconscious. More like Pandora’s box with an ugly twist, he thought with a sleepy grin.
What time is it? he wondered, shoving his feet from beneath the covers and placing them on the cool cedar floor. The clock on his bed stand said 0800.
Dr. Ann Parsons had called him from the next room, he realized belatedly. The alarm clock must have gone off and he hadn’t heard it. Damn. He’d promised Morgan Trayhern that he’d meet him at 0800 to get the details of his next mission. Grunting, Mike launched himself out of bed and stretched. He liked the feeling of each group of muscles in his body bunching, stretching and relaxing. Arcing his arms over his head, he closed his eyes and appreciated his physical strength. It was one helluva body, one that had more scars on it, had taken more blows and survived more than most.
Exhaling loudly, he ran his fingers through his military short, dark hair and headed to the bathroom that adjoined his room. As he padded across the pale gold floor, he remembered his nightmare. A smile cut across his thinned lips as he opened the door to the shower and turned it on. Nine years had passed since that incident in the jungle, and at thirty-five years of age, he still dreamed about that miraculous, life-changing event.
As he stepped into the pummeling stream of hot water for his morning shower—another luxury—the steam roiled in clouds around him reminding him of the endless twisting clouds that haunted the jungles of South America. He grabbed the soap and began to briskly wash himself. There was nothing like a hot shower to get the blood flowing and wake him up. For the first hour of the morning Houston was a bear of sorts, until he was fully awake and had poured a cup of good, black espresso down his gullet. Then and only then was he human and not growling or snarling at everyone. Mike had a reputation of being a grizzly in the morning.
Soaping his left arm, he blinked away the water running in rivulets across his face. Grinning, he studied the burn scars on his darkly haired arm, reminding him of his escape from the flaming copter that had been shot down. Various white scars from shrapnel that had exploded from the craft after it had crashed were also visible reminders of that day he’d faced death and won.
But he no longer saw a tuft of gold fur with black crescents across it. Scrubbing his arm, Mike turned his face into the stream of hot water. That old shaman from the village, Grandfather Adaire, had informed him that Mike’s guardian had guided him to rescue Mike and care for him. It took nearly a week of rest in that remote jungle village known as the Village of the Clouds before Houston had been in any shape to decide whether he wanted to live or not.
Mike recalled how his men at the military barracks just outside of Lima called him El Jaguar, or the jaguar god—the man who had returned from the dead. Jaguars were believed to be the only animal able to do that, according to legends about them that abounded throughout South America. Everyone had thought Mike died with the other men of his squad in that crash. But he hadn’t. And he never told anyone of his strange adventure through life, death and life again. They’d have called him loco—crazy. No one would ever know the truth of what had really happened out there.
Only that old shaman, his white hair sticking out around his head like a hen’s nest, seemed to know exactly what had happened. Mike had been too weak to question him. Inca, the young Indian girl from Brazil with the willow green eyes and long black hair, had fed him nourishing soup, kept him warm and tended him hourly in a hut near the shaman’s dwelling in