In the Arms of a Hero

“Yeah, I suppose I have.”

“Sam tells me that I can trust you, Mr. McCoy. His faith in you is the reason you’re here today,” Ryan said. “The reason I’m willing to offer you half a million dollars to bring my daughter back to Texas.”

Quinn let out a long, low whistle. “I’ve been offered some fat fees before, but nothing close to five hundred thousand!”

“You don’t have children, do you?” Ryan asked.

“No. Why?”

“If you did, you’d understand how I feel. My baby girl has gone and gotten herself caught right in the middle of a civil war in Santo Bonisto. She’s in grave danger now, but if the rebel forces find out she’s my daughter, they’ll kidnap her and God knows what could happen to her. I want you to go in there and get her out of that hellhole before anything does happen.”

“I don’t see why you ever let your daughter go to a Third World country like Santo Bonisto,” Quinn said.

“If you knew my Victoria, you’d know that no one allows her to do anything. She’s her own woman. And in her own way, as stubborn as her old man.” Moisture glazed Ryan Fortune’s brilliant dark eyes. “My girl has a big heart. Since she was just a kid all she’s wanted to do was be a nurse, to ease other people’s suffering. And now her idealism is putting her life at risk. When I talked to her this past week, she told me she couldn’t desert the people in Palmira because she’s the only trained medical help they’ve got. She’s letting her loyalty and concern for those people make her act foolishly.”

“I can’t guarantee her safe return. Once I land on the island, anything could happen.”

Sam had known Quinn long enough to realize by what he’d said that he was going to take the job. Had seeing, firsthand, a father’s barely controlled agony actually swayed Quinn? Sam wondered. Or did he think of this assignment as simply another challenge? Few men were qualified for such a dangerous job and even fewer would have a snowball’s chance in hell of actually bringing Victoria Fortune off that South American island powder keg. But Quinn McCoy had the credentials. A former navy pilot turned mercenary. A man who’d traveled the globe as a bodyguard, private pilot and all-around soldier of fortune.

“I understand,” Ryan said. “All I ask is that you do everything within your power to bring my daughter safely home to us. I’m prepared to deposit a quarter of a million dollars into your bank account right now and another quarter million once you return with Victoria.”

“And if I can’t—”

“The quarter million is yours, if you come back alive, with or without Victoria.”

“Fair enough.”

“If there’s anything else you need, all you have to do is tell Sam and he’ll see that you have it.” Ryan turned his gaze on Sam. “This family has been through enough. We will not lose anyone else we love.”

“I understand,” Sam assured Ryan.

“Mr. Fortune, there’s one big item I need before I head off for Santo Bonisto,” Quinn said.

“What’s that?”

“My old plane is in pretty bad shape. I’d feel more confident about getting on and off the island if I—”

“Sam, get Mr. McCoy a new plane. Whatever he wants!”

Sam nodded agreement, then gave Quinn a deadly glare. He knew Quinn didn’t have much use for the idle rich. His friend didn’t make any secret of his disdain for most of his wealthy clients, but it riled Sam to think Quinn was taking advantage of Ryan at a time such as this.

Ryan Fortune held out his hand. “Do we have a deal, Mr. McCoy?”

“We have a deal, Mr. Fortune.”

As soon as the two men sealed their agreement with a handshake, Sam ushered Quinn out into the hallway.

“You’re getting greedy, aren’t you, asking for a new plane?” Sam gripped Quinn’s shoulder.

“I’m risking my neck to even go into Santo Bonisto. There’s a fifty/fifty chance I won’t make it back alive. And you and I both know what will happen to Victoria Fortune if the rebels get hold of her, so the odds of me bringing the spoiled little princess back to the U.S. are slim to none. My odds are better with a decent plane. Besides, I figure the old man won’t miss the money.”

“Sometimes, you can be a heartless son of a bitch.”

A quirky grin curved Quinn’s lips. “You know me too well, old buddy.”

“What do you mean, all lines of communication with the outside world have been severed?” Victoria Fortune demanded as she slammed down the dead telephone receiver. “Are you saying I can’t even contact anyone in the capital city?”

“Sí, Señorita Victoria, that is what I am telling you,” Ernesto Hernando said. “The rebel forces are headed this way and they are destroying all communication lines as they approach the city.”

“Then there’s no way to get word out of here? No way I can contact my family in the United States?”

“When your papa called last week and asked you to come home, you should have gone then.” Ernesto gazed at Victoria, his huge brown eyes filled with concern. “Now you are trapped here with us and if it is discovered you are a wealthy American heiress, your life will be in grave danger. I wish I knew a way to get you to safety, to get you out of Palmira and to Gurabo.”

She patted Ernesto’s thin brown arm. “I can’t leave you and Dolores here alone to cope with the clinic. As much help as you both are to me, neither of you has any medical training, other than what I’ve been able to teach you. And if the war does reach Palmira, I’ll be needed here more than ever.”

“You are an angel, señorita.”

Ernesto stared at Victoria with such admiration and devotion that she blushed. In the three years she’d been working through the World Health Institute, as the only nurse at the small clinic in Palmira, she had become close friends with Ernesto and his wife Dolores. During her first month at the clinic, Victoria delivered the couple’s third child, little Rico Fortune Hernando. Named in her honor because she had saved the premature infant’s life.

“We must make sure that everyone in Palmira knows not to reveal my true identity to any of the rebel soldiers,” Victoria said. “I’m afraid with my red hair and green eyes, and my limited Spanish I’d never pass as a native. If necessary, I’ll just have to use a false name and claim my papers were somehow lost or destroyed.”

“Sí, the whole town will keep silent. You are greatly loved here. There is not one family who does not owe you their allegiance.”

“From now on, I’ll use the name Victoria Lockhart.” She had instantly thought of using her mother’s maiden name.

“Sí, Señorita Lockhart.” Smiling, Ernesto nodded agreement.

“We need to make preparations for the children’s immunizations this afternoon. Sister Maria is expecting us at two o’clock.”

Ernesto hesitated, but when Victoria smiled reassuringly, he turned to leave. Just as he reached the doorway, he paused momentarily and, without looking back, said, “We will find a way to keep you safe.”

Before Victoria could reply, Ernesto slipped away quietly. She sighed. The thought that her presence here might put her friends’ lives in danger unnerved her. She had to make Ernesto and Dolores understand that she didn’t expect anyone to put their own lives on the line to protect her.

She had willingly chosen to come to Santo Bonisto, to live and work in the tragically poor little town of Palmira. Before she had set up a clinic here, the nearest medical facility had been a hundred miles away in Las Palomas. She had known the civil war would eventually reach her town, but she had hoped it wouldn’t be this soon. Her father had demanded, in the way only Ryan Fortune could demand, that she return to the United States immediately. In attempting to make him understand why she couldn’t leave, she had only made him angry. And she knew his anger was a result of fear. He loved her and wanted her safety above all else. She had promised him that she could stay in Palmira without endangering her life. But now she realized that there was every possibility she had lied to herself as well as her father. In her devotion to her duty, she had refused to admit the obvious. And now it was too late.

Just being an American in Santo Bonisto these days could be dangerous, if you were captured by the rebels. But if it was 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.