Midnight Rainbow Read Free Page B

fingers.
                  He realized that he was fondling his knife,
his long, lean fingers sliding over the deadly blade with a lover's touch, and
he shoved it into its sheath. Damn her, he thought bitterly. Because of her, he
was back in the thick of things, and he could feel it taking hold of him again.
The rush of danger was as addictive as any drug, and it was in his veins again,
burning him, eating at him like an acid—killing him and intensifying the
feeling of life all at once. Damn her, damn her to hell. All
this for a spoiled, silly society brat who liked to amuse herself in various
beds. Still, her round heels might have kept her alive, because Turego fancied himself quite a lover.
                  The night sounds of the jungle began to build
around him: the screams of the howler monkeys, the rustles and chirps and
coughs of the night denizens as they went about their business. Somewhere down
close to the river he heard a jaguar cough, but he never minded the normal
jungle sounds. He was at home here. The peculiar combination of his genes and
the skills he'd learned as a boy in the swamps of south Georgia made him as much a part of the jungle as the jaguar that prowled the
river's edge. Though the thick canopy blocked out all light, he didn't light a
lamp or switch on a flashlight; he wanted his eyes to be perfectly adjusted to
the dark when he began moving. He relied on his ears and his instincts, knowing
that there was no danger close to him. The danger would come from men, not from
the shy jungle animals. As long as those reassuring noises surrounded him, he
knew that no men were near.
                  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