Chuckling, Morgan gave Houston a bemused look as Jake sat down. Jenny entered with a tray bearing white china cups, a coffee dispenser, cream, sugar, and cinnamon rolls for the four of them. She set it down near Travers. Giving him a dark look of disapproval, she quickly poured everyone coffee, then left.

Morgan reached for one of the small cinnamon rolls, which were baked on the premises every morning for himself and his employees. When he saw Travers giving them a longing look, he said, “Have some, Captain? You appear a little hungry around the edges.”

Jake didn’t hesitate. He was starving. “Thank you, sir. And, as I mentioned earlier, you can dispense with my title. I’m no longer in the army…I’m a civilian now.”

Houston folded his hands and watched the young officer. “You’re a ranger, aren’t you?”

Jake looked up, startled. “Is it written all over me, despite my civilian clothes, sir?”

Houston smiled a little. “It takes one to know one. Your stance. The way you carry yourself. Your alertness.”

Jake gobbled down three of the small cinnamon rolls, then sheepishly drank most of his coffee and poured himself more.

“I think Señor Travers needed this breakfast,” Pilar noted, smiling gently. “How long has it been since you’ve last eaten?”

Jake felt heat moving up his neck and into his face. The three of them were studying him with kindly looks; they weren’t laughing at him. Sitting back, the delicate white cup decorated with purple and yellow violets looking tiny in his massive hands, he muttered, “About twelve hours, ma’am. I left Fort Benning, Georgia, and have been patching together transportation across the U.S. to get here.”

“You were with the 75th Ranger Regiment?” Mike asked mildly.

“Yes, sir, I was.” He sipped the hot coffee with relish, his gaze darting from one to the other. Jake had no idea how he would be received. Morgan Trayhern, the man he had to see, seemed slightly entertained by his impromptu entrance. Houston was more assessing. And the beautiful black-haired woman, whose cultured voice had a distinct Spanish accent, had a look of compassion in her sparkling eyes. Still, his stomach was knotted and tense.

Mike nodded. “Good outfit. So why’d they let you resign your commission to come out here and see us?”

“Sir, it’s about my sister, Talia Travers.” Jake sat up, his back rigid with stress. Setting the cup aside, he said in an emotional, strained voice, “You’ve got to help me find her. Please…”

“Slow down, Son,” Morgan murmured, wiping his hands on a linen napkin. “Start from the beginning, will you?”

Chastened, Jake nodded. “My sister, Talia—Tal—is two years younger than me. She’s a hydrologist. She looks for water and tells people where to dig a well, basically. She’s one of the best and brightest out of Ohio State University. She’s always wanted to help the poor and the underprivileged. Last year she quit a very high-paying job with a U.S. firm and took a position for one-quarter of the money, with the Wiraqocha Foundation.”

Mike’s brows rose. “I know of them.”

Morgan glanced at him. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Mike murmured. “They’re a legit nonprofit organization out of California that works with the Que’ro Indians, the last of the Inkan bloodlines, up in the mountains of Peru. Last I heard, they were sinking water wells up in the Rainbow Valley area, which is about a hundred miles northwest of Cusco, near the gateway to Machu Picchu Reserve.”

Relief flooded Jake. “Yes, sir, that’s them. That’s who my sister went to work for. She just went down there on her first assignment, to find six places to sink wells, at different Que’ro villages in that region.” He was so glad someone knew the area.

“Go on,” Morgan murmured.

“Tal went down there two weeks ago. We spoke just before she left from Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport to hop a flight down to Lima. She was really excited. She was to head up a team of hydrologists and other water experts from Peru, who were going to meet her in Cusco and make plans to put in the new wells. You see, sir, sixty percent of the children in those villages die because of bad water.” Jake shook his head and frowned. “Sixty percent, sir. Well, Tal has a big, soft heart, and when she found out little babies and young children were dying at those rates, she went to the Wiraqocha Foundation and offered her services to try and turn those numbers around. I mean—” he opened his hand helplessly “—if it was your child that died because of bad water…”

Morgan nodded. “I understand,” he said softly. “Your sister is to be commended for her courage in helping those people.”

“Yes, sir.” Jake swallowed hard. “The Wiraqocha Foundation just contacted me to tell me my sister had gone missing and they suspect kidnapping. The last time I heard from Tal was last week. She called from Cusco to say she was going out in the field, near what she called the Inka Trail. There’s a village located nearby, and that’s where I believe she was when she was kidnapped.”

“The Inka Trail,” Mike told Morgan, “is an ancient route about a hundred miles long that connects the Rainbow Valley to the temple site at Machu Picchu. It’s about a thousand years old, paved with stones that were laid by the Inkan people so that runners from the empire’s main temple at Cusco could send messages to different sites in the valley, all the way to Machu Picchu.”

“And today,” Pilar added, “it’s considered one of the most beautiful and challenging trails in the world. People from around the world walk it just to say they did it and survived.” She smiled a little. “The trail goes from fourteen thousand feet down to six thousand. And it’s not for wimps.”

Houston chuckled. “No joke.” Then he became somber. “That area you’re talking about has never had drug activity—until now. Did your sister know of any activity before she went down there?”

Shaking his head, Jake muttered, “No, sir. She didn’t say anything about it, and frankly, I didn’t think about it, either. This foundation has been working in Peru for over a decade and never heard of drugs being traded through Rainbow Valley. They are just as shocked and upset over Tal’s disappearance as my parents and I are.”

Houston nodded. “Drug lords move around. They never stay in one spot too long. They keep alive by remaining on the move.” He got up and went to a wall map of Peru, which had a number of small red flags pinned to it. He picked up the flag near the Rainbow Valley region. “Just as I thought,” he muttered, reading the tag, “the last report of drug activity we received from this area implicates a small-time drug lord who’s trying to enlarge his territory.” Mike pinned the flag back on the map and came over and sat down.

“By any chance is it Javier Rojas?” Pilar asked, looking up at Mike.

“Yep, that’d be my bet,” he answered. “A mean little snake with tiny, close-set eyes and a personality to match. He’s well known for kidnapping foreigners and then demanding money for them. It’s how he does business, getting more money to set up his little drug-smuggling kingdom.”

Jake scowled. “There’s been no word from anyone on Tal’s disappearance. The Wiraqocha Foundation has received no demands for money for her release, either. And neither have my parents. Is that bad?”

Morgan heard the carefully concealed terror in the young officer’s voice. He saw it in his pale blue eyes, in his huge black pupils. Jake leaned forward, his hands balled into fists on the table, the desperation and worry for his sister obvious.

“Look, Son, I think Pilar and Mike will agree with me that when you’re dealing with a small fish like Rojas, a phone call or demand for money at this point may be a bit premature.” Morgan looked to his people. “Am I correct?”

“That’s right,” Pilar said. She reached across the table and patted Jake’s hand gently. “You must remember, señor, that Peru is not like Norteamérica. In Peru we do not have superior roads.”