by Deadly Game
“Just our entire team.”
Jack flashed a small, humorless grin at his brother. “They’d help me and you know it. They detest the man nearly as much as I do.”
“Someone wanted Armine in a position of power. Someone here, in the United States. I’ve thought a lot about this, Jack. Every assignment we’ve been sent on in the past year has created a void, a hole for some other lowlife to step into. From Colombian drug lords to General Ekabela in the Congo, we’re creating a vacancy in those positions of power and someone is manipulating that. I just don’t happen to think it’s the president of the United States.” He cast his brother a quick glance. “Do you?”
Jack swore again. “No. I think we’re screwed.”
“I can’t ask Logan if the admiral gave him the order face-to-face, because Jesse Calhoun contacted him, said it was urgent, and Logan went to see him. Jesse’s been conducting an investigation into the Ekabela-Senator tie. That’s why Kadan Montague took his place on the team.”
“I thought Jesse was still in a wheelchair,” Jack said. “The last I heard he was inactive and doing physical therapy.”
“Well, apparently he’s working again. He’s one of the more powerful psychics on our team and he’s got brains. The admiral wasn’t about to give him up. It was a hell of a thing what they did to him. Between enhancement and the psychic experiments and Jesse’s legs, he got the short end of the stick.”
“We all did. When we volunteered for the psychic testing,” Jack said, “we had no idea we were pointing a gun at our heads. We’re screwed, Ken. We’re in so deep, hell, all the GhostWalkers are. What have we gotten ourselves into?”
At least they had volunteered for the experimentation. All Special Forces, all military trained. The women had been babies, orphans Whitney had adopted from foreign countries, children he bought and paid for, experimenting on them without thought to their lives.
Ken shook his head. “I don’t know, but we have to find out. Colonel Higgens tried to take out Ryland Miller’s team. He murdered a couple of them before they got away and exposed him. Maybe they didn’t get the head of the snake.”
“We know the head is Dr. Whitney. He’s the brains. He came up with the experiments, had the contacts, money, and security clearance to get the green light, and he faked his own murder. We find Whitney, we kill the snake.”
“Maybe.” There was doubt in Ken’s voice. “First we all believed Whitney was murdered. Then we believed he faked his own death to get out from under the illegal experiments he was conducting right along with his military experiments. Now …” He trailed off, once again staring at the clouds. The steady drip of blood seemed overly loud in the night. Never before had his past consumed him to the point of endangering a mission, but for the first time, he was beginning to doubt his ability to stay focused.
“You think someone was after Whitney to kill him for real and he had to fake his own death, not to hide from exposure and us, but to keep from being targeted?” Jack rubbed his temples. “How the hell did we ever get into this mess?”
“We didn’t give a damn at the time,” Ken said. “Now you’ve got a wife and twins on the way and you’ve got something to live for. Let’s pull back, regroup with our team, and ask a few hard questions. We can have Logan contact Ryland Miller’s team, and between us, we ought to have enough brains to figure out what’s going on.”
Jack frowned, rolled back over, and using elbows and toes, inched his way forward through heavy foliage. “We can’t leave the bastard an open target, can we? If someone else wants him dead, we should probably find out why and how it affects us.”
Ken wiggled his way along a rabbit path, belly down, gun cradled out of the dirt. He’d had a bad feeling for a while now. “Hold it, Jack,” Ken whispered, eye to the scope. Something is wrong. He reached out to telepathically communicate with his twin brother. It was a handy ability when they wanted to remain unseen. They’d been talking back and forth like this for as long as Ken could remember, never needing to communicate verbally with each other when telepathy was so handy. Consequently, they had a strong bond that had stood them in good stead over the years. The psychic experiment they’d agreed to after SEAL training had only added to that already powerful tool.
I feel it too. Kadan sent out the alert. They’re going to come in hard and fast. We’re going to have to protect the bastard. Whoever wants him dead is already here.
Ken kept his eye on the senator through the window. The senator’s young and beautiful trophy wife is aware they have company too. Look at her.
Jack peered through the scope. Through the window of the cabin a blonde leaned down to give her husband’s cheek a peck. She said something, smiled, showing a lot of teeth, and the senator answered her, touching her chin. She turned away, toward the window, giving them a look at her face.
Oh yeah, she knows. And she didn’t say a word to him about it, Jack said.
A lot of good men might go down this night. Ken could barely resist the urge to slide into the house and save them all the trouble by slitting the bastard’s throat. The senator had betrayed his country for money, or power, or a combination of both. Ken didn’t really give a damn what his motives were; he’d sold out. And he’d been the bait that had sent Ken into the Congo on a rescue mission—a mission that had sent him straight into hell—and his brother after him. And now, ironically, they were protecting the traitor.
“What the hell is his wife’s name?” Jack asked. “You don’t suppose she’s one of us? A GhostWalker?”
They both studied the tall blonde carefully. She had walked away from the senator into the next room, where she caught up several weapons, handling them as if she knew what she was doing.
Ken took a deep breath and let it out. The senator’s wife? A GhostWalker? What was her name? Violet Smythe. Little had been in the report about her life before marrying the senator. Violet. The name of a flower. When they’d been briefed on Whitney’s psycho experiments with children, the orphans he worked on had all been female and he’d given them the names of flowers. “Violet,” he said aloud.
Where did she fit into all of this? How could a GhostWalker betray her fellow soldiers? She knew what they’d all been through. He peered through his scope again, taking a bead on the senator’s left eye. All he had to do was pull the trigger and it would be over. No one else would get killed. One shot and the man who had delivered him into the hands of a madman would be dead.
I know what you’re thinking, Jack said. God knows that if anyone has the right to kill the son of bitch, it’s you. If you want it done, Ken, say the word and I’ll take him out now.
Jack would do it in a heartbeat. Ken touched his scarred jaw. There was little sensation on any part of his skin, and little that remained of a once-handsome face or body. A tremor went through that body, and for one moment, rage boiled over, hot and pure and not covered up by the glacier of ice he usually wore. He hesitated, knowing he could just nod his head and Jack would pull the trigger. Or, better yet, he could do it himself and have the satisfaction of knowing he’d removed a traitor. He inhaled deeply and breathed away all emotion. That way lay insanity, and he refused to follow the legacy he was born into.
He felt Jack’s relief and realized just how close a watch his brother had had on him lately. I’m fine. Of course Jack knew he was sweating bullets and hearing screams. Jack and Ken lived in each other’s mind. Jack knew. And the knowledge ate away at him that he hadn’t been able to get to Ken before Ekabela tortured him. Never mind that, in the end, Jack had pulled him out and been taken prisoner. Jack believed he should have prevented it. I’m fine, Ken repeated.
I know.
But he wasn’t fine. He hadn’t been born fine, hadn’t been fine as a child, or in his early military career. He was worse after his capture and torture in the Congo, demons riding him hard, day and night. And now, with the senator needing protection—probably from the very man who had been paying him for years—Ken knew the dangerous shadow inside him had grown i
nto an all-too-real threat to his sanity.
We have company, Kadan announced telepathically. Be alert. I’m hustling the senator into a safety room.
Kadan. Watch the wife, Ken warned. We think she may be one of us. She’s armed to the teeth and she felt the presence of intruders the moment we did.
Kadan never expressed surprise. No one was ever really sure if he felt emotions at all. He seemed a machine, matter-of-fact, simply doing the job. And he was good at it. Copy that.
Ken settled into position. Kadan’s life would depend on him. Jack would keep the senator alive. If Violet made a move against Kadan, she was a dead woman. He kept his focus on his primary objective. Kadan moved through the shadows. It was nearly impossible to see him. A blurred edge sometimes, a perception of movement, only because Ken knew where he was going to be. They’d gone over his route several times. Ken kept it clear, sweeping the surrounding area with heightened awareness.
An assassination squad was moving into place, and they would be trying to reduce any numbers against them. Neil Campbell and Trace Aikens were impossible to spot, but they were out there. Martin Howard had fallen back to help Kadan secure the senator.
Kadan gained the porch, moving past the swaying carcasses to enter the cabin. He spoke briefly to Violet and they both hurried into the room with the senator, pushing him back toward the kitchen where the “safe room” was. The fireproof room was beneath the main floor.
The macabrely swinging carcasses drew Ken’s attention again. Blood dripped. The odor carried on the night breeze. He swallowed bile, wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead, and put his eye to the scope again. Something about the deer nagged at him—just wouldn’t let him go. A shadow seemed to grow out of the deer on the far side, emerging from the top near the meat hook.
Ken squeezed the trigger and the shadow fell with a heavy thud, one arm stretched out as if in entreaty. Even as Ken took the shot, Jack’s gun went off, and a second body fell simultaneously, that one from the far side of the roof.
A third shot rang out as Jack scooted back into the bushes for cover, the bullet hitting where his head had been. Ken was already targeting the brief flash. Taking his time, he tightened his finger on the trigger just as his quarry shifted position. The bullet slammed home, driving the sniper backward, the rifle still in his hands. Ken followed with a second round, but his target was dropping through tree branches. He knew that neither bullet had killed his target, a rare occurrence. Eye to the scope, he followed the path of the sniper as he tumbled down the slope, crashing through trees and brush.
Instant awareness rippled through Ken’s mind, as if all members of the GhostWalkers and the assassination squad were connected in some way to the sniper.
Stand down, Ken! Kadan issued the command. They’re backing off to protect that man. Get to him first. Whoever he is—he’s more important than the primary target. Secure the sniper immediately. We’ll hold his team here while you make a run for it.
I’ve got his back, Jack said unnecessarily. Every member of the GhostWalker team knew that where Ken went, so did Jack, and vice versa.
There was an instant of stillness, and then an electrical current sizzled through the air, snapping and crackling, so real that the edges of the clouds lit up with answering current. Power surged. There was no mistaking the sudden anxiety in the environment. It shimmered on the night breeze, a sudden alarm the other members in the sniper’s unit couldn’t control.
Ken shouldered his rifle and double-timed it. He knew the location of the body, and judging by the way the sniper had free-fallen, he’d been unconscious going down. That didn’t mean he’d stay unconscious. Just like the others, he was a supersoldier, enhanced physically as well as psychically. And that meant containing him as quickly as possible.
Ken planned every move as he ran, trusting Jack to keep the enemy off of him. Two gunshots rang out almost simultaneously. A bullet zinged off to Ken’s right, shaving the bark from a tree close to where he veered. The shooter had anticipated him leaping over a fallen trunk and onto another one to gain the far hill. Jack had no doubt been more successful with his bullet, because no one else shot at Ken despite the itch between his shoulder blades.
We’ve got them pinned down. Kadan’s voice was ultra-calm. I’m keeping them from communicating, but I can’t hold them forever. Take the sniper, get out of here, and for God’s sake, keep him alive so we can extract information. The rest of us will take the senator and his wife out of here. I’ve called for a second helicopter. We’ll take the secondary escape route. You rendezvous with Nico and get to a safe house.
Copy that, Jack sent back. They’d be on their own once they determined a location to hold the prisoner, at least until Kadan and the rest of the team made certain the senator was safe.
Ken scrambled through loose dirt and leaves, uncaring of leaving a trail. Speed was of the essence. Jack fired twice more.
They’re taking chances, Ken. They don’t want you to get ahold of that man. I’m right behind you, so don’t shoot me. Jack reloaded as he ran, keeping to the heavier foliage as he swept the region for any sign of the enemy, protecting Ken as he zigzagged his way through the heavy timber and brush to reach the fallen enemy.
Ken slowed as he closed in on his prey. If the man was still alive, as Ken believed him to be, he could very well be armed and ready for trouble. There was a buzzing in Ken’s head, the pressure that accompanied telepathic communication. Someone not from their own team was trying to talk, but Kadan was a strong shield and he was successfully jamming all psychic interaction. Few enhanced soldiers could do what Kadan could, and it was probably a shock to the assassination team. But it also was clear that the other team was enhanced not only physically, but psychically as well—which meant they were GhostWalkers.
It had to be Whitney coming after the senator. Did that mean they’d had a falling out? Ken proceeded with more stealth, careful to move with the wind, to avoid stepping on branches when he could. The sniper would know he was coming, but he’d hesitate to shoot, afraid of hitting one of his own. He was calling for help though, the buzzing frantic and continuous in Ken’s head. There were no words—Kadan saw to that—but everyone open to extrasensory interaction would know the sniper was alive and seeking help. Ken had to close down all psychic contact immediately before the combined efforts of the other team overpowered him.
He pushed aside foliage and saw the sniper lying just below him, facing away. The first bullet had taken him in the chest, and he was wearing at least one, possibly two vests, making his chest appear barrel-like beneath his reflective clothing. The body armor had saved his life, but the second bullet had sliced through his leg. Blood splattered the leaves and grass in huge black splotches. Sometimes Ken thought he would never see blood as red again. In the jungle his blood had appeared black, pooling around him like a river. He slung his rifle around his neck and drew his gun, careful now as he approached the sniper.
The man’s weapon should have been tangled in the bushes, but the sniper had held on, and that told Ken that the man wasn’t unconscious. He wasn’t moving and he didn’t have the gun in a firing position, although it was in his hand, finger on the trigger.
Ken came up on the sniper out of the his line of vision, making certain the wounded man would have to turn at an awkward angle. And it just wasn’t going to happen with that leg the way it was. The man was utterly silent, coiled like a rattler, waiting for friend or foe to explode into action.
Ken moved fast, snagging the rifle and flinging it a distance away before the sniper was aware he was on top of him. The sniper didn’t fight for the gun; instead, his free hand moved like lightning, a smooth draw of a hold-out pistol from the bloody boot, the hand sliding just as fast, finger on the trigger, up toward his own head.
Ken’s heart nearly stopped. He reacted without thought, kicking hard, driving the toe of his boot into the hand, sending the gun flying and hearing the satisfying crack of bones.
Still the sniper
made no sound, but his other hand went for a hidden knife. Just as smooth. Just as fast. The sniper was going to kill himself to avoid capture. What kind of fanatics were they dealing with? The sniper used his broken hand, not even flinching as he drew the knife, but this time he screamed when Ken stomped on the hand, pinning the knife to the ground. The scream was high-pitched and sent chills down Ken’s spine.
He crouched beside the wounded man and stared into the large, heavily lashed eyes. Eyes he recognized. Eyes he’d seen staring back at him with laughter and affection. His belly muscles clenched, and he swore softly under his breath as he jerked the cap off the man’s head. He wasn’t looking at a man, and damn it all, he knew exactly who she was.
That small millisecond of recognition was enough for her. She slammed her elbow into his throat, going for a death blow, trying to drive through his trachea and crush his airway. She was definitely physically enhanced. She had the speed and the strength in spite of her injuries, but Ken slipped the blow and pulled out his med kit, then leaned his weight into her, pinned her down, and prepared the needle. Using his teeth, he pulled off the cap and slammed it home, injecting her fast, praying she wasn’t allergic and he could do a fast medical on her and make a run for it.
Jack came up behind him, taking a position facing away from them, making a sweep with his rifle to keep back any of the sniper’s squad that might slip through their team’s net.
“Hurry up,” Jack growled. “Knock him out and stop being so gentle about it.”
“It’s Mari, Jack,” Ken whispered, needing to say it aloud.
“What?” Jack jerked around, staring at the sniper as the eyes fluttered closed. “Are you certain?”
Ken pulled the woman’s belt loose and buckled it around her leg. “Either that or your wife is playing sniper for the other team. It has to be Mari. She looks exactly like Briony.”
Jack backed up until he had a good look at the woman’s face. There was dirt and scratches and blood, but the sight of her lying pale, platinum and gold hair spilling around her face, nearly stopped his heart. “Is she going to make it?”
