GhostWalkers 4 - Conspiracy Game

by Christine Feehan

  “I’m going to get you both killed.”

  “Have a little faith, woman. And think about my nephews. I’ll be damned if they’re raised in a laboratory.”

  Briony turned away from him, into the deeper forest, hurrying along the faint animal trail in the direction Ken indicated, but her mind was working furiously. She had come to them with nothing. Jack had even insisted she get rid of her clothes. She touched her earlobes and felt the rubies—not her mother’s diamonds. Everything had been left behind. So how were they tracking her so easily?

  “Shift to your right. I want you to walk along the boulders. The original mining camp is still here along with the original cabin. We’ve never actually done any mining, but we went through it to make certain it was safe and it’s a good place for you to wait for us. You can guard the entrance; no one can sneak up on you from behind, and anyone trying to come in is going to be a large target. I’ll get rid of the tracks leading to the mine and make a few branching off from the trail so anyone tracking us will head in the wrong direction. The stream winds through the property along here for a good four miles.”

  Briony glanced at him sharply.

  Ken sent her a reassuring smile. “I like to cover all of the bases. If by some miracle Whitney’s soldiers get lucky, you need a route out of here.”

  “If you’re not coming back to get me, I’ll be looking for you,” Briony said. “I mean it, Ken. I could help.”

  “You can help by staying put so we don’t have to worry about you.”

  Where the hell are you? You’d think this was a tea party.

  As a matter of fact, Briony and I were just pouring a cup. You can handle it, Jack. I’m still a little sleepy.

  “Just up ahead is the shack. See the bushes just to your right, Briony? Behind them is the entrance to the mine. I’ll check it just to be certain.” He handed her a gun and several clips. “Just don’t shoot me.” Ken slid the pack to the ground and motioned her to stand aside.

  Briony watched him disappear into the thick shrubbery. All around her leaves were turning red and gold. Deep colors of vibrant green carpeted the ground and adorned the trees towering above her. A gentle breeze brought the first lights of day streaking across the sky. It was beautiful—breathtaking, hardly a day for anyone to die.

  Both Ken and Jack exuded confidence and spilled it over to her. She was afraid, but it wasn’t the heart-pounding, gut-wrenching fear she normally experienced. Both of the Nortons were men who knew themselves and their capabilities—and were ready to do whatever was necessary—but most of all they were utterly calm in a crisis. And more than all of that—she didn’t experience a single consequence of witnessing violence. There was no pain stabbing through her head, making her so ill she could barely breathe. With Jack and Ken close by, she could handle even a full-scale assault.

  Ken returned to lead her into a clearing, past a shack to the mine itself. It was old, but solid. Briony stood just inside the entrance. “If I have to go back into it to hide, how do I find my way out?”

  “It’s not a huge labyrinth like a lot of mines. It has two tunnels. Either has an exit. The left tunnel is your best bet; it comes out in heavy wood, so more cover. You’re good, hon. One of us will come for you. If we don’t warn you ahead of time, shoot anything coming your way.” He handed her the pack with her clothes. “I’ve got to get rid of the tracks and go help my idiot of a brother. He might go psycho on us and I’d have a hell of a mess to clean up.”

  Briony nodded, managing a small smile. “Stay safe, Ken.”

  Ken leaned in to hug her, in a clumsy attempt to reassure her, and then shouldered his rifle and sprinted back toward the house.

  Jack was surrounded, trying to pick off the soldiers one by one, but he was pinned down by the second enhanced soldier. Ken hurried as he wiped out the tracks leading from the mine back to the tunnel. I’m on my way. Don’t shoot me.

  Go up, Ken. Get the son of a bitch off my back. Whitney can’t afford to lose too many of his enhanced soldiers. He might be able to enhance some of them physically, but you have to start with some psychic ability before you can strengthen it.

  I’ve got a few soldiers between us.

  Even as he sent the thought to Jack, a soldier rose up in front of him, covered in leaves and twigs, a handgun spouting flame. Ken whipped his body into a spin, lashing out with his foot, managing to avoid getting shot, but the knife in the soldier’s other hand sent a streak of fire racing down his thigh. He caught the soldier on the hip and sent him staggering back. The gun went off a second time, the bullet zipping through the trees, shaving leaves from the branches.

  Ken sprang into the air, cartwheeling over the soldier’s head to avoid the next shot. He banked off a tree and kicked the soldier hard in the head, driving the toe of his boot into the back of the man’s head. He dropped like a brick, and Ken was on him, quickly snapping the neck and letting the body fall to the ground. He removed weapons, ammunition, and a tiny radio, and once more began to follow the stream back toward the house, using much more caution. Obviously the ground soldiers had spread out and were circling the house.

  I’m approaching from the east.

  About damn time. Jack inched his way to get a better angle on one of the soldiers moving through the yard toward the east. He had to cover Ken’s approach, but the enhanced soldier wasn’t giving him anything to work with.

  The air around him shimmered, turned opaque. He felt the impact in both his chest and head, as if something squeezed the air out of his body. The enhanced soldier was making his move, forming a shield around Jack.

  Jack rolled, bringing up his rifle, but there was no target. He wasn’t certain a bullet could penetrate the psychic shield. Only two men he knew could do such a thing. Kadan Montague and Jesse Calhoun. Jesse worked with the SEALs team and Kadan belonged to the other team—a mixture of several of the special forces under General Rainer. Had either the admiral or the general set them up? Someone was working with Whitney and they had to find out whom, or sooner or later both teams were going to be set up to be murdered. Now that Whitney was acquiring his own army, all of them had to be expendable.

  “So you’re Jack Norton. I hear about you all the time. Elite. The best. You and your brother are so unstoppable. No one can shoot you from the ground. Let’s see how good you really are. If you want me, put the rifle down and let’s have at it.”

  Jack was silent, trying to get an exact location from the sound of the voice. “You’re looking for a reputation.”

  “I have a reputation. You’re the older, flawed model.”

  “You mean I can think for myself.” Jack tried to inch his way to the edge of the roof, but a bullet slammed into the shingles beside his boot, warning him to stay still.

  “I’m going to kill you,” the other man said, confidence in his voice.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Name’s Will Gunthrie. You remember me. You put a gun to my head when we were out in the jungle in Colombia. You didn’t like my attitude.”

  Jack had him now, the memory bringing bile into his throat. The kid was a straight-up killer, liked inflicting pain. It was more than a job; he wanted to hurt. He hadn’t gone for a straight kill, but had left two guards with slashes in their bellies, trying to put their guts back inside. Men like Gunthrie sickened Jack.

  “You’ve been practicing with your knife, haven’t you, Willie?” Jack asked softly. “I took it away from you and stuck a gun in your mouth and you pissed your pants. You wake up at night in a cold sweat, don’t you, thinking about me taking out your sorry ass.”

  The shield expanded and contracted as if Will’s temper had flared, but when he spoke, his voice was as cool as ever. “I want my chance, Jackie boy. You’re such a badass, the boogie man of snipers, you and that ghost of a brother of yours. Funny how no one ever sees or hears him until it’s too late. But you’re the one they talk about. Big Bad Jack.”

  “Yeah, he’s out there, somewhere in the shadow
s, Will, got a bead on you right now. Are you sweating again? You’re starting to feel him, aren’t you? Is your left eye twitching yet? I go for between the eyes, but Ken likes the left eye.”

  “You want to kill me, Jack, come at me with a knife. Your guns aren’t going to do any good this time.”

  Jack sighed. “I don’t have time for this crap, Willie, but if your ego needs stroking, let’s do it and get it over with.”

  You know it’s a trap, Jack! I can’t even see up to the roof. There’s some kind of light reflecting back at me. I’m in position; I should be able to see both of you, but the haze is covering the roof. Can you get out of there?

  I don’t think so, Ken. I’m going to have to do this his way. He’s been waiting a long time. I should have capped his ass in Colombia when I found him torturing the guards. I would have, but we had to fight our way out of there and we needed every man.

  Did you know he was part of the psychic experiments, Jack? Did you see him taking the test?

  No. I thought he was killed a couple of months after we took the test. I’d been keeping tabs on him and word came down he took a hit in Afghanistan.

  It could be a trap, Jack. There are two helicopters, and one is buzzing back and forth over the roof. I’ve got a radio, and they’re ordering your boy to stand down and remove the shield. As soon as you show yourself, he could do it and let the helicopter boys have themselves a regular turkey shoot.

  Jack pulled the strap of his rifle over his head and set the weapon aside. He patted the Glock in his shoulder harness and pushed his rifle out away from the chimney, where Will could see it. Maybe, Ken, but I think he’s got too big of a hard-on for me. He’s been thinking about this for a long time. This is his one chance and he knows it. And it might be my only one as well. If he removes the shield, I’ve got to contend with both helicopters and with him.

  Ken swore. Get it done then. I’ll see what I can do about the helicopters.

  “You want to really do this, Will?” Jack asked. “Put your rifle where I can see it. I know you’ve got a handgun, but so do I. You bring that shield down and I’ll kill you before they get to me. If you don’t believe anything else, you believe that.”

  Will Gunthrie laid his rifle in plain sight on the roof and stepped out. Jack was tempted to shoot him right there and be done with it.

  “You can shoot me,” Will said, “but I’m looking down my sights right at you and you’re a dead man as well. Keep your hand away from your gun. This is personal to me, Jack, and that’s why you’re going to die. Everything is business to you.”

  “Are you looking to talk me to death?” Jack asked softly.

  Gunthrie whipped up his hand, wrist flicking, sending a knife streaking through the air. Jack dove under it, rolling, coming up directly in front of the younger man, knife slicing up the thigh and going for the soft parts of the body. Will leapt back, drawing a second knife, circling warily. “I’ll give it to you that you’re fast. Didn’t expect that.”

  Jack watched him, his eyes taking in every detail, registering the slightest movement, the tensing of muscles, the tic in the jaw. Jack smiled, a mere baring of his teeth. “You’re sweating, Gunthrie, and we haven’t even started yet.”

  Will feinted to draw Jack in. Jack just watched him without reacting, his stare unblinking, the flat, cold eyes never leaving his target. Blood dripped down Gunthrie’s leg from the slice along his thigh, but he had jumped away before the cut could go deep enough to do major damage. “Come on! What are you waiting for?” He beckoned with his fingers, but Jack just watched, never reacting.

  Will moved with blurring speed, slashing with the blade, up toward Jack’s stomach and across the midsection, narrowly missing skin, laying open Jack’s shirt. Jack’s shoulder moved, a flick of his wrist as he engaged and leapt back. There was a shallow slice along both of Gunthrie’s forearms and one across his chest—right over his heart. Jack’s expression never changed. His gaze remained flat and cold, his eyes gleaming silver as he watched for Will’s next move.

  It came fast, Gunthrie leaping into the air, aiming a spinning back kick at Jack’s stomach and lashing out with his knife as he came around. The kick never connected—Jack caught his ankle, but as his opponent spun around, and the knife slashed a burning cut across Jack’s bicep.

  Jack drove his blade deep into Gunthrie’s thigh, twisting as he withdrew it, shoving the man away from him and leaping back, only to rush forward again, knife slicing several times, making shallow cuts so that when he stepped away again, blood welled from half a dozen small cuts.

  Will Gunthrie swore savagely and stepped in close, driving his knife upward in a classic attack, wanting to finish it. Jack slapped his wrist away and repeated the figure-eight attack, the shallow cuts to the arms and belly, adding one to Gunthrie’s face. Will staggered back and stared down at the blood welling up from so many sites. “You fight like a girl.”

  Jack didn’t respond, merely watched him, refusing to be drawn into a conversation with a man he already considered dead. On some level he was aware of the helicopter hovering overhead, trying to find a way around the shield Gunthrie had built, and he was very much aware that when that shield came down, he would have to move faster than he’d ever moved in his life. His mind plotted every step, even to collecting his rifle, and all the while he watched Gunthrie, waiting for that one mistake he knew would come.

  The soldier lifted his hand to wipe the blood from his face, and Jack went in fast, slamming the knife deep, tearing through the wall of the chest and burying it in Gunthrie’s heart. They stood toe to toe, staring into each other’s eyes. “It’s very personal this time to me, Gunthrie, and you should have taken that into account.”

  The light faded from the other man’s eyes, leaving them opaque, flat, and as lifeless as the body slumping to the rooftop. As Gunthrie died, the shield shimmered into transparency, dissolving to leave Jack standing on the roof with half a dozen guns aimed at him and a helicopter circling.

  The soldier manning the machine gun let loose with a hail of bullets. Jack dove for the edge of the roof, catching his rifle with one hand and slipping the strap over his head in a smooth practiced move as he flipped over the eaves and swung hard to bring his feet back through the window, into the relative cover of his bedroom.

  Down, down. Incoming.

  Everything around him exploded, taking out part of the wall and burning down his leg, charring his pants and searing flesh as he crawled to the reach the protection of the bathroom. He slapped his smoldering jeans, rolling over and over to put out any flames. He swore as blisters rose along his calf and thigh and his skin turned bright red.

  Take that fucking guy out.

  I’m on it. Even as Ken spoke, Jack squeezed the trigger, focusing first on the shooter with the machine gun and second on the soldier lobbing grenades. I’m going for the helicopter.

  Wait until the damn thing is clear of the house. I don’t want it coming down on my head.

  Ken squeezed off three rounds in rapid succession, and the helicopter began to spin wildly. Jack lifted his head enough to take aim and add another two rounds. The helicopter slipped sideways and spun again, black smoke pouring off of it.

  Damn it, Ken. It’s going to hit the garage. My Jeep is parked there. Your Rover just happens to be in the shed. How did that happen?

  Bitch-bitch-bitch. Get out of there. Someone just jumped from the helicopter, and the way he landed, he’s a supersoldier.

  The helicopter slid to the ground, crumbling, almost in slow motion, metal grinding loudly and more smoke choking the air. Clouds of smoke burst all around them.

  He’s blanketing the area, Jack, could be coming at you. Are you hit?

  Not exactly, but I’m really pissed you blew up my car.

  I didn’t blow up your car, you jackass. I saved your life. I told you to park the thing in the shed. I was cleaning the garage out and you wouldn’t move it. Serves your happy ass right.

  Something stilled i
nside of Jack. Where’s the second helicopter?

  I shot at him a couple of times and he drew back.

  Jack shook his head, trying to force his mind to rise above combat mode. Something’s not right, he said. They’re engaging with us, Ken, but they aren’t trying all that hard. You think they’re afraid?

  Ken turned that over and over in his mind, frowning as he did so. I think they’re obeying orders.

  So they’re keeping us occupied. Whitney ran his computer probabilities like he did for every mission, and his damn computer said we’d stash Briony somewhere safe. Jack’s gut knotted—not a good sign. Warning alarms were beginning to shriek at him.

  Ken’s alarm rang just as loud. Briony was worried because they keep finding her. How, Jack? How are they finding her?

  CHAPTER 17

  Briony crouched in the tunnel leading down into the mine. Something wasn’t right, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. How were they finding her? If Ken was right, they would never have sent soldiers against him and Jack. How could Whitney get away with sending soldiers after members of the military? They had no one they could trust.

  The tunnel was far darker than the woods, and she sat at the entrance, where she could hurriedly escape back into the mine should someone come, but there was solace in being close to the woods. She occasionally saw a flash of light in the sky and heard the sound of gunfire, but it seemed far away. How were they finding her?

  There had to be logic in what Whitney had done. He’d brought her from the orphanage where he found her, and experimented on her, but unlike some of the other girls he’d kept, he’d adopted her out to a loving family. But that was still an experiment. He had wanted to see how she would develop and function in comparison with someone he’d kept. What exactly did one need for an experiment? Briony sat up straighter, her heart beginning to pound, knowing she was on the verge of an important discovery. Her temples throbbed and her stomach twisted. Too many times in her life she’d felt the same stabbing pains, the terrible churning in her stomach, and she’d stopped trying to remember her past. Who did Whitney control and who was he comparing her to? Whitney needed his experiments the way others needed to breathe. There would be someone—another child he’d kept behind, raised without a family, raised in a stark, difficult environment—one he kept.