Spider Game

by Christine Feehan

  He didn't let her go, not all the way. He kept that thread between them, like one of her thin silky feelers. Monitoring her. It was wrong on so many levels, spying on her innermost thoughts. He had never been a jealous man, or a possessive one, until Cayenne. Women came and went. He didn't want them close. His need for Cayenne consumed him. She made him whole. She made him a better man. She did it all by giving herself to him without reservation. Anything he asked. Anything. Most importantly, she gave him complete trust in and out of the bedroom.

  For a woman to hand a man that kind of gift--he couldn't imagine anything greater. She let him do anything he wanted, and in return, he worshipped her. She didn't know that, because he wasn't like she was. She didn't play games. She gave him complete and total honesty at all times. If he asked a question, there was no hedging. She gave him the answer. She didn't hold back from him. He hadn't learned that yet. He still protected himself, and the more vulnerable he was, the more he tried to keep that protection in place.

  Trap knew there was no going back to a life without her. She had become his world, inside or out of the laboratory. He didn't want to go back. He just didn't like separation and vowed, from now on, he was going to stick close to her. She didn't seem to need space from him, so he was going to take advantage of that.

  He knew absolutely he was the needy one. He was also a first-class bastard. He was selfish. He always had been. He did what he wanted when he wanted. He had become used to being rude and expecting those around him to put up with it. At first, he'd wanted to drive people away and keep them at a distance. Now, that behavior was ingrained in him.

  He could have anything he wanted. He had that much money. He wanted a machine costing a couple hundred thousand, or a million, he bought it if it was important to him. His assistant provided anything he asked for and would answer his call even in the middle of the night. He was used to deference when he addressed others. He was used to getting his way in all things.

  He not only wanted Cayenne--he needed her. That meant he would use everything at his disposal to keep her tied to him. Everything he'd told her about having a child and saving her life was true. He had finally found her files on the computer. He'd read them carefully. He knew when her period was. He had already calculated when she could get pregnant. He'd waited to say something to her until he was certain he'd managed to plant his child in her. He had known all along it was wrong. He also had known she would forgive him.

  He pressed his hand to his heart. The physical reactions to her were getting stronger. Separation anxiety was growing with every moment they were apart. He forced himself not to call Wyatt back. Ezekiel had trailed after Wyatt to protect the family on their outing. Trap was grateful he was alone. He knew Zeke or Wyatt would have known he was in distress and they were astute enough to guess that being away from Cayenne was the reason.

  He felt her then. In his mind. The sudden alarm. Near panic when Cayenne didn't panic. Trap leapt to his feet, his shout sending birds lifting into the air. Cayenne. He reached for her. There was a moment of clarity. He knew she threw herself in front of Nonny, and as Wyatt's grandmother rose from her chair, Cayenne leapt up to cover her head as best she could with her own body.

  The bullet drove her back into the older woman. Both went down. The second bullet struck, a one-two punch. Cayenne was already fading, barely feeling the second bullet. She had shut everything down deliberately, realizing the bullets penetrated deep enough to do damage. She was bleeding and she didn't know how bad either of the wounds was.

  He was in the boat, ready to start it when first Wyatt arrived, two of the toddlers on his hip. Ezekiel followed with Ginger, racing through the swamp to gain the boat before Trap had taken off.

  Cayenne. Trap reached for her. Allowed Wyatt to take over. He sank down on the seat and gripped the edge of the boat, uncaring that his enhanced strength might leave evidence behind. He waited. Reached for her. There had been a flash of intense pain. He'd felt her heart jar. Hard. As if shock waves had shaken it. For one moment, her heart's rhythm had changed.

  He'd had her close. Warm. Inside him. One second could change his life. He knew that. It had happened twice before. One second had changed everything. Taken his family. Taken his aunt.

  Not you, Cayenne. Don't you fucking die on me. You aren't leaving me. Do you understand? Whatever happened, you keep breathing. For God's sake, baby, don't you fucking die.

  "Trap." Wyatt's voice was ultra-quiet. "The girls can't breathe. You have to get it under control."

  The voice registered, but he really didn't hear the words. He was someplace else. Inside himself. Someplace no one could reach him. Get to him. Make him feel anything but sheer ice.

  Trap's gaze jumped to Wyatt's. He embraced the cold. Hid himself there. Became a fucking glacier. His hands were steady. He knew his eyes were devoid of all feeling because he wasn't feeling. He couldn't feel. Not without her. Not ever again. He'd given himself this one last chance. One. To live. To not be the cold lethal monster he'd shaped himself into in order to exact revenge.

  "Trap." Ezekiel's voice penetrated the ice in his veins. "The girls have to breathe. So do we. You don't get it under control, none of us is going to make it back to her."

  Trap looked around him, blinking to bring it all in focus. The air density surrounding and in the boat went back to normal. He couldn't reach Cayenne. She wasn't there anymore. He took a deep breath and let it out.

  "When have I ever lost control, Zeke?" His voice was as devoid of feeling as the rest of him. There was nothing left but ice--and the need to kill.

  "Malichai reached out. He's taking out the bullets. She's alive, but they've got trouble, at least two, maybe three more coming at them. Gino's in the swamp and Draden's on the roof," Wyatt reported.

  "Wyatt, you can't take the girls to the house. Let me off in the swamp, the trail we made leading through will bring me in behind them." Trap stared straight ahead. It was up to Malichai, not him, to save Cayenne. But he could kill everyone who had tried to take her from him. He'd spent a lifetime learning how. And if she survived . . . this bullshit was never. Ever. Fucking. Happening. Again.

  CHAPTER 17

  The moment Trap's foot touched dry land, he was running, merging with the brush and trees, heading into the dense vegetation toward the narrow trail the GhostWalkers had created to allow them access through the swamp between their homes. He expanded his senses to encompass the area between him and the house. Gino was already reaching toward him with his mind and they nearly collided there in that psychic place.

  I'm coming toward you. Draden's on the roof. Pepper is armed inside while Malichai and Nonny work on your woman. Draden took out their sniper. We've got at least three more approaching the house.

  Four, Trap corrected. I'm coming in behind them. I'll take out as many as I can, you stay close to the house to keep any of them from getting to the others.

  A third voice entered the conversation. I'm a couple of miles from the house, in the bayou, Wyatt said. Getting the girls undercover. I hear helicopters. Two of them. Draden, if you're exposed, you need to use the blinds.

  One of the first changes made to both Wyatt's home and Trap's was the installation of cover for the men using sniper rifles on the rooftops. They could slip into one of the camouflaged tubes that looked part of the roof and never be seen, even from the sky.

  Helicopters mean business, Trap said. They're coming at us with more than a five-man team. Pay attention to the swamp side. They won't make their entry via water because they'll be too exposed. They'll have gunners on the helicopter. Draden, can you take them out?

  If they expose themselves, Draden replied.

  Trap never slowed down, using a ground-eating pace to cover the distance and fall in behind the team moving in for the kill. He couldn't think about another team approaching the house from a different direction. He had to trust Gino, Draden and Pepper for the moment.

  He heard the sound of a footfall and the whisper of clothes b
rushing through leaves. He kept moving fast--very fast--maintaining silence. He spotted the rear guard. He was running at a much slower pace than Trap, his automatic cradled in his arms as he scanned the surrounding swamp. It was more cursory than anything else. He had no idea death was a pace behind him.

  Trap transferred his knife to his left hand as he came up on the man. His hand snaked out and he sliced the vulnerable throat as he blew past. The cut was deep and long. He'd used a tremendous amount of strength as he swung his arm back to meet the man so the soldier literally ran into the slice of the blade. The cut nearly severed his head. Trap didn't lose his pace, but kept running, not even looking back to see or hear the body fall.

  One down, he reported.

  Now he could hear the thump of the helicopter blades as the two machines closed in over the swamp, rushing to aid their team.

  Helicopters over my head right now. Two gunners in position in each. I believe the team leader is directing the action from the second helicopter. For one heart-stopping moment, Trap allowed the full meaning of those two helicopters to penetrate.

  His breath caught in his lungs and his stomach rebelled before he managed to shut that shit down. He couldn't think that Whitney was sending everything he had against Cayenne. He wanted her dead. Gone. Whitney knew she was nearly indestructible and he couldn't afford for her to be in play. That meant Whitney was brewing up some plot against the GhostWalkers or one of their members and he didn't want interference.

  Cayenne was small and could get in and out of places most of the GhostWalkers couldn't, but still, how could one person be such a threat to Whitney? She hadn't made a move to go after him. Why was it that Peter Whitney wanted her dead, so much so that he would send more than a five-man team after her? Why risk his soldiers? He didn't have that many, and they didn't last long. They weren't psychologically prepared for their enhancements and most broke fast. He was also risking an entire team of GhostWalkers as well as Wyatt's little girls. This attack made no sense.

  Trap shut down his emotions hard, but his brain kept processing even as he ran, the helicopters directly overhead. He caught flashes of them through the trees, large silver birds, doors wide open, gunners manning their large caliber gun.

  Fuck. They've got a .50 cal FN M3M/GAU-21 machine gun.

  Badass, Draden said. Eleven hundred rounds per minute. Serious fire power. They've come to kill.

  It doesn't make sense. They have no way of knowing that Wyatt's three little girls aren't home. Whitney wants them alive, doesn't he? Trap asked.

  He could no longer hear three bodies moving fast through the swamp. Two, a good distance ahead, but not all three. He slowed instantly and then came to a halt. There was a strange buzzing in his head that told him at least some of Whitney's soldiers had telepathy and were in communication.

  I've got the girls undercover in the swamp, Wyatt said. Pepper, I need to know you're all right.

  I'm good, in position to protect Malichai, Cayenne and Nonny. Take care of the girls, Wyatt. Don't worry about me, Pepper said.

  Status on Cayenne, Trap snapped because he had to know in spite of all resolve not to allow himself to think.

  Malichai has already started on Cayenne. They're extracting the bullets now. She's alive, Trap, but her heart and lungs took a beating.

  First helicopter in sight, Draden reported. The second is hanging back. I don't have a clear shot. Trap, you might have to take that one if they stay out of my range.

  Roger that.

  Trap studied the swamp ahead, pushing all thoughts of his woman as far from him as possible. The foliage was thick in some places, lending cover to anyone lying in wait for him. A small clearing of only about seven feet by eight feet where two trees had dropped was just ahead. On both sides, the swamp was edged with cypress trees and veils of moss hanging, again providing cover. He studied the entire layout, cataloguing everything in seconds. The temptation was to skirt the clearing and move to the outer rim of the swamp.

  The sound of Draden's rifle cut through the air. The quick one-two Draden was famous for. He'd placed both shots precisely in the pilot's head. The lead helicopter lurched. Spun. One of the gunners went flying. The other fell back into the spinning craft. The helicopter continued to spin as it fell from the sky. The wheels touched earth. Bounced a few feet into the air spinning like a top. The craft listed to the side, the left back wheels touched first, almost gently, and then crumbled as the helicopter spun on the ground.

  It looked as if for a moment time slowed. The helicopter continued to tip to the side. The tail crashed into the ground, as the entire craft swept around in a circle on its side, throwing up dirt, debris and pieces of the wheels and tail. The rotor collapsed into the dirt, crumbling, forcing more debris, plants and dirt into the air, so that the sight was nearly obscured from vision. The craft, on its side, continued to spin as more debris flew into the air. It seemed alive, thrashing wildly for a moment, and then it came to a rest on its side, completely broken.

  The second helicopter pulled back deeper into the cover of the swamp, hovering behind the taller trees where their leader barked out orders to his ground crew. Trap felt those orders like a tedious buzzing in his ear. He kept his gaze fixed on the tiny bit of clearing covered with vegetation, rather than the temptation of the moss-covered trees. The man they'd left behind to deal with him was in that clearing.

  I know you're there, he whispered into the midst of the buzzing.

  There was an abrupt silence, as if the leader heard him. Not just the leader, but the entire team. He was a strong telepath and he wanted them to hear him. He willed them to hear him.

  You should have left her alone. He stayed still. Motionless. He was inside the grove of trees, surrounded by brush, so even if the helicopter swung back to aid the rear guard, they wouldn't spot him. They could sweep the area with their powerful gun, but they'd kill their own man as well.

  You'll never find me, the rear guard hissed. Keep looking, you big son of a bitch. They'll be on that insect before you ever find me. It's already too late.

  There was a heartbeat of silence and then a furious hiss of command. The leader wasn't in the least bit happy that his rear guard had engaged with the enemy.

  Trap stared at the small clearing of leaves, calmly calculating the cubic feet and how best to direct his blast. He knew Gino was in front of the other two men and any others converging on the house. Gino was a ghost. Phantom wind, they called him. No one saw Gino, even when he made his kill. One moment no one was there, the next the body was already dropping to the ground and he was gone. Trap trusted him to do his job.

  He sent a gust of air, lifting the vegetation to reveal the rear guard lying prone. Trap changed the actual chemicals in the air, a gift he had in abundance now, one that he'd practiced and honed, one he used when he went into enemy camps and left behind the dead. Gasses changed. The strange shimmer, a veil more opaque than translucent, surrounded the guard.

  The man coughed. Tried to push himself up. Coughed again. Spat blood. Collapsed. Keeping to the edge of the heavier brush, Trap skirted around the clearing, holding to cover, keeping an eye on the dying man. Once around the rear guard, he picked up his speed, running full out to catch up with the last two team members.

  Two coming in from the south side, Draden reported. Gino, they'll be on top of you in another couple of minutes. I don't have a clear shot at either of them.

  Take the two about to break out of the swamp, running full out, Trap ordered. They know I'm coming up behind them because I made a little noise to let them know. I'm hoping the helicopter will try to cover them.

  He could hear the buzz as the team leader gave orders from his vantage point in the sky. The helicopter began to move cautiously, trying to find a way to shift into position to cover the two men trying to gain access to the house. Trap ducked into the cypress grove and circled back around until he was directly beneath the helicopter. He inched forward, staying as low as possible, making certain no leaf sti
rred to give him away.

  Looking directly up at the silver bird, the two gunners at the ready and the team leader using binoculars to watch the open ground between the swamp and Wyatt's home, he looked upward toward the sky. The air around the helicopter was made up of a mixture of gasses, mainly oxygen, nitrogen with smaller amounts of argon, water vapor and carbon dioxide along with a very small amount of other gasses.

  By changing the gasses in the air beneath and around the helicopter, Trap changed the actual density of the air. He did it fast, not giving the pilot time to figure out what was happening. Even with his instruments to guide him, the pilot would know that nothing changed air density that quickly and he wouldn't believe what he was seeing. The rotor RPM decayed rapidly until the blades simply ceased rotating. The bird dropped like a stone, forcing Trap to dive to relative safety.

  The helicopter crashed hard, breaking apart, scattering bodies, equipment and debris over a wide area. Trap hurried forward, knife in hand. The pilot and team leader were both dead, killed on impact. One of the gunners was still alive, spitting blood and trying to get to a weapon. Trap cut his throat. He found the second gunner a distance away, body in two pieces.

  Helicopter down, crew dead.

  I've got three coming at me from the south, Gino reported. I'll take them.

  Two are moving in from the east, the canal side, Draden reported. No way for me to get them. The sound of his rifle was loud. Two shots. Close together as Draden nearly always did. It was his personal trademark. Both runners close to the house down. Took them in the throat.

  I'm moving toward the river, Trap reported. He waited a beat but the wall in his mind was beginning to crumble. He had to reach out whether or not that way lay disaster. Malichai, give me a report.

  She's alive. Her skin has some kind of built-in armor. I swear it feels like silk, but the bullets couldn't penetrate very far. The skin worked like a vest. It's crazy, Trap. Her organs took a jolt, her heart nearly stopped, but it's back to beating steady again. Her thigh needs attention, but I don't think she's going to need more than a few stitches.