GW10 Samurai Game

by Christine Feehan

  “Take this thing out of my arm, Lily.” He hesitated. “Please.” He was getting up and if she didn’t cooperate, he was going to leap out of the bed right in front of her, but sometimes one could get a lot more from Lily by being nice—and polite.

  “Stop rushing me, Sam,” she snipped back, as if he was her brother.

  He liked that about Lily. She rarely took offense when the men became bossy with her—which was often—but she still did what she wanted, ignoring them. Lily definitely went her own way and she always had that quiet air of confidence about her.

  He deliberately made growling noises under his breath, making her laugh as she fussed over the bags hanging on the stand.

  “All right. What a grump,” she added, as she took the needle from his arm. “And stay off your feet. You might heal fast, but trying to heal that hole in your body in a few days is asking just a little too much—even of Zenith.”

  He couldn’t help the wince. He felt as if he might be lying to her by not making inquiries, but he was determined to find out if the Yoshiie family was in the compound and if they were, just what they were up to. He owed Azami the chance to explain the Zenith and anything else she could before he gave her up to Ryland.

  Lily left him with one more admonishing look and he breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t want her sticking around to witness him trying to get out of bed. He knew it wasn’t going to be a pretty sight. Just changing position took his breath away. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and waited until his vision cleared. His mouth still felt parched, as if he could never again get enough to drink. Breathing deeply, he put a little weight on his feet. The room spun, receded, and righted itself slowly. Gritting his teeth, he stood.

  Black swirled in front of his eyes. White stars shot straight at him, great comets soaring and rolling. His stomach lurched. He’d been shot more than once. Knifed twice. He’d even had a brief stint with electric shock, but he’d never felt quite so weak. Was that the loss of blood or the crash after using Zenith? Good question for the doc. He forced more air into his lungs and waited for the world to right itself because there was no way he was crawling back into bed.

  It took a few minutes for his legs to gain strength. The pain in his abdomen was easy enough to push aside, but the invading weakness wasn’t as cooperative. He took slow steps over to the bathroom, grateful the distance wasn’t far. He had to breathe deeply with every step and stop twice. Sam cursed under his breath. By the time he entered the war room with his team, he had to get this under control. It didn’t help that his body broke out in a sweat and small beads dotted his skin.

  Cold water helped. He took a brief, cool shower, taking care not to disturb the glue holding him together, sitting on the chair someone had thoughtfully provided for him. They’d all had their share of wounds, so it wasn’t hard to try to figure out what a fellow wounded soldier might need. He sank back onto the bed and rested before he attempted to dress, but at least the lurching stomach and sweats had receded. His knees weren’t nearly as wobbly. He didn’t bother with shoes—bending over was too difficult to contemplate. He was a little proud of himself for walking in a straight line down the center of the hall without staggering or even listing to one side.

  Sam pushed open the door to the war room. The large table was circled with his team members, who all looked up, various expressions on their faces. Most relieved, some a little shocked, and his captain openly scowled at him. Tucker and Gator, his two best friends, both grinned at him. Tucker jumped up to shadow him back to the table, ensuring he wouldn’t fall on his face and humiliate himself. Everyone, including Sam, knew what was coming.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Sam,” Ryland demanded, bringing knowing grins to everyone’s face. “If my wife finds you up, she’ll skin both of us alive.”

  Tucker’s grin widened.

  Sam shrugged. “She knows.”

  “Didn’t you need another blood transfusion this morning?” Tucker asked, a hint of innocence in his question.

  Sam knew there was nothing at all innocent about the inquiry. He was deliberately stirring the pot—which meant Ryland.

  Sam shot him a look that promised retaliation. “Go to hell, Tucker.”

  Raul “Gator” Fontenot nudged Kadan. “He looks a bit like a ghost, don’ you think?”

  Sam tried his famous stare down, but truthfully, his legs felt a little rubbery. He pulled out a chair and allowed himself to drop into it, stretching his legs out in front of him to ease his protesting body. More than anything, he wanted to ask about Azami. How was she? Was she still in the compound? Did they have the Yoshiie family under house arrest? Had anyone questioned her regarding her psychic capabilities? What about the second-generation Zenith?

  It was impossible to lie in bed and wonder what was going on with her. He woke up thinking about her, and dreamt about her when he wasn’t having nightmares, but he damn well wasn’t asking—not them and not Lily. Not anyone who would notice it was entirely out of character for Sam to make inquiries about a woman.

  “Sam.” Ryland didn’t have a “reasonable” voice, not when it came to his men—or his wife’s or son’s health. “Get your ass back to bed.”

  “I can’t do that, sir. I need to report. If the Yoshiies are still in the compound . . .” That was a blatant fishing trip, and he waited patiently for Ryland to bite.

  Ryland’s scowl deepened. “If I needed you to report on the Yoshiies, I would have been at your bedside demanding a report. They rested the first day and they’ve been shown around the compound. Lily’s been handling that.”

  “You showed them around?” Sam’s heart jumped and settled into a normal beat. He took a slow, careful look around. There was an overwhelming relief that Azami was still close and that he would see her again. There was also guilt that he felt that way when he was more than certain that something was a little off about the Yoshiie family. More, there was that peculiar rush of adrenaline he got when he knew he was in a battle of wits, which only added to his alarm.

  “Ian’s been watching them. They’ve been under guard every moment. In any case, we’re purchasing the satellite. They need access to our computers.”

  “Have they been in this room?” Sam asked.

  Ryland got it. He’d always been an intelligent man. He sat up very straight, every bit of casual ease gone from his body language, revealing the dedicated soldier. “They’ve been working a good portion of this week to set things up. What is it, Sam?”

  What could he say? That Ian couldn’t possibly guard Azami and keep her under a watchful eye?

  “I don’t know about the other two, but Azami has skills. Gifts. She’s every bit as talented psychically as any one of us in this room—maybe more so.”

  Ryland nodded, visibly relaxing. “She admitted as much to us. As all of us had natural psychic talents and we know they exist, Lily says it isn’t surprising to find such gifts in others who haven’t been enhanced.”

  Sam nodded. It made sense. The members of the team came from different backgrounds, as did the other teams, so of course they couldn’t be the only ones in the world with developed psychic gifts. He was a little surprised that Azami had admitted to her abilities. She had fought beside him bravely, revealing extraordinary psychic gifts that she had to know might put the sale of the satellite in jeopardy—might even put her life at risk—yet she hadn’t hesitated. He couldn’t help but respect and admire her.

  And want her. You want her for yourself, Sam. He admitted the truth. He’d never wanted a woman for himself before. He felt tremendous affection for the wives of the various members of the GhostWalker teams, and each was quite different in personality, but none of them would suit him. He was very driven at all times. He needed mental and physical stimulation and there was no doubt Azami was that woman.

  But was she his enemy? He just couldn’t quite get over that small nagging doubt in his mind that she was one of them—a GhostWalker—which meant she was as enhanced as
they were. If she was enhanced, if she had been one of Whitney’s experiments, what was she doing in their compound, and why didn’t any of the other GhostWalkers recognize her when all of them could feel the subtle differences in energy that identified one another?

  He looked around at his teammates. Clearly none of them were worried about the Yoshiies moving around the compound. He wanted to relax a little, but the tension refused to dissipate. Still, they’d had a day or so to further investigate Azami and her brothers. He had to think about things a little more. Get a few more pieces before he made up his mind one way or the other. He definitely had more of a nagging doubt about the Yoshiies—Azami in particular—than any of the other GhostWalkers, and they were all sharp and gifted. Maybe he didn’t trust his strange, almost overwhelming attraction to her.

  “So who the hell shot me? What have you found out so far?” he demanded. “And did anyone bother to retaliate for me?”

  Ryland laughed. “You bloodthirsty animal. I think you did enough retaliating of your own. Do you have any idea what the body count was?”

  “They attacked me,” Sam said righteously. “They should have stayed the hell home.”

  Tucker nudged him. “If anyone made it home, I’d have to say they probably wished they’d never left in the first place. You’re a monster, Sam.”

  “Who?” Sam insisted.

  “We’re still working on it. The moment we have any IDs or we know the entry points into the country, I’ll brief everyone,” Ryland said.

  “Two helicopters, Rye. They had to come from somewhere and they had to land somewhere. Fuel is always a problem,” Sam felt compelled to point out. They’d shot him.

  “They put down at an abandoned airstrip not far from here. It was part of a private estate that’s been on the market for several years. We’ll find them. We’re on their trail and when we do, we’ll know who sent them.”

  Sam knew he had to be content with that much. They’d gather information first. That was always the way, and information took time.

  “What are you working on now? Catch me up.” He picked up the file sitting in front of Gator and flipped it open to study the contents.

  Ryland looked around at his men with his steel gray piercing eyes. “We’ve got a problem, I’m certain of it. Two people suspected of being in Whitney’s employ dropping dead might be a coincidence, but three? No way. And the woman, the witness, Sheila Benet, at two out of the three accidents? We’re missing something here.” He turned his attention to Sam. “These are reports of deaths that have been ruled accidental. None of them raised an alarm anywhere else, but my gut tells me something’s definitely off. We flagged two of these people at least two years ago and the third, Major Art Patterson, we put on our watch list about three months ago.”

  Sam’s eyebrow shot up. “Patterson worked on the general’s watch. They got into a thing a while back and he told me he was concerned about the man. He actually said he was keeping ‘the enemy’ close.”

  Ryland nodded. “It was the general who put Patterson’s name on the watch list.”

  “We’ve got both Flame and Jaimie tracking this woman Sheila Benet, finding out everything they can about her,” Kadan added. “It’s way too much of a coincidence.”

  Sam scanned the medical reports of the three victims Ryland mentioned. A woman appeared to have died by slipping on water in a bathroom and hitting her head on the sink at an infamous nightclub. The second incident was a man dying in a car accident, his car going off the road on a remote mountain highway. The third, Major Patterson, lost his life in a restaurant, apparently dying of anaphylactic shock in front of a host of witnesses.

  “I’ve studied all the reports,” Kadan added. “I went over both the investigating officer’s and coroner’s reports meticulously. They look like straight-up accidents, all three of them, but something is off. My gut doesn’t lie and it’s screaming at me.”

  Nicolas “Nico” Trevane looked up from where he was cleaning weapons. “I’m in agreement.” He was a big man, half Native American, half Japanese, and all lethal. “But how could any of these have been anything but an accident?”

  Sam scanned the report of the army officer a second time, his mouth going dry. He moistened his lips, his pulse beginning to race. He wished he hadn’t gotten up after all.

  “Sam?” Ryland frowned at him. “Do you need to lie down?”

  There it was. His out. Hell, yeah, he needed to lie down. He swallowed down his need to protect Azami and cleared his suddenly clogged throat. “The medical examiner’s notes on Major Patterson’s throat seemed pretty significant to me.” Why the hell did this seem like such a betrayal? His loyalty was solidly with his team—his brothers. He would protect Daniel at any cost.

  “Spit it out, Sam,” Ryland ordered. “Why would you think that bruising was significant when the ME mentions he had a known allergy to peanuts and the bruising is in the shape of a peanut. The death was ruled accidental.”

  Sam nodded his head, reluctant to continue, but loyalty demanded he do so. “He didn’t find a peanut in his body anywhere.”

  Kadan leaned forward. “But it’s possible that when he was choking he coughed it out.”

  “I’m just speculating that maybe he didn’t eat a peanut,” Sam persisted, hating himself. This was far more difficult than he’d thought it would be. “The woman who lunched with him said he didn’t eat anything with peanuts. He knew he had an allergy. It’s just a thought.”

  “You’ve got a point,” Nico said. “That bothered me as well.”

  “His airway could have swollen closed,” Gator said. “With the bruisin’, it would have been natural and there were signs of swellin’. All the witnesses said he was chokin’.”

  “But the ME said there were inconsistencies. Anaphylactic shock usually isn’t quite so fast. His EpiPen was nowhere on his body and his colleagues said he always carried one,” Kadan said, his voice thoughtful.

  Ryland regarded Sam through half-closed eyes. That sleepy look didn’t deceive Sam for a minute. The man was sharp and he knew Sam wasn’t finished. He simply waited for more of an explanation.

  Sam had it to do. Give her up. Azami. I’m sorry. But that wouldn’t cut it. How could she forgive such a thing? Telling his team about her weapons would only force her to answer more questions about herself.

  He shook his head, tossed the medical report back in front of Gator, and looked around the room. “It’s possible that someone, using a blowgun, shot a tiny dart into the major’s mouth, poisoning him. The delivery system, no more than peanut-size, could have dissolved. If he wasn’t looking for it, the ME may have missed a very fine needle mark.” He drummed on the table with restless fingers. “If I were an assassin, I would have learned everything about my targets and I would have found out Patterson had a severe allergy to peanuts. If I could deliver the toxin to him, no one would ever know it was anything but an accident, just like the other two.”

  There. It was done. He looked around for a glass of water. Tucker had a water bottle unopened in front of him. He snagged it and chugged nearly half of it.

  “A delivery system that dissolves?” Ryland echoed. “It’s possible.”

  Kadan and Nico exchanged a long look. Finally Kadan shook his head. “Do you have any idea how accurate one would have to be to use a blowgun in full view of the public and hit someone in the mouth when they were talking? The chances of anyone having that kind of skill are nearly impossible.”

  He’d given her up. He damn well wasn’t going any further until he had a chance to talk to her. Sam remained silent. He felt like hell, both mentally and physically. He was beginning to sweat again. He tried not to move, the pain from his wound just waiting for the smallest shift of his body to assert itself.

  “You make impossible shots in high winds,” Gator pointed out. “It’s not like it couldn’t be done.”

  Nico shook his head. “It’s not the same thing. You’re talking about hitting inside the mouth. I could put a b
ullet in the mouth, but it wouldn’t matter if it was opened or closed. You’d have to time it perfectly. And this was done in a crowded restaurant.”

  “Impossible,” Kyle “Ratchet” Forbes agreed. Slightly under six feet, with blue eyes and a medium build, his looks were deceptive. He was abnormally strong and a genius with explosives as well as being a doctor. “No one would try it in a crowded room in a public situation. If they missed . . .”

  “But maybe they don’ miss,” Gator said, reluctant to give up on the mystery theory. He looked toward Sam for confirmation.

  Sam couldn’t say another word. The room shifted a little, the floor rolling. He was grateful for the chair he was sitting in.

  “If you’re assassinating someone, you don’t want a maybe,” Kadan pointed out.

  Kyle grinned and gave a little shrug. “There’s that, of course. You’d have to be absolutely confident in yourself to try something like that.”

  “Maybe a tribesmen from the lost tribes in the Amazon came a-visitin’,” Gator said with a small laugh.

  “I could do it with a knife,” Jonas “Smoke” Harper said into the silence. Lithe, medium height with blond hair and Florentine gold eyes, he was a quiet, highly intelligent man who could have been a master thief. He was an undisputed master with knives. “It would be difficult, but with enough practice, and studying my mark, I’d be able to know his mannerism’s, the way he moves, the little things that give people away when they’re talking.”

  “You could hit a man from across the room inside his mouth with a knife?” Kyle asked, half skeptic, half awed believer.

  Jonas nodded. “I know I could.” Jonas had grown up throwing knives with a circus family, he’d practically been born with a knife in his hand.