Lethal Game

by Christine Feehan

  They left the fire burning brightly, and this time used the back entrances to the other two bunkers. Bunker one held only five men, and they used the same configuration as bunker two. One man guarded the rear of the bunker against the off chance that they would be attacked from that side. Two watched the enemy camp and the ground around the front of the bunkers while the other two rested. It was the same in bunker three.

  When all the enemy were dead, Malichai and Rubin snuck back to camp. Above the bunkers were caves where they were concerned that more of the enemy lived, so they didn’t dare blow up the weapons. They disabled the larger ones and made their way back, arriving just before the helicopter was due.

  Malichai indicated to Braden and the others that he wanted them silent as they made their way up the slope to the rendezvous point with the helicopter. They didn’t want to make any noise at all and tip off any of the enemy who might be staying in the caves that they were escaping.

  Rubin took Jerry on his shoulders. He’d been given painkillers, but it still had to hurt like hell. Rubin didn’t say anything or ask questions, he just started up the slope. The moment he had traveled a few feet, a barrage of deadly fire hit just below them. Rubin caught Jerry in his arms and dove for cover.

  Malichai swore. That answered the question whether or not there were more in the caves. Or at least, someone had showed up and discovered the dead.

  “Shit,” Malichai hissed. “We missed a few.”

  “That’s impossible,” Rubin denied, but he had his rifle out and ready after securing Jerry.

  “I’ll get them out of there.” There was no choice. If they were going to get the wounded into the helicopter, they would have to make it safe for the helicopter to put down. Malichai had no choice, he had to go.

  Braden shook his head. “You’re crazy, man. You can’t face that kind of firepower.”

  “Do you have any better ideas?” Malichai asked. His gaze was on bunker two. The bunker was positioned to cover the mountain from almost any angle. Naturally, the enemy would have set up there. They didn’t need the other bunkers in order to control the entire area. He had to clear that bunker and get rid of the weapons. There was no point in hesitating. He had to do it now, before the helicopter decided it was too risky and left them and before any more of the enemy decided to show themselves—if there were any more. Wouldn’t they already be out in force if there were? He couldn’t think about that.

  Without further preamble, he left the safety of the boulders, sprinting from his position down the slope toward the bunkers. Malichai charged into the gunfire, running low, using a zigzag pattern with his enhanced speed. He had to leap over larger rocks and go around others. Bullets flew at him, never stopping, hundreds fired from the machine gun, tearing up the ground as he ran. Rocks exploded, sending pieces flying into the air. The bullets whipped around him, ripping at his clothing, tearing holes in the material and slicing pieces of skin. Still, he was up. He was running, his entire mind focused on the task in front of him.

  No matter what, he had to silence those weapons. Bunker two contained at least three enemy. Three different weapons were being wielded. They meant business too. The sound was continuous, a booming thunder rolling over top of him, so loud his ears hurt. He had enhanced hearing and no matter how he tried to turn down the volume, with the heavy barrage of murderous machine-gun fire, there was no way to do so.

  Mortars hit the ground on two sides of him, nearly simultaneously, letting him know that bunker one had at least one fighter still alive. No way could Rubin and he have missed that many of the enemy, even at night. Reinforcements must have arrived to take over, at least three or four, more likely five. Had they been random? Men arriving? Had they been in the caves? Were there more? He could drive himself crazy wondering.

  He dove for cover, rolled and came back up, hurling grenades over the barrier of bunker two. He tossed grenade after grenade into the bunker. The enemy continued to fire at him until the grenades inside the bunker began to explode, one after the other. Bunker one’s fire was continuous, the bullets hitting all around him. One nearly parted his hair. He actually felt it burning along his scalp.

  He heard Rubin’s rifle and then the fall of a body in bunker two. It was quieter after that and Malichai took another chance. Ignoring the firepower the enemy threw at him from bunker one, he ran the last few feet and leapt over the barricade, landing in the snow, his weapon ready and tracking, looking for anyone left alive in bunker two.

  The smell of blood and death was heavy in the crowded bunker. Shrapnel had torn into bodies, ripping through them, leaving behind bloody shells he knew he wasn’t going to get out of his head for a long time. He had no choice but to wade through the blood and gore to reach the still-intact mortar gun.

  The barrage of bullets coming from the machine gun in bunker one was a steady stream, zipping across the thick stone barricade and into the bunker, keeping Malichai pinned down. The mortar gun was lightweight, sitting on a tripod, the weapon resting on the metal plate. He swung the entire apparatus around so that it faced bunker one rather than the boulders his wounded were camped behind.

  He turned the explosive power of the mortar gun on the enemy. While he fired round after round into bunker one, Rubin’s rifle also engaged, and he never missed. If he pulled the trigger, someone inevitably went down. After what seemed like forever, bunker one fell silent. Malichai waited. There was no way to know for certain, but they couldn’t keep the helicopter waiting forever. It was all about fuel.

  Everything was still and quiet. Malichai knew he had to check bunkers one and three, although there had been no gunfire from three. They had to be able to load the wounded into the helicopter. It was waiting for the clear signal to land. He stepped out from behind the shelter of bunker two, heart pounding, mouth dry. Nothing stirred. He began to make his way over to bunker one when machine-gun fire erupted from behind the walls of bunker one. It was fast. Furious. And bloodthirsty.

  Malichai didn’t know how many times he was hit, but it felt like a dozen. Maybe more. Pain blossomed, spread like wildfire, all up and down his leg, from his calf to his thigh. There was no coming back when his leg was that torn up, flesh shredded, pulverized even. He knew he was a dead man as he crumpled to the ground. The bones in his leg were shattered. He felt that, the bursting pain that traveled through his system so bright and hot he nearly passed out. He fought that feeling, ignoring the bullets still spitting at him. He began tearing off wrappings with his teeth and slapping field dressings over wound after wound. It was almost automatic, although he knew it was futile. There was so much blood, but he pressed the dressings over the worst of them. Five of the worst, where the blood was a fountain, spouting up like a whale.

  Dr. Peter Whitney had developed a drug called Zenith. That drug would stop bleeding and force adrenaline into the body, allowing a wounded man to get to his feet. It was supposed to promote healing, but after a few hours, it began to do just the opposite, breaking down cells until the wounded died unless he was given a second drug to counteract the first. Whitney had been the man who conceived the GhostWalker program and psychically enhanced the soldiers who tested high in psychic ability. He’d also genetically altered them without their permission.

  Second-generation Zenith had been developed by Whitney’s daughter, Lily. She was a brilliant doctor and researcher. She was also one of the orphan girls Whitney had experimented on. For some reason, Whitney had chosen her as his successor and he had officially adopted her. She was married to a GhostWalker from Team One. Second-generation Zenith was supposed to work without the ugly side effects. He hoped so. Zenith was all he had to keep him alive.

  He waited, breathing deeply until the drug hit his system. When it did, the heavy load of adrenaline from five patches was almost too much to handle. The dressings were already stopping the bleeding and sealing the wounds from the outside. He knew that didn’t mean he wasn’t bleedin
g internally, or that it could miraculously heal the broken bones, but the adrenaline gave him the necessary strength to move.

  Malichai began to drag himself across the snow-covered ground. Jagged rocks were just below the surface, making it a struggle to keep going. Each time the shooter behind bunker one rose up to aim at Malichai, another rifle barked and then a third. Braden and Jack were clearly helping to keep the enemy pinned down while Malichai painstakingly made his way to the bunker.

  It seemed he had used up quite a lot of his strength dragging his wounded leg behind him. He left a long trail of blood in the white snow. That trail of blood was an arrow, pointing out his position to the enemy. It didn’t matter that he wore specialized clothing to help hide him or that his enhancements would have kept him from being seen—the blood trail was a dead giveaway.

  Although Rubin and the others kept the enemy pinned down, the machine gun was firing continuously so that bullets hit the ground mercilessly. He didn’t care. He knew, from the way he was bleeding, in spite of the Zenith, he was a dead man anyway. It wasn’t like he had a whole hell of a lot to lose. He had to give the helicopter a chance to land and take the wounded home.

  Using the enormous strength in his arms, he dragged himself across the rugged, freezing ground until he was nearly on top of the enemy, right under their wall. He smelled them. Blood. Fear. Stink of the unwashed. He knew he smelled the same way. He lay there breathing, hoping no one poked a gun over the wall and finished him off before he got his task done.

  He took the last of his grenades and tossed them over the wall, trying to hit the enemy squarely, just judging the distance by the sound of their moving around. The explosions rocked the wall so that debris fell on him, but there was no movement. He couldn’t get off his ass to go check to make certain he had actually gotten the last of their enemies.

  Malichai listened for movement. For groans. For anything at all that would tell him even one person was still alive. When time passed and he heard nothing at all, he began the slow, arduous journey back across the ground toward the slope. He still had to make it back to where the helicopter was landing, and it seemed a million miles away. In the distance he could hear it coming in, and he was thankful, but he knew, in the back of his mind, that he wasn’t going to make it.

  He should have told Ezekiel he loved him. Funny, he’d never said it to him. Not to him, not to Mordichai either. Then there was Rubin and Diego. They weren’t brothers by blood or birth, but they were brothers just the same. He hadn’t told them either.

  “Shut up, Malichai,” Rubin said distinctly. “Conserve your strength. You’re not going to die. You do that and Ezekiel’s most likely gonna shoot my ass.”

  That was true. Zeke could be like that. Malichai peered up at Rubin. He was there, rifle slung over his shoulder, his image wavering in and out as if he were more of a mirage. Malichai poked at him with a finger. “You real?”

  “Real enough.”

  “You getting me out of here?”

  “Something like that. You weigh a ton, Malichai. I’m going to tell Nonny not to feed you so much.”

  Rubin hoisted him on his back and rushed toward the helicopter already set down in the snow and rocks, stowing the wounded inside as fast as possible.

  2

  What the hell do people do on vacation?” Malichai asked aloud. He shook his head and turned away from the mirror. Staring at himself didn’t improve his looks any.

  He was a big man, with obvious, defined muscles running through his body. What wasn’t so obvious was the fact that even as muscular as he was, those muscles were loose and he could move fast and use the speed and strength of them, and that his reflexes were astonishing. He had strangely colored eyes, always had them, even as a child, but the enhancements done on him in the service had further changed them so that they looked gold. Old gold. Florentine gold.

  His lifestyle was beginning to take a toll on him. There was no getting around it. He went out on missions as often as possible. Mostly, they rescued soldiers shot up and needing immediate transport out of a hot zone. He was fast, he was strong and he was very adept at fieldwork. There were few better at triaging a wounded soldier or finding a vein and getting a needle in fast before the vein collapsed. He was dedicated to bringing his soldiers home alive if possible. So, he volunteered every single time they had to go in with guns blazing.

  So, yeah, he’d been shot a few times. He’d seen more than his share of hand-to-hand combat. He’d taken on the drug cartels a few times. What else was he supposed to do? He wasn’t the kind of man women looked at and wanted for themselves. He didn’t know if a woman could live with him—he could barely live with himself. So, a home and family were out for him. He understood that, but he didn’t have to like it.

  He’d grown up on the streets of Chicago with his two brothers, Ezekiel and Mordichai. Later, Ezekiel had discovered Rubin and Diego Campo fending for themselves as well, and they’d banded together. Schooling had been intermittent, just what Ezekiel could provide for them. Mostly they looked for food and kept the predators off one another. Malichai had grown up fierce, using his fists, learning every form of underhanded street-fighting known to man, and he’d learned it was life or death. He’d chosen life.

  He sighed and walked to the door of his rented room. It was small and he covered the distance quickly, too quickly. Once he opened the door, he was expected to actually do something. Go somewhere. Enjoy himself. He’d forgotten how to do that.

  He lived in the Louisiana swamps and he’d learned he loved it. He liked his “family” there, particularly his teammate Wyatt Fontenot’s grandmother. She insisted on the entire team of GhostWalkers calling her Nonny, which they did. Eventually, he had begun to feel as if he had a grandmother for the first time. She cooked amazing meals for them. There was always food on the table. He was always hungry. He was now.

  Satisfaction, now that he had an actual purpose for leaving his room, settled in his gut and he stood by the door, automatically listening for anyone on the other side. There were at least three people in the hallway, but that was okay, he had already identified them. Like him, they were staying at the little bed-and-breakfast.

  He went into the hallway and, without more than glancing at the others who were huddled together arguing about which direction they would go, he continued toward the staircase. The two men and one woman always seemed to be arguing, so much so, that he had deliberately tuned them out. They spoke in what they considered hushed tones, but a man with his enhanced hearing had no problem listening to their ridiculous arguments if he wanted to—which he didn’t.

  Malichai made his way to the dining room. A prickle of awareness crept down his spine and his gaze swept the nearly empty room. One other person sat by herself at a table in the corner. She was reading a book—a romance—and he smirked when he saw it. She was a gorgeous woman and he tried not to stare at her. She was a blonde, but her hair was so thick, he doubted if the color could be natural. Most blondes had finer or thinner hair than that. He must have been looking too closely because she glanced up. He could tell that first glance was simple idle curiosity but then she stiffened, and her gaze wholly focused on him.

  Her eyes were gorgeous, a startling blue, like jewels. So deep blue they were almost certainly contacts. She glanced back down at her book, but he could tell she wasn’t reading it anymore. He’d probably scared her. He wasn’t like some of his fellow GhostWalkers, who seemed to walk into a room and have half the female population enthralled—and that had nothing to do with their enhancements and everything to do with their good looks, charisma or both, none of which he had.

  The breakfast was set up buffet style with a long row of warmers laid out on a table. He would have his back to the room when he served himself food, but he seemed to be the last man to breakfast. The moment he’d walked in he’d become uneasy, but no one was there but the two of them—the blonde and him. Was the thre
at coming from her? Was it even a threat? He was on vacation. Didn’t that mean there was no threat? Hell if he knew.

  He dished himself food, standing sideways to keep her in sight. Her gaze jumped to him and she lowered the book partway, both feet coming to the floor, when she’d been relaxed, one leg curled up under her. He sent her a cocky grin.

  “See you’re readin’ my favorite book.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “You have no idea what I’m reading.”

  He was an enhanced GhostWalker with the very sharp eyes of an eagle. “It’s a romance titled Toxic Game.” He hoped he didn’t have to describe what the book was about because he didn’t have a clue.

  She glanced down at the book as if she couldn’t believe he knew the title. When she looked back up at him, his heart went a little crazy. The sun hit her just right, turning her blond hair into a waterfall of ice and gold sparkles. The strands actually dazzled his eyes for a moment, so that he lost sight of her. Her image blurred. He could only see that amazing, overpowering shine.

  He blinked to bring her into focus. When he managed to get her back in his sight, he found himself staring into her vivid jeweled eyes, eyes blazing blue flames at him.

  “You do not read romance books.” Her chin went up. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with wanting to read about men who believe in monogamy. I doubt you’d know anything about that.”

  He took a chair facing her and drank his coffee slowly, studying her furious little face. She was beautiful all riled up. His heart was going a little crazy and all at once he felt very much alive. Maybe this vacation thing wasn’t going to be so bad.

  “What makes you think that? If I read romances, clearly I like happy endings and prefer books where men and women are faithful to one another.” It was all about thinking fast on one’s feet. Any GhostWalker should be excellent at that.