Nico Trevane was Lakota Indian and Japanese, with bronze skin, long black hair, and flat, cold eyes. He was tall, with obvious muscles, yet he could walk silently and slide through any terrain without a sound. He was not only a renowned marksman but he spoke many languages. His psychic abilities were an asset at any time. He was an anchor, drawing unwanted psychic overload away from the other members of his team. He seemed to always know where the enemy was by the emotions and energy surrounding the individual.
Kadan Montague was a broad-shouldered man with strong arms, very muscular, with dark blue, almost black eyes. A thin white scar ran the length of his face. Known for his coolness under fire, at home in any environment, very calm in any crisis, he was Ryland's second in command. He could do what few other GhostWalkers could. He enhanced other psychic gifts, could see images in sound, could be nearly invisible, and was able to shield an entire team from detection. Kadan could cling to any surface like a lizard and change his skin color to match his background. Ryland always knew he could rely on his judgment.
Jonas Harper did his job with the minimum amount of fuss. Blond, medium build with hard, sinewy muscles that allowed him to fold himself into small spaces, Jonas had Florentine gold eyes that could look right through a building. Expert with knives, he'd grown up in the circus and was a high wire specialist, spoke multiple languages, was a master of disguise, a master thief and pickpocket, and could disappear into fog, shadow, or anything available to him. Like Nico, he was a quiet man, but could always be counted on.
Sam Johnson was an undisputed genius, had dark eyes and curly hair, and quiet laughter. He was another who spoke multiple languages and who could do extraordinary things such as teleport. He was also a marksman and incredible at hand-to-hand.
Ryland looked at the four men he called family. He was sending them into hell with no backup.
"Team One is wheels up in six hours."
Sam waited until the others had filed out. "Rye, I want you to talk with Azami. I think she can help."
Ryland scowled at him. "Am I supposed to tell a civilian what we're doing?"
Sam shook his head. "She's a GhostWalker. One of us. And she can make sure we have a chance at getting out of there alive."
CHAPTER 17
Sheila Benet smiled at the maitre d' and murmured her name, resisting the urge to glance around the popular restaurant. She was dressed impeccably, as always. Her red power suit had always given her confidence and she needed it more than ever tonight. She clutched her Gucci bag tightly as she followed him to the small table in a very private corner, just as she'd requested. Melanie Freesha waited with that amused superior look on her face she'd worn since they'd first met in kindergarten. Sheila always enjoyed watching her when Melanie wasn't aware she was being observed.
The moment Melanie spotted Sheila, her face lit up. "There you are." She leaned in and brushed a kiss on Sheila's cheek. "It's been far too long. We need to find a way to get together more often."
Melanie was one of the few people Sheila really enjoyed. They'd been friends for a long time, long before Sheila had become Sheila Benet, back when she was merely hungry and afraid all the time. Melanie knew everything there was to know about her.
"I wish we could too," Sheila said, genuinely meaning it. "I miss you, but Dr. Whitney thinks spending too much time together is risky."
Melanie rolled her eyes and poured Sheila her favorite red wine. Melanie always remembered small details. "He likes to dictate to everyone. How are you?" She frowned, observing her friend in the flickering candlelight. "You look tired, Sheila. Is he running you ragged?"
Some of the terrible tension eased. It was nice to have a real friend. Melanie had "saved" her so many years ago, introducing her to Whitney and giving her a purpose and essentially a life. She'd been smart but had no chances, not with her drunken prostitute mother who was willing to sell her to any man for a drink. Melanie always left her window open at night, giving Sheila a place to hide when things got too bad. It was Melanie who came up with her new name and Whitney who provided her identity.
"It's a difficult time right now," Sheila admitted. She allowed herself a slow sweep of the restaurant. She recognized the look of three of Whitney's private soldiers scattered throughout the room. She knew there were more. Her heart began to pound and her mouth went dry. She took another sip of wine. "We're losing people and Whitney thinks someone may come after you."
Melanie blinked. Very slowly she put down her wineglass. "That's impossible. No one can connect me to Whitney. We took pains to make certain there was no link back to him. I've worked my way up to a great position to help him, and my reputation is spotless."
"Still, this is a bad idea, meeting like this. I tried to tell you, but you were so insistent."
Melanie nodded and lowered her voice, glancing warily around. "General Ranier was furious over the orders and he flew out to the GhostWalker compound to talk with them personally. He only brought his pilot with him. I've made it my business to be very close friends with his pilot, and Hank told me the general ordered him to stay with the helicopter. He went in alone and was gone for some time. He didn't say a word to Hank and was obviously upset. I think he believes the orders are a setup of some kind."
Her eyes met Sheila's directly. Sheila tried hard not to flinch. Her nod was nearly imperceptible.
Melanie frowned at her, took another slow sip of wine before putting the glass down. Her fingers toyed restlessly with the wine stem. "Who is the sacrifice?"
Sheila shook her head. "Sam Johnson, the general's foster son."
Melanie choked. "Are you kidding me? The general will go ballistic. That's crazy. Did you try to talk Whitney out of it?"
"There's no talking to him right now. He's got an entire agenda and he's determined to carry it out. He's in tight with Violet Freeman again, and they've got some new plan that he hasn't discussed with me. He's very focused and driven right now." Sheila took another look around the room.
This was Melanie's favorite restaurant. The lights were low, the food exquisite, and the waiters handsome. Sheila couldn't fault it, but she couldn't quite relax as she normally did when she managed the rare outing with her best and only true friend. These were dangerous times, whether Melanie recognized it or not.
"I wish he hadn't chosen the general's foster son. General Ranier is a good man, a patriot, and he'll be very upset." She shrugged her shoulders. "I guess it isn't as if Sam Johnson is his real son."
"No, he was just some punk kid the general rescued from the streets and gave a life he didn't even deserve," Sheila added to the argument.
Melanie sighed. "Well, Whitney made these soldiers. I guess he has the right to sacrifice one or two if it helps our country to be stronger. Nobody gives a damn about them because they don't know about them. And honestly"--she leaned in close--"if people did know, they'd be creeped out. Seriously, they aren't really human anymore. Peter once told me, they're like animals and it's up to their keepers to watch over them and decide when to euthanize them."
Sheila laughed. "Mel, you're so terrible."
"Not really, just practical. I'm all about our soldiers, you know that. The GhostWalkers are weapons created to aid our country and human soldiers in any way possible. If the destruction of one of them is necessary . . ." She trailed off shrugging as the waiter came over with a slight bow and a sexy, flirtatious smile to take their order.
Sheila took another look around the room, assuring herself everyone was in place while Melanie flirted. She spotted two more of Whitney's men. Directly across from her table was a small Asian woman, obviously a very high priced call girl with a man who was clearly one of Whitney's soldiers stuffed uncomfortably into a suit. The call girl wore a clingy dress that covered her too large breasts and clung to her tiny waist. Her hair was in a short, sexy bob, and she gave her companion her full attention, staring into his eyes.
Two tables over a man with graying hair sat between two larger men. Satisfaction helped take the e
dge from her tension. Everyone was in place, like the pieces on a chessboard. Whitney was a master player and a master manipulator. If anyone was targeting Melanie and had followed her, they would soon know.
Sheila breathed a sigh of relief and took another drink of her wine, settling back in her chair. Of course Whitney had everything well in hand. She'd argued with him when Melanie had indicated she wanted a meeting, terrified of putting her friend in danger, but she should have trusted him. They'd rented out the restaurant, and just about everyone dining there was connected to Whitney. No substitutes had been made in waiters, bartenders, or kitchen staff. She'd made certain of that herself. And Whitney had provided a much better target than Melanie. He protected his assets and without a doubt, Melanie Freesha was one of his best.
*
Azami smiled up at the man who had hired an escort for the evening. Twice his hand had slid up her thigh, making her stomach lurch. The tiny receiver in her ear allowed her to pick up the conversation at Sheila Benet's table. She'd managed to plant the microphone when her "date" led her to their table. It was just good luck that he was assigned as a frontline guard to the two women and had chosen the table closest to theirs and even better luck that she'd gotten that tiny dot in place as Melanie was being seated, so she wasn't noticed near the table.
Her date obviously thought he would get very lucky after their dinner, his hands straying often and his gaze drifting to the bulging front of her dress. It never failed to surprise her how men could barely see beyond breasts. Her poor date, Frankie, he'd said, would be shocked to know the things he was drooling over weren't real. She giggled in all the right places and batted eyelashes, keeping his attention on her by touching him occasionally when he appeared to be looking around the room.
She had trained for this, but it wasn't a role she relished. She used broken English and a Japanese accent, playing her part, but it was annoying. She turned her head and everything in her went absolutely still. The breath rushed from her lungs. Whitney. He was seated a few tables away, back in the shadows, with two obvious bodyguards on either side of him. For a moment she was totally paralyzed. She couldn't even lower her gaze, she could only stare in shock and a kind of horror.
She'd been eight when he'd thrown her away, but she wouldn't forget that face. How could she? He'd stood over her trembling body a million times, a scalpel in his hand and annoyance on his face. Her body actually hurt. She wanted to press her hand over her heart, but she forced air into her lungs and smiled vacuously up at her "date."
Her target had changed. The deck was stacked against her. Whitney had the place nailed down with his army, but she was fast and she could take him out and maybe make it out alive. In any case, this was the opportunity of a lifetime and one she thought she'd never get. The most she'd hoped for was to cut his pipeline to legitimacy, but this . . . this was a miracle and she had no choice but to grab the chance with both hands.
The waiter put a delicate salad in front of her, giving her another opportunity to let her gaze wander around the room. The three tables flanking Whitney's were definitely bodyguards. Behind him was a tall divider with plants on top of it. There were tables on the other side of it, no doubt more of his enhanced army. Killers. Not real GhostWalkers, but men who failed their psych tests and traded honor for money--just as Melanie had done.
Success was always determined by careful preparation. She couldn't let her emotions dictate panic or rushing what had to be a certain kill. She nibbled at her salad, giggled and flirted with Frankie, and planned each move carefully. She would only get one chance. Everyone was armed and shots would be fired, but she had the advantage in that she would be weaving in and out of the soldiers at blurring speed, and if they fired, they'd be killing their own companions. That would help create chaos.
Melanie and Sheila continued to chatter about their lives and the men they took home and got rid of just as fast, comparing notes on lovers and laughing together. Their laughter offended Azami, when they had just dismissed Sam's death--and any of the other GhostWalkers--as if he were no more than a tool to be disposed of. That kind of thinking was Whitney's fault. The men and women in his employ took on his attitude toward the one's he experimented on. They were disposable lab rats. He believed that premise and he taught it to those he surrounded himself with. Since their true motivation was money, it was easy enough to persuade them those he experimented on weren't human and didn't deserve to be treated as if they were.
She drew another deep breath to calm the building rage. Her temper had always been a major drawback, and she couldn't allow it to explode here. This couldn't be personal. She had a mission to complete. A job. She had to do it to the best of her ability. Whether she lived or died didn't matter. Only the job. It couldn't be revenge. She couldn't operate out of anger. She was samurai and she had been trained for this very moment.
She needed to get close to Whitney without alerting his soldiers he was in danger. That meant she had to make it clear to everyone present that it wasn't her idea to get up and move around the restaurant. She planned out each move carefully, judging the amount of steps necessary to get in close enough to the table to use her speed to cut down Whitney's guards and kill him. She went over and over the moves in her mind until she was certain she could execute each one perfectly and complete the mission.
She palmed the drug she'd brought and, keeping it in her hand, slid her other one up along Frankie's thigh, fingers teasing and dancing their way higher and higher while she leaned toward him, her eyes smoldering with lust, her lips parted, tongue darting out to deliberately moisten her lower lip and give him ideas.
"Frankie. You're so . . . big. I like big." She batted her lashes, waiting for the inevitable. The moment his gaze dropped to the close proximity of her hand to his groin, she released the small vial of powder into his wine, using her body to jiggle the table. Fast acting, the powder dissolved with that small movement of the table.
"You have no idea, baby," he murmured, leaning closer to her.
Her hand brushed his lap while the other picked up his drink and held it to his lips. Watching her, he took a drink and licked the rim suggestively. She managed another giggle. "Too bad the table doesn't have long tablecloth. I could take care of this monster." She petted him and continued to hold the wineglass for him.
He drank another healthy swallow, and she lowered the glass to pick up a piece of nearly bloody steak with her fingers, holding that up to his mouth, breathing heavily, her lashes at half-mast as she gave him a sultry look.
He ate the piece of steak and drew her fingers into his mouth. She laughed and handed him his wineglass while she picked up hers, holding it up so they could touch glasses. "To later. I will make you feel so good, Frankie." She let her tongue tease her lip again. "Do you want to leave?" She knew he couldn't, but the drug was going to take effect very soon and he'd be on fire for her.
He grabbed her hand and placed it over his hard crotch, grinding it against him. "Damn it, baby, we have to stay for a few more minutes." He glanced toward Whitney and then over to Sheila and Melanie. All three were enjoying the great food. He leaned toward her, putting his lips against her ear. "Come with me to the men's room." He sounded a little desperate.
She let her eyes widen. She hastily shook her head. "Not there. The back parking lot has a little alley." She was taking a chance arguing with him, but she couldn't seem eager to go to the men's room with him. After all, she was a high priced escort, not a woman on a street corner.
His hand tightened over hers. She was definitely going to have a bruise. The drug was working. Right now, it was roaring through his body, settling in his groin until he couldn't think about anything but wanting her.
He jerked her closer. "You little bitch. You've been cock-teasing me all night. Get up and come with me to the men's room."
She drew back, pouting, shaking her head, a tiny figure next to his large, muscular body. She made certain she was on the inside so that when they passed Whitney's table
she would be close to him. She struggled a little, interspersing her pitiful resistance with hysterical giggling. There had to be a delicate balance, where anyone watching would see she didn't want to go with Frankie. She kept breaking away and allowed herself to be recaptured as he dragged her toward the men's room.
She counted the steps. One step. Two. She was so close. Her blood thundered in her ears. This was it. Do or die.
"Frankie, no," she whined. "I'm not that kind of date." She managed to stop just a few steps from Whitney's table.
"Shut the hell up," Frankie snapped, "and do what I say."
Whitney looked up at her with no recognition whatsoever, but of course he wouldn't know who she was. For a moment she wanted him to know who was going to kill him, but then discipline took over. That wasn't important. Only getting the job done. Now she was close, close enough in another step to make her move. She took a deep breath and inhaled.
Confusion burst through her. Azami gripped Frankie tightly, fisting his belt, as shock poured through her. The man wore Whitney's face, but no way was that him. She'd recognize his scent and would recognize the energy surrounding him anywhere. The real Whitney felt "mad" to her. Insane. This man had to be a patsy, a double, someone placed here to draw her out, and she'd nearly fallen for it. She continued to stumble along with Frankie, bile in her throat as she realized she'd nearly blown everything in her eagerness to kill Whitney.
The men's room was looming close. Now she had to get back to her table and recover her purse and get the original job done. Furious with herself, she flicked a slight kick to the back of Frankie's knee as he took a step forward. He stumbled and both of them went down in a tangle of arms and legs. Azami cried out, a pitiful sob, and rolled away from Frankie. She was going to have to incapacitate him without appearing to do so, return to the table, collect her purse, and ensure Melanie's death without drawing any suspicion to her.
She glanced toward Whitney's table. He was talking to the bodyguard on his left. Her heart jumped again. Could she be wrong? She hadn't seen him in years, not since the trauma of her childhood. In profile this man looked exactly like Whitney, even to the curious reptilian way he moved his head. She couldn't make a mistake and kill an innocent man. He might be duped into posing as Whitney without knowing just what Whitney was like. Most people didn't know.
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