Night Game
Page 4
“Ta1k to Ryland, Lily. That’s your first mistake, not trusting him to help you.”
She hung her head. “I hate the way you all look at me.”
“The guilt is in your own mind, Lily. I don’t blame you for what Whitney did. Wevolunteered. You didn’t.” “Please know I wouldn’t have asked you to do this, but I honestly believe it’s imperative to find Flame. She may be very sick.” “I’ll look for her, Lily.” “Thank you and please, Gator, be careful.”
CHAPTER 2
Four weeks later
Gator shoved the gas hose into the tank of the Jeep and stretched his tired muscles while he waited for the tank to fill. Another long night and, if one considered listening to great blues music all night a failure, he’d had another unsuccessful search. He’d asked more questions and received absolutely no answers in his hunting for Joy Chiasson. No one seemed to know anything. Everyone remembered her beautiful voice, but no one knew any thing about her disappearance. Joy had completely disappeared and not a single person seemed to know anything about it.
As for sighting Iris Johnson, he hadn’t even come close to seeing anyone who looked like her. He must have hit every club within five square miles while hunting for information on Joy’s disappearance and he’d still come up empty on both women. He’d taken personal leave and so had Ian. They’d been in the bayou nearly four weeks and they couldn’t stay there forever. If he didn’t find something on Joy soon, he would have to leave, and his grandmother’s heart would be broken. She was so certain he would solve the mystery of Joy’s disappearance and bring her home safely. He was beginning to believe that wasn’t going to happen.
His restless gaze shifted in a continual sweep of the area. Recon. Always recon. He would never be free of the need to be on his guard. He’d picked the gas pump in the deepest shadow with the easiest exit back onto the street, and he’d done it without conscious thought. With a small sigh, he glanced up at the stars. He loved the night. It was the only time he felt truly comfortable, and tonight he needed a little comfort.
He hadn’t thought all that much about a woman of his own, or a family. He wasn’t the kind of man to settle down, but Lily’s disclosure of genetic enhancement had hit him unexpectedly hard. For some reason he couldn’t get it out of his mind. In the beginning when he realized he could leap up onto a roof with little or no effort, he thought it was cool, an extraordinary side benefit of his psychic experiment. The word virus had never come into his mind, and neither had cancer. He’d never really questioned the physical things he could do and, other than the uses as weapons, he hadn’t discussed the enhanced physical abilities with the GhostWalkers. Maybe none of them really wanted to know, but now it seemed all-important.
He hadn’t signed on for genetic enhancement. Psychic yes. As a child growing up, he had noticed he had some small psychic talent. Animals responded to him. Sometimes he caught impressions of what they were feeling. He had an extraordinary memory and his mind would figure out patterns the moment he saw them. He had exceptional hearing as well. Little things, nothing big, but he knew he could do things others couldn’t. Not wanting to be different, he’d kept it hidden, much like the rest of the GhostWalkers had done.
He’d trained in the military, was gifted with explosives, building bombs fast and efficiently as well as dismantling with equal speed and care. He’d been recruited by special operations, and the moment he’d heard of Dr. Whitney’s psychic experiment and the special psych unit he’d jumped at that as well.
The idea of a unique group of soldiers, able to use psychic skills, to slip in and out of enemy territory using hit-and-run tactics, really appealed to him. He’d seen too many people-good friends-die and he thought it would be a way to stop so many unnecessary deaths.
What did genetic enhancement mean for the GhostWalkers’ already uncertain futures? Would they be able to have families and, if so, would they pass the traits on to their children? What in the world had he been thinking to do such a stupid thing? He groaned aloud. It should have occurred to him that Whitney would use them as human lab rats. Gator hadn’t known of Whitney’s earlier experiments with the little girls when he’d signed on, but still, that was no excuse. He should have been smarter. He might have thrown away his entire future.
Gator leaned against the Jeep and pushed a hand through his thick black hair. Growing up in the bayou had been an experience that taught him different wasn’t always good. His parents had died during a flood, a freak accident, and his grandmother had taken on the task of raising the four boys. Wild, fiercely loyal, and proud, Raoul was the oldest and took care of the others. That responsibility had transferred over into his military life. And now, here he was, looking for a woman who was probably dead and another who didn’t want to be found.
He caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye and immediately went on alert. A woman slipped out of the shadows. She must have been in the store. More than anything else, it was the way she moved that caught his attention. She flowed in silence, her black, tight-fitting pants molding to her h*ps and legs. She wore gloves and a leather jacket. Her hair was thick and dead straight, ending just about her shoulders. She glided to her motorcycle, a crotch rocket, a lightning bolt if his guess was correct, built for nothing but speed and handling.
Like the woman. The thought came unbidden, but lodged somewhere in the vicinity of his groin.
As she leaned over the bike a car swept into the gas station, headlights catching her momentarily in the glare. She kept her head down, fiddling with something he couldn’t see on the other side of the motorcycle, her jacket and shirt riding up, exposing her narrow waist, lower, the sweep of her hip-the tattoo there.
Raoul’s breath caught in his throat. It was an arc of flames, which rode just above the bone of her hip and emerged from either side of her low-riding pants. His heart accelerated. Could it be that simple? Could he have spent nights visiting club after club on the off chance that she might be singing in one, only to spot her at a gas station? How bizarre would that be? He almost didn’t believe it, but something in the way she moved, a stealth, an ease, a predatory silence gave him the impression of a GhostWalker. And the way she had emerged from the shadows…
Raoul raked his fingers through his hair in agitation. He was letting his imagination get away from him. Women had all sorts of tattoos. Just because she had a crescent of flames over her hip didn’t mean a thing. He was really losing it, but he couldn’t take his eyes from her. Her pants had compartments built into them everywhere, perfect for tools. So, okay, that was a style some people wore, but they fit so perfectly, as if the tight- fitting cargo pants had been specially made, just for her.
She straightened slowly and pulled on goggles and a helmet. She turned, a small, casual movement that was barely discernable in the shadow she was in, but he felt the sweep of her gaze and he stopped the gas from flowing, taking great interest in putting the nozzle back on the pump. He felt her probing gaze. The back of his neck itched. He held his breath until she started the motorcycle.
His turn was every bit as casual as hers had been. As she moved forward, light from the streetlamp spilled momentarily across her face. Strands of wine-red hair peeked out from beneath the helmet. Raoul let his breath out slowly. He was certain he was looking at Iris “Flame” Johnson.
The taillight of the motorcycle galvanized him into action. He slapped on the gas cap before throwing himself into the driver’s seat. The motorcycle had already made a turn, but he noted the street.
He kept a good distance from her, running a couple of streets parallel to her at times to keep her from catching a glimpse of the Jeep. He ran without headlights, relying on sound and sonar to keep from an accident. It was obvious he had the advantage of knowing the terrain. She knew where she was going, but didn’t know the alleyways and shortcuts he did. If she slowed down at all, he turned onto a side street immediately. He followed her through the business district and through the residential areas until they were in the very high-end estates, many with high fences and electrical gates.
The woman parked her motorcycle deep in the shadows of a park, the bushes and trees concealing her from his vision. He nearly missed her. There was nothing, no whisper of movement, no barking of dogs, not a single footstep. Gator didn’t spot her, but he felt her. He allowed his GhostWalker instincts to take over, trusting his highly developed senses to guide him when he had absolutely nothing but a gut feeling to go on.
He moved in silence past the first brick-walled estate with its wrought-iron front gate. Two large mastiffs stood near the fence staring down the street. He whispered to them without conscious thought, calming them so they wouldn’t alert anyone to his presence. He’d taken two steps before it sunk in that she must have done the same. The dogs were obviously on guard, yet neither had raised an alarm and both whined softly, looking eagerly in the direction she had taken.
He knew where in the shadows to look for a GhostWalker, but even with that knowledge, it took several long minutes of trying to pierce the darkness to spot her. She moved with stealth, flitting from shadow to shadow, bush to tree, avoiding the spill of light pouring from the overhead lamps. She stayed small, arms and hands in close to the body, clothes tight to avoid the whisper of sound. She wore a skullcap to keep any hair from being left behind at the scene. She knew what she was doing as she surveyed the tall wall surrounding the estate.
As she moved along the base of the north-facing wall, a dog roared a challenge. She froze, turning her head toward the sound. Abruptly the barking turned to a soft, eager whine. Raoul smiled. Definitely a GhostWalker. He stayed back, careful not to stare at her, not wanting her instincts to detect his presence. He found himself utterly fascinated by her.
The woman stared up at the wall, glanced left and right and moved back a few feet. To be safe he sank low, his movements slow so he wouldn’t draw her gaze. His breath exploded out of his lungs as she leapt over the wall. There was no doubt left in his mind. She had to be a GhostWalker. Dr. Whitney had used genetic enhancement on her. It was impossible to clear the height of the wall with a straight-up jump. His physical capabilities were enhanced and he hadn’t been positive he could take the wall, yet she had gone over it with ease.
Gator hurried across the street and waited in the darkness, “feeling” with his mind. She was leery, probably sensing him, but unable to determine just what was tripping her alarms. He waited patiently, frozen in place. He was highly trained, and there were times he’d been locked into position for hours waiting for a target. He could outwait her if necessary. Whatever she was up to had to be time sensitive. The longer she was inside the estate walls, the more danger she was in. Hit, scatter, and run. Even as a child it would have been drilled into her.
The moment he sensed she was on the move, he cleared the fence in the exact same spot she had. He hadn’t cased the place so it was the only safe spot to go over when he was landing blind on the other side. He landed in a crouch, just in the shadows of the hedges on the other side, automatically calming the guard dog with his mind. He took a cautious look around.
The rolling lawns were well manicured, and flowers and plants were grouped in a small area complete with fountains and statues, giving the appearance of a small private park. The house was enormous, two stories with numerous balconies and lots of brick and fancy, scrolled wrought iron. The house even boasted a jutting tower.
“Flame, what are you up to?” He whispered the words to himself, thinking of her as Flame rather than Iris. It didn’t look like a rendezvous with a wealthy businessman. He ignored the out of character possessive feeling that churned in his gut as his gaze pierced the night to find her.
He caught a glimpse of her near the thick vines growing up the side of the house. She moved with stealth, knees bent, carefully placing each foot as she skirted the huge windows. She turned her head suddenly and looked right at him.
She hung her head. “I hate the way you all look at me.”
“The guilt is in your own mind, Lily. I don’t blame you for what Whitney did. Wevolunteered. You didn’t.” “Please know I wouldn’t have asked you to do this, but I honestly believe it’s imperative to find Flame. She may be very sick.” “I’ll look for her, Lily.” “Thank you and please, Gator, be careful.”
CHAPTER 2
Four weeks later
Gator shoved the gas hose into the tank of the Jeep and stretched his tired muscles while he waited for the tank to fill. Another long night and, if one considered listening to great blues music all night a failure, he’d had another unsuccessful search. He’d asked more questions and received absolutely no answers in his hunting for Joy Chiasson. No one seemed to know anything. Everyone remembered her beautiful voice, but no one knew any thing about her disappearance. Joy had completely disappeared and not a single person seemed to know anything about it.
As for sighting Iris Johnson, he hadn’t even come close to seeing anyone who looked like her. He must have hit every club within five square miles while hunting for information on Joy’s disappearance and he’d still come up empty on both women. He’d taken personal leave and so had Ian. They’d been in the bayou nearly four weeks and they couldn’t stay there forever. If he didn’t find something on Joy soon, he would have to leave, and his grandmother’s heart would be broken. She was so certain he would solve the mystery of Joy’s disappearance and bring her home safely. He was beginning to believe that wasn’t going to happen.
His restless gaze shifted in a continual sweep of the area. Recon. Always recon. He would never be free of the need to be on his guard. He’d picked the gas pump in the deepest shadow with the easiest exit back onto the street, and he’d done it without conscious thought. With a small sigh, he glanced up at the stars. He loved the night. It was the only time he felt truly comfortable, and tonight he needed a little comfort.
He hadn’t thought all that much about a woman of his own, or a family. He wasn’t the kind of man to settle down, but Lily’s disclosure of genetic enhancement had hit him unexpectedly hard. For some reason he couldn’t get it out of his mind. In the beginning when he realized he could leap up onto a roof with little or no effort, he thought it was cool, an extraordinary side benefit of his psychic experiment. The word virus had never come into his mind, and neither had cancer. He’d never really questioned the physical things he could do and, other than the uses as weapons, he hadn’t discussed the enhanced physical abilities with the GhostWalkers. Maybe none of them really wanted to know, but now it seemed all-important.
He hadn’t signed on for genetic enhancement. Psychic yes. As a child growing up, he had noticed he had some small psychic talent. Animals responded to him. Sometimes he caught impressions of what they were feeling. He had an extraordinary memory and his mind would figure out patterns the moment he saw them. He had exceptional hearing as well. Little things, nothing big, but he knew he could do things others couldn’t. Not wanting to be different, he’d kept it hidden, much like the rest of the GhostWalkers had done.
He’d trained in the military, was gifted with explosives, building bombs fast and efficiently as well as dismantling with equal speed and care. He’d been recruited by special operations, and the moment he’d heard of Dr. Whitney’s psychic experiment and the special psych unit he’d jumped at that as well.
The idea of a unique group of soldiers, able to use psychic skills, to slip in and out of enemy territory using hit-and-run tactics, really appealed to him. He’d seen too many people-good friends-die and he thought it would be a way to stop so many unnecessary deaths.
What did genetic enhancement mean for the GhostWalkers’ already uncertain futures? Would they be able to have families and, if so, would they pass the traits on to their children? What in the world had he been thinking to do such a stupid thing? He groaned aloud. It should have occurred to him that Whitney would use them as human lab rats. Gator hadn’t known of Whitney’s earlier experiments with the little girls when he’d signed on, but still, that was no excuse. He should have been smarter. He might have thrown away his entire future.
Gator leaned against the Jeep and pushed a hand through his thick black hair. Growing up in the bayou had been an experience that taught him different wasn’t always good. His parents had died during a flood, a freak accident, and his grandmother had taken on the task of raising the four boys. Wild, fiercely loyal, and proud, Raoul was the oldest and took care of the others. That responsibility had transferred over into his military life. And now, here he was, looking for a woman who was probably dead and another who didn’t want to be found.
He caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye and immediately went on alert. A woman slipped out of the shadows. She must have been in the store. More than anything else, it was the way she moved that caught his attention. She flowed in silence, her black, tight-fitting pants molding to her h*ps and legs. She wore gloves and a leather jacket. Her hair was thick and dead straight, ending just about her shoulders. She glided to her motorcycle, a crotch rocket, a lightning bolt if his guess was correct, built for nothing but speed and handling.
Like the woman. The thought came unbidden, but lodged somewhere in the vicinity of his groin.
As she leaned over the bike a car swept into the gas station, headlights catching her momentarily in the glare. She kept her head down, fiddling with something he couldn’t see on the other side of the motorcycle, her jacket and shirt riding up, exposing her narrow waist, lower, the sweep of her hip-the tattoo there.
Raoul’s breath caught in his throat. It was an arc of flames, which rode just above the bone of her hip and emerged from either side of her low-riding pants. His heart accelerated. Could it be that simple? Could he have spent nights visiting club after club on the off chance that she might be singing in one, only to spot her at a gas station? How bizarre would that be? He almost didn’t believe it, but something in the way she moved, a stealth, an ease, a predatory silence gave him the impression of a GhostWalker. And the way she had emerged from the shadows…
Raoul raked his fingers through his hair in agitation. He was letting his imagination get away from him. Women had all sorts of tattoos. Just because she had a crescent of flames over her hip didn’t mean a thing. He was really losing it, but he couldn’t take his eyes from her. Her pants had compartments built into them everywhere, perfect for tools. So, okay, that was a style some people wore, but they fit so perfectly, as if the tight- fitting cargo pants had been specially made, just for her.
She straightened slowly and pulled on goggles and a helmet. She turned, a small, casual movement that was barely discernable in the shadow she was in, but he felt the sweep of her gaze and he stopped the gas from flowing, taking great interest in putting the nozzle back on the pump. He felt her probing gaze. The back of his neck itched. He held his breath until she started the motorcycle.
His turn was every bit as casual as hers had been. As she moved forward, light from the streetlamp spilled momentarily across her face. Strands of wine-red hair peeked out from beneath the helmet. Raoul let his breath out slowly. He was certain he was looking at Iris “Flame” Johnson.
The taillight of the motorcycle galvanized him into action. He slapped on the gas cap before throwing himself into the driver’s seat. The motorcycle had already made a turn, but he noted the street.
He kept a good distance from her, running a couple of streets parallel to her at times to keep her from catching a glimpse of the Jeep. He ran without headlights, relying on sound and sonar to keep from an accident. It was obvious he had the advantage of knowing the terrain. She knew where she was going, but didn’t know the alleyways and shortcuts he did. If she slowed down at all, he turned onto a side street immediately. He followed her through the business district and through the residential areas until they were in the very high-end estates, many with high fences and electrical gates.
The woman parked her motorcycle deep in the shadows of a park, the bushes and trees concealing her from his vision. He nearly missed her. There was nothing, no whisper of movement, no barking of dogs, not a single footstep. Gator didn’t spot her, but he felt her. He allowed his GhostWalker instincts to take over, trusting his highly developed senses to guide him when he had absolutely nothing but a gut feeling to go on.
He moved in silence past the first brick-walled estate with its wrought-iron front gate. Two large mastiffs stood near the fence staring down the street. He whispered to them without conscious thought, calming them so they wouldn’t alert anyone to his presence. He’d taken two steps before it sunk in that she must have done the same. The dogs were obviously on guard, yet neither had raised an alarm and both whined softly, looking eagerly in the direction she had taken.
He knew where in the shadows to look for a GhostWalker, but even with that knowledge, it took several long minutes of trying to pierce the darkness to spot her. She moved with stealth, flitting from shadow to shadow, bush to tree, avoiding the spill of light pouring from the overhead lamps. She stayed small, arms and hands in close to the body, clothes tight to avoid the whisper of sound. She wore a skullcap to keep any hair from being left behind at the scene. She knew what she was doing as she surveyed the tall wall surrounding the estate.
As she moved along the base of the north-facing wall, a dog roared a challenge. She froze, turning her head toward the sound. Abruptly the barking turned to a soft, eager whine. Raoul smiled. Definitely a GhostWalker. He stayed back, careful not to stare at her, not wanting her instincts to detect his presence. He found himself utterly fascinated by her.
The woman stared up at the wall, glanced left and right and moved back a few feet. To be safe he sank low, his movements slow so he wouldn’t draw her gaze. His breath exploded out of his lungs as she leapt over the wall. There was no doubt left in his mind. She had to be a GhostWalker. Dr. Whitney had used genetic enhancement on her. It was impossible to clear the height of the wall with a straight-up jump. His physical capabilities were enhanced and he hadn’t been positive he could take the wall, yet she had gone over it with ease.
Gator hurried across the street and waited in the darkness, “feeling” with his mind. She was leery, probably sensing him, but unable to determine just what was tripping her alarms. He waited patiently, frozen in place. He was highly trained, and there were times he’d been locked into position for hours waiting for a target. He could outwait her if necessary. Whatever she was up to had to be time sensitive. The longer she was inside the estate walls, the more danger she was in. Hit, scatter, and run. Even as a child it would have been drilled into her.
The moment he sensed she was on the move, he cleared the fence in the exact same spot she had. He hadn’t cased the place so it was the only safe spot to go over when he was landing blind on the other side. He landed in a crouch, just in the shadows of the hedges on the other side, automatically calming the guard dog with his mind. He took a cautious look around.
The rolling lawns were well manicured, and flowers and plants were grouped in a small area complete with fountains and statues, giving the appearance of a small private park. The house was enormous, two stories with numerous balconies and lots of brick and fancy, scrolled wrought iron. The house even boasted a jutting tower.
“Flame, what are you up to?” He whispered the words to himself, thinking of her as Flame rather than Iris. It didn’t look like a rendezvous with a wealthy businessman. He ignored the out of character possessive feeling that churned in his gut as his gaze pierced the night to find her.
He caught a glimpse of her near the thick vines growing up the side of the house. She moved with stealth, knees bent, carefully placing each foot as she skirted the huge windows. She turned her head suddenly and looked right at him.
