Night Game

by Christine Feehan

  She moved past them easily, creeping along the hedge until she found the small rock, which she had painted white to make it easy to spot in the dark. Pocketing it, she looked left and right, listened for a minute, and leapt over the fence, landing blind on the other side. She'd dropped the rock hours earlier to mark the only place along the back fence she could go over and land in a clear spot inside the thick foliage surrounding the brick wall. She remained crouched, her heart beginning to accelerate again. Whitney's man would know she was up to something. She would never stay inside the estate grounds so long. He was probably stalking her.

  She sent every psychic and natural sense she had out into the night, searching for information, listening for the sound of footsteps, the whisper of clothing sliding through vegetation. Even the sudden silence of insects would tip her off to the other's location, but she heard only the regular sounds of the night.

  Flame didn't wait for the alarm to be raised behind her. Staying low in the shadows along the brick wall she moved quickly, keeping to the foliage as much as possible, all the while scanning the area for sound or movement. She shushed several guard dogs as she passed more houses. When she was three blocks from the Saunders's estate, she halted. She had to cross the street to get to the park where she'd left her motorcycle and the lamps were spilling light brightly across the paved road.

  She waited there in the darkness. The feeling that she wasn't alone crept in. The weight of the four briefcases was heavy on her shoulder, but she could use it as a weapon if necessary--if she got that close.

  Soft male laughter reached her from deep within the trees of the park. "You may as well come on over, cher. Aren't 'cha getting all hot and bothered standin' there wonderin' whether or not I've got me a gun?"

  CHAPTER 3

  The low Cajun drawl was as smooth as molasses and set Flame's heart pounding. Could he see her? Or, like her, did he just sense her presence?

  "You've been a very bad girl tonight. I don' know what was so important to you, cher, but someone should have told you stealin', it be a bad, bad thing."

  She remained stubbornly silent, trying to get a fix on his voice. Was he throwing it? Projecting it from a false direction in order to trick her? She was fast, incredibly fast. She could streak across the lighted street and make a run for her bike, but he'd know exactly where she was. Damn Whitney and his experiments. She had no choice but to work her way down several more blocks. She could feel the minutes ticking by. Saunders wouldn't stay too long out of his ivory tower and the theft would be discovered.

  When she had gone several blocks down and around the corner from her motorcycle, Flame burst out from the foliage, sprinted across the lighted street, and up three blocks until she gained the relative safety of the park. She slowed immediately, not wanting to give away her exact location by stepping on crisp leaves or dried twigs. She crouched low in the shadows and controlled her breathing. Sounds carried at night, even harsh breathing and more than once she'd slid past guards, knowing exactly where they were only by their ragged breath coming in short gasps after exertion. Flame used her psychic ability to keep any sound she might make from traveling.

  She stayed low, moving with slow caution, taking care not to allow movement to draw the eye as she worked her way across the park. Nearing her motorcycle, she was dismayed to see a man sitting on it, casually swinging one leg back and forth while he waited. He didn't have a gun in his hands; in fact, when she looked closer she noticed he'd been busy trying to steal her bike. There was a small piece of metal attached to her ignition.

  Her motorcycle was her baby, one of the few items she bought wholly for herself and she'd made certain it wouldn't be all that easy to steal, locking up the ignition and housing for the wires with a secondary lock needing a password. He'd evidently managed to either bypass the lock or found her password.

  Anger swept through her and she stepped forward. "Get the hell off my bike."

  He whistled softly. "Woman, you have a foul temper."

  The way he drawled out "woman" did something funny to the pit of her stomach. His dark hair curled every which way and his generous mouth curved with amusement. His shoulders were broad and she could see the strength in his arms and upper chest. The man was built and he looked like he'd be good in a fight--or in bed. The unbidden thought pushed her temper up a notch.

  "Get. Off. My. Bike."

  "And you're stubborn too. I like that in a woman. Never have gone for the submissive type." He winked at her. "I like a tigress in my bed."

  "Oh shut up." This wasn't going anything like she'd thought it would and he was throwing her off-kilter with obvious flirtation. "I certainly don't care about your sexual preferences. Who are you anyway?"

  He put a hand over his heart. "You wound me, cher. I thought we were going to get along so well."

  Flame put one hand on her hip and studied his face. It was a strong face with a very intriguing mouth that laughed often--if one could believe it, which she didn't. She believed in the eyes, and his eyes didn't laugh at all. They were focused and hard and moved ceaselessly, taking in every detail about her and the surrounding area. "Who are you?"

  "My friends call me Gator."

  Her eyebrow shot up. "I'll just bet they do. I'll just bet you got that name from wrestling alligators when you were a kid like every other boy in the bayou."

  "Ouch. That one struck home. Don' be like that, cher. I'm famille, a Ghost Walker, same as you."

  "You're not my family. And you're wasting your charm on me. Get off my bike." She took an aggressive step forward, hoping he would meet her advance with one of his own.

  He grinned at her, just sitting there, swinging his leg as if he didn't have a care in the world. "So you noticed right away how truly charmin' I am."

  "I noticed you have an ego the size of Texas. And you're still sitting on my bike." She lowered her pack to the lawn. He was a solid man, heavy muscle, but she had the feeling he'd be fast--maybe even as fast as she was.

  "I'm comfortable, thank you."

  "You're not going to be comfortable in another minute. What is that thing on my motorcycle?" She indicated the small piece of metal attached to the ignition.

  "You stole whatever you've got in that bag of yours. Maybe we have something in common. I like vehicles."

  She shifted position slightly, giving less targets, making herself more mobile. "You're such a liar. Whitney sent you after me, didn't he?"

  Raoul shook his head. "Not he, she. Lily. The old man is dead."

  Her eyes flashed fire. "For all your nonsense, I didn't take you for a complete fool, but if you believe Dr. Whitney is dead, you deserve anything that happens to you."

  She moved again, a slight, nearly imperceptible gliding of her feet. Without warning, she launched herself, leaping into the air, shooting both feet at his broad chest. She went at him in an angle, determined to knock him off the bike, but at the last possible second, he deflected the double kick, driving her legs away from him with a powerful block of his forearm that sent her tumbling to the ground.

  Flame leapt to her feet, landing in a fighter's crouch, fists up and ready.

  Raoul smirked at her. "You don' play well with others, do you, cher?"

  "I don't play at all, especially with Whitney's little puppets."

  The lazy swinging of the foot halted abruptly and the smile faded. "Now you done gone and insulted me, ma petite enflamme. That's not a good thing to do when I'm holding your motorcycle hostage."

  She circled the bike, studying him from every angle. He could call her his fiery little one all he wanted, but he was the one about to be burned. He was far too sure of himself and, as most of her opponents did, he underestimated her. "Why are you here?"

  "To bring you home, cher, where you belong."

  "Like hell you'll take me back. I'd rather be dead." She leapt into the air a second time, going over him and the motorcycle, one boot aiming for his face.

  Gator whipped his head to one side. Her boot b
arely skimmed his jaw, burning a line across his five o'clock shadow. He caught her leg in a scissor lock and shoved, sending her sprawling toward the ground. Flame rolled with the scissor lock, tucking into a somersault, doing an aikido roll, and coming right back up into fighting position.

  The man just sat on the motorcycle, a small irritating smirk on his face. Nothing seemed to ruffle him and Flame felt the small shift under her feet that indicated she was definitely ruffled. She'd been taking it easy on him, mainly to see what he'd do, but the more he sat there looking all puffed up and satisfied, the madder she was getting. Flame couldn't afford to lose her temper.

  Before she could launch another attack she saw his gaze shift toward the street. The small smile hovering around his mouth faded and he held up his hand in a silent signal of danger. His hand moved across his throat before showing four fingers. He had gone from amused male to commander in a split second. He looked lethal, dangerous, and every bit the predator.

  Flame backed away from him, shaking her head. She wasn't his ally. Anyone sent by Whitney was her enemy.

  She crouched lower and studied the street. Not only were four guards spreading out, armed to the teeth with automatic weapons and heading straight into the park, but several black SUVs had pulled out of the Saunders estate and onto the street to patrol the area. She was certain they were looking for whatever she had taken from the safe. Anyone caught was going to be interrogated and searched.

  Gator gestured imperiously toward the bike, clearly ordering her to get on it.

  Flame ran to her bag, staying low as she swooped it up and secured it on her shoulder. She wasn't about to get caught between a rock and a hard place. She'd take her chances with civilian guards rather than a genetically and psychically enhanced soldier. She wasn't about to kid herself. No matter how charming the Cajun might be, he was a weapon, the same as she was.

  She ran for the center of the park where the shadows were the darkest. She heard Gator swear and her motorcycle start up, the engine loud in the silence of the night. He revved it up, deliberately drawing attention to his presence. Flame skidded to a halt and watched as he did several doughnuts with the bike, luring the guards in closer to him. They talked frantically into their radios and the SUVs circling the park changed directions to home in on the site.

  Gator stopped his sweeping circles and signaled Flame to run. She heard the pulsing notes in her head, and realized he commanded sound in the same way she did. He could disrupt communications between the guards anytime he wanted. Flame found a tree with high branches and heavy foliage and leapt up to conceal herself in its limbs.

  The motorcycle roared off. The SUVs fell in behind him and, at the end of the street, the bike's headlight went out. Once he got away from the streetlights, she knew Gator could maneuver by sound. The motorcycle was fast enough to outrun the SUVs. She sat there motionless, trying to puzzle out Gator's motives. Nothing he did made sense, and she never went into battle without clear lines between friend and foe. He said he'd been sent to bring her back, but he hadn't tried to force her. He hadn't even asked her what she'd stolen or why.

  The problem was--she liked him. She made up her mind fast about people. She was adept at reading them, and despite knowing she shouldn't fall for his Cajun charm, and in spite of the bleak and dark and lethal shadows in his eyes--she liked him. She was honest enough to admit she probably was a little drawn to him because he was enhanced and he felt the same rush of power and same terror of making mistakes that she did. He had to suffer the same physical drawbacks and feel the same isolation.

  It both amused and annoyed her that she couldn't quite shake the pack mentality. She was solitary, yet she still wanted friendships and family and people around her, even though her particular brand of genetically engineered talent made it impossible for her. She was too sensitive to sounds. Filtering noises all the time was a difficult and wearing process. Flame required a lot of downtime when she could retreat into the haven of silence. She imagined Gator did as well. When she became intrigued by something she had a tendency to become obsessive-compulsive about it until she'd satisfied her curiosity--another one of her many failings. She was definitely intrigued by Gator.

  The guards had fanned out and were covering the park, paying particular attention to the area where she'd parked her motorcycle. None of them thought to look up, but all of them were nervous. And it had nothing to do with being afraid of finding the thief. They talked in low voices when they came together and all of them were afraid of their boss. He wanted his briefcases back and he wanted them immediately.

  Flame smirked. Let Saunders know how it felt. How many people in the bayou had he robbed? She listened carefully to the whispers, hoping to hear something about Joy Chiasson's disappearance, but no one mentioned her. The smirk disappeared to be replaced by a frown. The authorities refused to believe that something had happened to the girl, but Flame was certain they didn't want to know. Just as anyone in authority over Whitney hadn't wanted to know how his valuable research had been done. As long as they got results, that was all that mattered.

  She had hacked into Whitney's files and learned about gene doping and genetic enhancement. He had used a virus to deliver the genes into her cells, and her immune system had tolerated it. She could run twice as fast for twice as long as most humans as well as do a host of other things, enough to know he had delivered the genes throughout her entire body.

  She had a quick mind and she'd read everything she could find on gene therapy and knew Whitney was ahead of the game with his experiments. Of course, he'd used humans--not rats. She didn't think he wanted the perfect soldier, or even the perfect child; he wanted his own creation. It was the end product that mattered, the idea that his brain had conceived and developed something superior. And if there were problems, it was the fault of the defective human--not his work.

  As a child she had developed a very rare type of cancer, a blood disorder that Whitney had treated successfully enough to put in remission, not cure. And now, when bruises didn't heal or she felt exhausted, she knew it was there, lying in wait to destroy her. The knowledge didn't stop her from living her life or finding scumbags like Saunders to bring a little justice to. She might never have a chance at Whitney, but she could even the odds with others like him.

  Saunders sold property to the older people in the bayou, the ones who didn't believe in banks. He took their payments and when it came time for a balloon payment, just before they handed the money over, they were mysteriously robbed. Tonight, maybe a little justice was done.

  The guards' voices were beginning to fade and Flame immediately bounced sound waves through the park, using echolocation to pinpoint the position of each guard. Two patrolled on the side nearest the Saunders estate, while three others roamed through the interior of the park. Flame took the opportunity to leap from the tree, dropping close to the base, gloved hands up for defense, but close to her body so she presented the smallest possible target.

  Where had Gator parked his Jeep? He wouldn't park it on the street to be noticed by one of the guards, and he couldn't have left it in the park. Where? She moved toward a cross street, down from Saunders's estate but parallel to the park, keeping to the heavier foliage. She relied on sound to keep her informed, concentrating on echolocation, but keeping a visual as well.

  The Jeep was parked in a driveway a block up and over from Saunders and just down from the park. The vehicle had the top up, but no doors on. Flame wrinkled her nose. She knew they were in for a shower and she was bound to get wet. On her motorcycle, it was perfectly fine, part of the entire experience, but in Gator's Jeep, when she was already annoyed, the rain was going to be one more reason for revenge.

  She waited until the guards were concentrated at the far end of the park before hot-wiring the Jeep and taking off. She didn't use the headlights until she turned the corner and was out of harm's way. She didn't have the kind of patience needed for an encounter with Saunders's men when she was angry and damn it, she wa
s definitely angry that Whitney's hunter had taken her beloved motorcycle.

  She drove through New Orleans until she found a quiet street where she could pull over and, using a penlight, search the glove compartment for an address. The necessary insurance document and vehicle registration was neatly stuck in a plastic case. "Thank you, Mr. Fontenot," she said aloud.

  He lived along the river, just north of the canal, in the same parish she was staying in, although she often used a boat to get to her current residence and Wyatt Fontenot had a much more convenient drive. On her motorcycle. The bastard. Rat bastard.

  Flame pulled back on the street and drove with care, not wanting to bring attention to herself as she located the address. The last thing she needed was for a cop to stop her. In any case, she wanted Gator to feel very pleased with himself. She wanted him lured into a false sense of security and settled nice and comfortably into his own bed. If her motorcycle had been looked after properly, she might just be a nice girl and not drive his Jeep into the Mississippi, which is what he deserved.

  All the while she drove, she thought of each item in her saddlebags. Had she left anything that might be a trail leading back to her? The address on her insurance and registration was from long ago. What else did she have? She often traveled with emergency belongings in the off chance she had to run. She had money stashed in the bike, but most likely, Gator would never find it, not unless he took the bike apart, and nothing would help him if he did that. Nothing. No one.

  Flame crossed the bridge and worked her way through a ribbon of narrow streets surrounded by water until she found the long drive that circled back toward the river and the Fontenot home. When she was certain she had the right property, she parked the Jeep beneath a canopy of trees and curled up on the seat to go to sleep.

  All the girls in Whitney's school of torture had been trained to set and use internal clocks. She slept for two hours, giving Gator Fontenot plenty of time to feel safe and secure. Stretching to get the kinks out, Flame left the Jeep at the end of the road and took off on foot, not chancing alerting him to her presence. She walked slowly, taking her time, orienting herself to the place. She wanted the quickest escape routes possible. The property had iron gates and few people in the parish had them. These were high and closed to seal the property off from the road.