Night Game

by Christine Feehan

  He focused his mind on the beat of his feet. His heart and lungs easily handled the punishment of his increased speed and the long leaps over debris. There was no question of enhancement. No normal human could maintain a sustained run at his current pace, and he was barely winded. He became aware of a heavy weight on his mind. Grief beat at him. Guilt and horror ate at the edges of his thoughts. His connection to Flame was growing and he could feel her ferocious struggle to maintain control when she wanted--even needed--to rage at the universe.

  Flame muted the sound of the motorcycle as she trailed the Jeep over the dirt road at breakneck speed. She was closing in on them; following in the wake of the clouds of dust rising behind them. They were so drunk on the success of their mission, not even the driver checked the rearview mirror once they had turned onto the dirt road leading through the preserve. She could hear them whooping it up and laughing as they retold the story of Burrell's death over and over, making fun of him trying to run from them. One of them even went so far as re-creating the drama of shooting him.

  They were coming up on a small junction where the road widened considerably. The trail through the preserve was one of the many escape routes she'd planned before she'd moved in with Burrell in case she had to leave the area fast. She'd made this particular run three times, liking it the best. It had the least number of people and offered the most cover. As she raced along the dirt track, she tried to recall the exact details of the junction. She needed enough room to maneuver.

  She pulled out her throwing knife and slipped it between her teeth as she came up alongside the driver just as the Jeep approached the junction. The driver glanced at her as she appeared out of the dirt, his eyes widening in shock. One of the men in the back lifted his gun but she had already seen the movement out of the corner of her eye. Flame threw the knife hard, burying it to the hilt in his throat. He went over backward with a ghastly gurgling sound, landing in the dirt and muck to lie still.

  With the motorcycle parallel to the driver, Flame balanced for a split second before kicking the man in the head as hard as she was able. Her boot connected with a sickening crack, but the force drove her off the bike and into the soft dirt. She landed hard, the breath knocked out of her lungs, every bone feeling as if it had shattered in the fall. She kept rolling away from the sound of the Jeep, coming up on her knees, pulling the knife from her boot.

  The Jeep careered off a rotted log, scattering bark and wood in all directions as it mowed down a patch of sawweed before slamming into a large cypress and coming to an abrupt halt, spilling passengers in all directions. The tires continued spinning, throwing more dirt into the air, obscuring all vision. Simultaneously the motorcycle veered the opposite way, away from the trees into the muddy bog where it fell over onto its side into the mud.

  Flame caught a glimpse of movement in the cloud of dust, saw the flash of a muzzle and threw herself forward into the dirt. She scooted back toward the trees, staying on her stomach, using her elbows to move fast into the deeper cover of the vegetation. She stayed still, listening for the sounds of the others to tell her where they were. One man groaned over by the Jeep. That had to be the driver. Her right leg and ankle throbbed painfully. She hoped the driver's head hurt as badly.

  A second man rattled bushes to her left. He wiggled backward into a nettle bush and yelped. The third man was totally silent and that told her everything she needed to know about him. Flame began to work her way through the foliage toward the driver. His groans were loud and long. He interspersed the noise with inventive curses and pleas for help that were more growling and spitting than actual words.

  "Shut up, Don," the man to Flame's left burst out. "I can't see anything and you're making so much noise I can't hear anything either."

  The driver spat out more curses before managing to get a couple of distinct phrases out. "My jaw. She broke my jaw."

  "Who the hell is she?"

  "Don' know," Don returned, the words slurred and accompanied by more groaning.

  Flame shifted position again, worming her way through sedge and marsh grasses. Water soaked into her clothes as she eased through the marshy land, and carefully muted the sound of her movements as she displaced the water.

  The driver of the Jeep crawled to the nearest tree, an ancient oak with wide sweeping branches. He sat with his back propped against it, holding his jaw and rocking back and forth. He nearly went right over the top of Flame, his hands and knees inches from her body as she slithered toward him. He began to move and she froze, lying prone in the muck, holding her breath as he shuffled past her. She remained motionless while he jerked out a knife and began stabbing at the dirt and tree roots around him. For a moment she feared he saw her lying among the reeds and grass, and her hand tightened on the hilt of her knife. The driver continued to stab at the same ground over and over making strange animal noises as he hacked up the plants and sent mud into the air.

  Flame eased her body over the plants and muck to get within a few feet of Burrell's killer. The branches of the oak tree hung low to the ground, moss and ivy weighing them down. Catching movement, the driver turned his head to stare at a snake hanging eye level to him. The long thick body curled along the limb of the tree. The snake was olive-brown, close to five feet in length with a tapering tail and a broad head much wider than the neck. There were no dark cross bands on the stout body, but there was a distinctive band extending from the eye to the rear of the jaw. The snake had a drooping mouth and protective eye shields making it look particularly glowering.

  Mesmerized, the man stared at the snake, going suddenly silent as it drew its body into a loose coil, tilted its head upward and opened its mouth wide to reveal the whitish interior lining. His scream reverberated through the bayou as he threw himself sideways in an effort to get away from the snake. The driver's cries stopped abruptly as his legs jerked and kicked, his body thrashing in the reeds before going still.

  Silence settled over the swamp. Flame lay stretched out, the top of her head nearly brushing that of the driver, her gloved hands tight on the garrote around his neck. She breathed slowly and evenly, making certain not a ripple of grass betrayed her presence to the other two men who had guns trained on the exact spot. She waited, listening to her heartbeat, listening to the hum of insects. After a time, above her head, the snake slowly retracted its head to settle once more on the branch.

  "Don? You snakebit?" The hoarse whisper came from several yards away. "Rudy? You think the snake bit him?" A slight shifting of the foliage straight ahead of Flame accompanied the voice.

  Rudy didn't reply. Flame waited. Rudy was the dangerous one, obviously highly trained and skilled in combat situations. He knew better than to give away his position and he obviously had been using Don as bait. He would have done better to spray the entire area around the driver with bullets and then move quickly to a new position. Flame would have taken the chance, but Rudy was more concerned with his safety. Most likely trying to puzzle out who was attacking them, he was lying low, waiting a clear shot while he let the third man, the talker, become the unwitting bait.

  With her ear pressed to the ground and her hearing acute, Flame became aware of Gator's approach. He was coming in from the east, through the interior of the preserve and fast approaching the marsh, sprinting at top speed. She couldn't let him run into the waiting Rudy.

  Flame slowly relaxed her grip on the thin piece of wire wrapped so tightly around Don's neck. Keeping every movement snail slow and deliberate, so as not to disturb the vegetation around her, she used her elbows to push herself backward away from the body and into deeper cover.

  Once she was screened by the root systems and twisted, knobby knees of several larger cypress trees, she emitted a sound pitched just above the level humans could hear. Using directional sound, she sent Gator as much information as possible, confident that he would hear her warning. She'd never used directional sound with a partner before, certainly not under such extreme conditions, but she had every confiden
ce he, and he alone, would hear her. She waited, crouched in the small circle of trees, lying in the heavy cover of reeds and grasses.

  She could no longer feel or hear the faint vibrations through the earth, signaling Gator was stationary or had, like her, begun a stealthy approach to the enemy. The third man, the talker, lit a cigarette, the smell drifting upward. The scratch of the match gave his position away. Flame skirted around a rotting log, making a face as several species of beetles and stink bugs scurried close to her. A snapping turtle was sunning himself on the log and she was especially careful not to disturb him. Concentrating her attention on him, she wiggled at right angles to the log. Immediately several Peeps lifted into the air.

  Flame rolled instantly and kept moving fast, water soaking her clothes and hair. She felt crawfish against her skin as she rolled in the shallow water. They hurried to get out of her way, but she kept on the move, heading toward the only real shelter, a small depression in the midst of the taller reeds. Bullets smacked into the mud and water inches from her body. Two guns, not one. Two directions. She immediately identified the smoker. She had a clear idea of his location, but not Rudy.

  That made no sense. Echolocation should have revealed his hiding place immediately. She couldn't even hear his heartbeat and she could hear Gator's. Adrenaline raced through her system, a rush of fear and sudden recognition. This man wasn't like the others.

  She rolled into the depression and sank into soft mud. It oozed around her neck and into her hair. The smell made her want to gag but she controlled the urge waiting until the barrage of fire ceased. Timing it for when Rudy stopped firing, she reared up on her knees and threw the knife blindly at the smoker. The perfectly balanced blade cut through the air with the force of her enhanced muscles and the pure adrenaline rushing through her system fully behind it.

  The knife connected hard, the sound loud in the stillness after the gunfire. The smoker toppled over backward, crashing heavily into the brush, breaking small branches as he went down. His rifle clattered to one side, hitting a chunk of rock. Birds shrieked as they rose into the air, fleeing the scene of violence.

  "That's three, you son of bitch," Flame called. Rudy knew exactly where she was. He just wasn't in a position yet to get a clear shot. If he wanted to kill her, he would have to move. And if he moved, he would be every bit as vulnerable as she was.

  Sound reached her, a blast of command, the same pitch she used when talking to Gator, but he was telling her to shut the hell up. The man had a mouth on him when he was angry. He had a good idea where the last killer was hiding and was working his way around to get in place behind him. He wanted her to stay put, not provoke the man and let him do his thing.

  She responded by offering to draw fire and keep attention fixed on her. The barrage of distinct commands coming back at her made her wince and dig down deeper into the mud. Gator was really, really angry.

  CHAPTER 9

  Gator fought down the unreasonable anger churning in his belly. Stay where you are and keep your head down, or I swear I'm going to beat you within an inch of your life. He used directional sound to give her the command, uncaring that the notes were pulsing with rage. The spongy ground undulated slightly and birds shrieked an alarm, taking once more to the air. He wasn't concerned about the sniper hearing him. Directional sound waves were powerful enough to go through walls, yet they could be directed specifically to one recipient. He had worked on the ability in the field often and wasn't in the least surprised that Flame was as adept at it as he was.

  Be still my heart.

  His fingers itched to shake her--or strangle her. She had to know the sniper had a bead on her. Gator couldn't spot him and that made the man dangerous. He had training and he was just lying in wait, biding his time, waiting to get a shot at Flame. All she had to do was stick her head up and the marksman would kill her. She knew better. She should have waited! It was illogical to rush off after four murderous gunmen when she had only knives--and it was really, really stupid to get pinned down.

  I can't hear him. Not even his heartbeat. Can you?

  That brought him up short. She was right. He should hear breathing, at least the beat of the sniper's heart, but he heard nothing at all. He could feel him, but there was no sound--and there should have been.

  Gator moved with deliberate slowness, forming a makeshift Gilly suit by shoving reeds, leaves, and moss through his shirt. It didn't take long to construct a hood for his head and back, cover it with the foliage and begin a slow stalk through the swamp. Somewhere nearby, the sniper lay silent, targeting Flame, rifle steady and waiting. Gator had to find him before he managed to get off a clear shot at her.

  He studied the area where he knew Flame lay in the reeds and water. He couldn't see her. She was adept at becoming a ghost, using the camouflage around her. No doubt she was still digging deeper into the muck. Their two big advantages were that the shooter didn't know Gator had joined the hunt and that they could communicate with each other.

  Do you have a bead on his location? Gator asked.

  That last shot came from directly in front of me, somewhere near the cypress with the one branch sweeping to the ground, but he moved immediately. He doesn't have a clear shot at me or he would have taken it.

  Gator considered the information. What would he do under the circumstances? The swamp offered several good places for concealment and a professional sniper could lie for hours waiting for that one moment to take his shot.

  Gator worked his way in a wide semicircle using Flame's position as his reference. The going was slow and methodical. He had to inch his way, careful not to disturb the reeds or bend any foliage.

  He has to be enhanced. He has to be sent by Whitney.

  Not necessarily. But he didn't know. What the hell kind of sniper could mask his heartbeat? His breathing? Was he the same as they were? Gator and Flame muted any noises they might make. Could the sniper do the same?

  Raoul? It's going to rain any minute. I can feel moisture above us, can't you?

  Was there a tremor in the sound coming to him? Her voice just slightly wavering. She was probably stiff and sore from falling off the motorcycle, and lying so still in the mud and water she'd be cramping up. She was looking for reassurance and completely unaware of it. His every protective instinct grew stronger.

  A little rain never hurt anyone. You aren't worried I'm going to leave you, are you, cher? A man doesn't leave the mother of his child. And after this, I expect you to address me as your hero.

  Her soft laughter reached his ears coming toward him on the precision sound wave she generated.

  The clouds suddenly burst with an ominous rumble of thunder and rain poured down from the sky. Gator kept his head down, but his gaze moved ceaselessly over the terrain. He was looking for anything that might reveal the presence of the killer. With the rain coming down, it was much more difficult to see, but he strained his eyes, feeling rather than seeing that something was moving closer to Flame.

  He's shifting position. Flame's warning came on the heels of his own radar. The man was good. Even with the rain flattening the reeds in places, there was nothing to give him away. Gator looked for telltale "tree cancer," a small dark spot on either side of the tree that might mean a sniper had set up shop, but there was nothing, only his warning system blaring at him.

  My ear is planted in the mud and I can feel the earth vibrate. He's using the cover of the rain to get a better angle. I'm going to roll to my left. I think he's to my right.

  No! Gator's command was sharp. He's deliberately trying to get you to move. Stay still. I'll get him. You need patience for this kind of hunt. Don't panic on me, cher. The thought of Flame moving terrified him. His heart actually jumped in his chest and something squeezed hard on his lungs. He didn't know how he knew the killer was trying to spook her into movement, but he was absolutely certain. And while he didn't think that Flame's training had included sniper school, Gator would have bet his cabin that the killer's had.

&nb
sp; As if! I never panic.

  He hoped that was true. Playing cat and mouse with a professional killer took nerves of steel. Flame knew the killer had a scope on the spot where she went down. If he managed to get a good shot off, she was dead. It took a lot of guts to lie still when a high-powered rifle was pointed right at you. Snipers didn't miss. He knew the odds. Where many soldiers fired off hundreds of rounds in a battle, a sniper used one to three shots per kill.

  The rain poured from the skies, through the canopy of trees, so heavy it obscured vision. The water would help obliterate the tracks when it came to clean up, but it also provided a conductor for sound. He muted noise and sent out sonar, using echolocation in an attempt to pinpoint the location of the sniper. The man had to be concealed in the network of tree roots. Gator willed Flame to remain still as he crawled through the reeds and muck toward the last known spot where his adversary had been.

  He scooted through a water-filled depression before realizing it was a man-made trench, narrow with just enough space for a man to lie in. He froze. He had to be almost on top of the sniper. Carefully, only allowing his eyes to move, he searched the area around him, quartering every section of ground. He barely allowed his breath to escape, waiting for something, anything at all to give the sniper's position away.

  Time crept by. The rain poured down. Gator felt the rhythm of the marsh now, the teeming of insect life and the whisper of movement as frogs and lizards darted out from cover to grab a quick meal. His watchful gaze poured over the terrain again and again. The log to his left had split apart, rotted with age and was home to various life forms. A small green lizard skittered toward the log in small stops and starts, dashed forward and abruptly stopped before going up and over a slight mound.

  Gator's breath caught in his throat. That mound, no more than ten feet from him, was the sniper. He hadn't moved, lying so completely still, covered in reeds and mud, he appeared part of the landscape. If he turned his head and looked, he would be able to spot Gator as only Gator's head and shirt were camouflaged. His jeans were muddy, but no way, at such a close range, would he escape detection. He didn't have a gun, which meant he would have to use a knife--and that meant working his way without detection until he was within striking range.