Ha. That would be the day. A man coming to her aid? She knew better. Only Matt Hartigen had ever acted on her behalf, and he was dead and buried. She shook the vision out of her head. Zaroyin’s mindless drones were the only men coming after her now, and they weren’t protectors. If she wasn’t careful, she’d be dead by morning.
The image persisted. This man was different. He wasn’t a predator, but she was definitely linked with him. Her tongue didn’t cringe from the sympathetic, coppery taste of his victims’ blood. No sense of terror from the sins at his hands assaulted her with the overwhelming need to run. No stifling fear of those he’d buried alive pervaded the space between, suffocating her. All the psychic, telling signs and empathic signals she’d come to rely on when seeking out assassins, terrorists, or kidnappers remained oddly silent.
Then who are you? she silently asked the far-off messenger in the inky night.
Eden had come to equate auras, the energy a person expelled back into the universe, with good and evil. The hues surrounding Koenig and Shields were gray-black smudges, like smoke from a funeral pyre. They were harbingers of Death. But this guy? The one with amber eyes? The one whose pulse she could detect throbbing at his throat, each beat of his heart a vibration on the cosmic web of life? This guy was comfortably familiar in a weird, psychic way. The air around his soul shimmered with the barest hint of crystal blue, the spiritual color of intelligence, loyalty, and—love.
The warmth of those honey-rich amber eyes reached out to her. It was like a shot of single-barrel whiskey to her soul, to be gulped, not sipped. Inhaled, not swallowed. The sensation warmed her down to her toes. It burned into the secret sight of her innermost eye, lulled her with a familiar sensation she couldn’t pin down—not yet.
It had been years since this delicious warmth in her belly had reached out for her. It took a full minute before she recognized it came from that same man who’d reached out to her and begged God, let me die.
She gulped, daring to believe. Are you... are you him?
The whiskey-flavored spirit stayed just beyond her reach. He didn’t answer, but a delicious shiver raced up her body, sparking goose bumps on the insides of her legs and up her spine, an unlikely pleasurable sensation given her very precarious predicament. The vision faded, robbing the last of her strength along with her sight of the tender visitor. Most visions left her anxious for her victims or angry with their oppressors. Some energized, but this one left her calm and drowsy. Feeling—lucky?
She ducked her head into the depths of Ralph Lauren’s finest. Lucky was the last thing she’d ever be. Pegged by her harrowing day, Eden closed her eyes. This latest warning, if that was truly what the man with amber eyes was, needed further scrutiny. To do that, her brain needed to solve the problem while she slept. If she could sleep.
Her breathing slowed. She allowed her body to relax and embrace what heat her over-priced down-filled cocoon offered. She had time. If they ran all night, which was unlikely even for cybernetically-enhanced soldiers, it would take her assassins hours to reach her.
She pushed one final thought out to Koenig and Shields. You guys should be worried. Not me.
Ontario wasn’t known for steep mountains, but the current landscape offered just enough pitch that Ky’s high-tech snow boots slid over the thickly crusted surface like skates on ice. It was well after dark by the time he and Tate approached ground zero, the site of the crash.
They hadn’t seen the wolf again—not that it mattered. Both Ky and Tate carried bear spray, a powerful deterrent to most large predators. Alex had a hard and fast rule about collateral damage, even for man-eating carnivores. If a worst-case scenario presented itself, and the bear spray failed, they could always fall back on the twin Ruger pistols tucked under both agents’ arms. The sniper’s first rule: Better safe than sorry.
As much as Ky and Tate pushed forward, the guys coming at them south-by-southwest pressed faster. They’d closed in quickly. Too quickly. They had to be using some kind of motorized device to travel, but in these woods? Odd. Really odd.
Ky stopped just short of the Cessna wreck half hidden in the trees. He needed to confront these two unknown quantities bearing down on his ass before he risked making contact with Agent Stark and her pilot, especially if they were injured. These two jokers on his butt had gotten annoying real fast. Enough was enough.
“Intercept,” he muttered to his partner via their TEAMshield link.
“Copy that,” Tate returned the perfunctory response.
Both Ky and he dropped belly to the ground, facing their adversaries. Ky tuned his goggles to night vision. Those following them were instantly lit up in lime-green display amongst the black pillars of lodge-pole pines. Dark stripes of bandoliers crisscrossed their chests. No snowmobile engine noise broke the eerie silence, though. Odd. These guys were on foot. Despite the knee-deep snow, both men were still on a dead run. They hadn’t slowed or hesitated. Just. Kept. Coming.
“Why the fun run?” Ky wondered, referencing the Corps’ demanding habit of early-morning fitness runs that were anything but fun. He looked closer, but the lime-green-tinted dark didn’t reveal many more details. Both men were helmeted. No insignia visible. No rank. Just two guys in hot pursuit. Of who? Him and Tate? FBI Special Agent Stark? Why?
Pulling a flashlight up from one of his many pockets, Ky lifted to one knee. “Time to meet and greet. Let’s see who these jokers are. Could be search and rescue.”
“Doubt it. They act more like black ops.”
“Let’s find out. State your business,” Ky called to the advancing duo, the beam of his light in their goggle-covered eyes.
Without one go-to-hell, the guys dropped to their knees, compact rifles drawn, and opened fire, peppering Ky and Tate with a hail of pine bark and needles.
Not exactly what Ky had expected. He dropped his flashlight to give the shooters something to aim at while he and Tate rolled in opposite directions away from it. Once out of the line of fire, Ky zeroed in on the shooter nearest him, took careful aim, and thud, hit the guy in the upper thigh. Joker One didn’t slow, much less drop like he should’ve. But he did pivot and fire on Ky’s new position. What the hell? Joker One responded as if that hot round in his thigh didn’t hurt like a mother. Like he didn’t feel it. Who the hell were these guys indeed?
The fresh fragrance of shredded evergreen filled the air as the onslaught continued. Ky burrowed into the snow bank between him and Joker One. He assumed Tate had made the same mistake, thinking he would only have to wound these guys and not kill them. That day was done.
“Take ’em out,” Ky ordered via TEAMshield.
Tate’s grunt of agreement came back instantly through his link.
It took two more rounds—one to Joker One’s groin since the one to his helmet had glanced off. At last the men dropped and the forest silenced.
Tate, breathing hard, pushed up from beneath a downed tree a few yards from Ky.
“You good?” Ky asked, drawing in a lungful of the overwhelming evergreen scent.
“’Course.” Tate brushed snow, woodchips, and needles off his jacket. He straightened his goggles and headed straight to the assailants, his weapon drawn and ready to kill if either man so much as wheezed.
Ky scrambled out of the snow bank, his ears ringing despite his protective earmuffs. He rolled his neck, searching for the reason for his lingering unease. His goggles detected no other lime-green assassins on his butt. The wolf hadn’t shown, either. Only the Cessna’s locator beacon pinged steadily on his heads-up display. But why was his sniper spidey-sense tingling up his spine like an electric wire? Why the extra shot of acid in his gut?
He held his position beside the wide trunk of a mighty evergreen, his whole body on high alert. Someone else was still out there.
And watching...
Chapter Three
Eden shifted her right foot, flattening her sole to the tree trunk behind her while she studied the grisly scene. Steady shooting had awakened her from
a dead-to-the-world sleep she’d succumbed to. More like it had scared the heck out of her. Tumbling face-first out of the Cessna, she thought she’d been found and was fast on her way to being dead. But now that she was fully awake and had ten years scared off her, yes, she had been found, but no. She wasn’t dead. Not yet.
Two men in what looked like tactical snow gear, stood between her and the men they’d just murdered. If it was murder she’d witnessed. She hadn’t seen who’d fired first, but she was pretty certain those two dead guys were the rogue agents who’d been sent to kill her.
If they knew it or not, these strangers had just saved her the trouble of having to put down her FBI brethren. Her second sight wasn’t responding to validate that, so she delayed the welcome wagon greeting. Eden needed to know who these guys were before she exposed her position. They could be more cyborg types, though she didn’t get that kind of a reading from either of them.
Her heart still pounded like a greenhorn, which, she reminded herself, she wasn’t. First thing’s first. She took a deep breath and steadied the hefty Glock in her palm while she scanned the strangers. Her pistol’s sight employed the wonders of thermal imaging plus laser accuracy. She could literally bring her target up close enough to count his eyelashes or the freckles on his nose. Unfortunately, these guys were both in winter gear with collars up, heads covered with knitted beanies, and faces hidden behind some kind of high-tech goggles. She couldn’t see much more than their bulky shapes.
Both carried some impressive gear. Custom-made short-stocks were slung over their shoulders. Sat phones dangled on holsters at their hips.
Eden trembled from head to toe. Lying on her belly did not exactly make her invisible, not with her over-sized girls squeezed into her jacket like they were. She’d never been one of those tiny waifs that could fit in a size two.
Oddly, that thought led back to the weapon in her palm. She always knew she might eventually have to shoot someone someday, but now that the moment had arrived, it took her last nerve just to hold the weapon steady. Keeping her fingers off the trigger, she zeroed in on Sniper Standing, the one as still as a shadow near the big tree. And there he was, a living, breathing, flesh-and-blood man in her sights, not some paper target on the range. This was real. Her heart rate kicked up. Could she do it? God, I hope I don’t have to.
No adrenaline brightened his aura, normally a significant tell. Interesting. Either he had some serious control over his emotions or he was a psychopath on duty, one who killed without remorse, anger or empathy. He turned and faced in her direction, as if he’d heard her thought.
She ducked, flattening those plump girls of hers against the ground. Snap. Does he know I’m here?
Risking a glimpse, she lifted her head just enough to target him again. Sniper Standing hadn’t moved, just stood there as still as the trees around him, as if he were waiting. Oh my heck! He used a pistol to take Koenig and Shields out? Just a pistol? Against what sounded like submachine gun fire? Is he flaming stupid? Like me? I’m using a pistol, too. Oh, yeah. Eden gulped her condemnation down. She wasn’t much brighter than he was, not lying in the snow with only her Glock and its six rounds against two men who appeared to be trained soldiers.
She forced herself to focus and mentally stripped Sniper Standing’s winter gear away. In seconds, he dropped one hundred pounds to a trim one hundred and fifty, maybe less. Tall. Six-foot-something. Lean, but wide-shouldered. Muscled biceps and pecs, the bulging kind that stretched his winter cammies like hidden coiled nautical ropes, the kind that secured ships to docks and tugs to cargo barges. He definitely worked out.
He was ex-military, if she was a guessing woman. But wary. The guy hadn’t holstered his pistol yet, only lowered his hood and left a knitted beanie covering his head. No longer panting, he’d slowed his breathing and expelled regular puffs of wintery vapor, still facing in her direction like he knew where she was.
Summoning her tough chick, federal agent persona, she opted for the darned-straight, over-confidence that came with it. Let him look. Let him worry. I’m in charge here. This is my crash scene.
Which is why I’m cowering on my belly in the dark?
To regain some semblance of false confidence, she pivoted her weapon to his partner, the guy kneeling over the bodies. Sniper Praying. Same military get-up. Shorter. Thicker at the waist. Darker complexion. He’d lowered his goggles. Shaggy black brows hung off a wide forehead, shadowing his eyes. The guy was methodical. Quick. He’d already searched pockets the way she would’ve if she’d killed Koenig and Shields.
Her scope scrolled back to Sniper Standing like it had a mind of its own. Look at me, she commanded mentally, knowing full well he couldn’t hear her.
Guess again.
Sniper Standing took a step in her direction as if he had heard. As if he knew right where she lay hidden and had caught every word.
She ducked back out of sight. Oh, heck, no. He didn’t.
Oh yes, he sure did. He cocked his arm, one hand lifted to the side of his head. A flashlight flickered on. The bright beam danced over the tree trunks between them. “Who’s out there? Show yourself,” he ordered.
Snap? How’s he doing that? But he couldn’t have heard her. She hadn’t spoken out loud. Only one other person had ever responded so completely to her mental suggestions, and he’d gone silent for years. Two years, six months, and seven days to be precise. It can’t be him. Not Ky Winchester. Not here. No way.
Breathing hard, she buried her pistol beneath her so nothing reflective showed. She maintained her prone position, her second sight oddly unreliable. She’d seen Koenig and Shields clearly when they were still miles away. Why not these guys? Who were they? Zaroyin’s latest and greatest drones? Someone better? Or worse? Could Sniper Standing possibly be that delicious whiskey-flavored shadow?
“Shit. Get over here,” Sniper Praying muttered to his buddy. “These guys are FBI. Look at their creds.”
Sniper Standing stomped through the snow to crouch near his partner, his wrists limp and his hands between his knees, but his gaze still zeroed in on Eden’s position.
Sniper Praying was on his hands and knees, peering closer at one of the bodies. “Look. This guy’s wired. Shit, it’s... The damned thing runs straight down his chest and... what the hell? It goes all the way into his pants.” He lifted his gaze to his buddy as he unbuckled the dead man’s belt and unzipped his trousers. “Are you seeing this? It’s stuck in his...”
Eden couldn’t detect the rest of Sniper Praying’s words. He’d spoken too low. Sniper Standing wasn’t speaking any louder. Oh, come on, guys. Stop whispering. What did you find? Just spit it out. What’s going on? Is it a bomb?
Couldn’t be. They weren’t running. They didn’t even look worried, just puzzled.
Sniper Standing produced a knife from his boot and sliced the wire. “Now I’ve seen everything. See if the other one’s wired, too. They could be transmitting their coordinates, for all we know.”
Sniper Praying obeyed. In seconds, he’d confirmed both were wired. Interesting and troublesome. Zaroyin wired his drones? Why? Apprehension scuttled up and over every last vertebra in Eden’s spinal column, as if her enemy had stuck a pin in a map of the world and said, ‘There you are, my pretty.’
“The boss needs in on this shit, Ky,” Sniper Praying growled.
Ky? It is him. Eden couldn’t draw a breath. Her heart kicked up a noisy roar inside her head. This was the same man who’d reached out to her all those years ago. She couldn’t believe it.
“He’s already seen everything we have,” Ky said as he pushed to his feet, “but you’re right. We need to report in.”
Sniper Praying rolled the body over and face down, still searching pockets. “You call it in. I’ve got to get these guys wrapped and up in the trees. I’m not in the mood to fight off that black wolf and his buddies.”
Ky didn’t argue, just stood staring into the dark like he knew right where she lay hidden, as if he could hear her heart
beating. Frustrated, she unleashed her second sight one more time, needing to be absolutely sure, to know if his body carried the scars. The last time she’d been in touch with him—if this guy really was the same man—he’d been nearly beaten to death. She’d seen the USMC tattoo on his chest and what they did to him, the methodical knife cuts, the burns, the kicks and beatings with canes and rods. Ky had to have scars all over his body. On his face. His chest. Even... there.
Eden blushed at her audacious nerve to see beneath her victim’s clothing. She never understood her psychic ability to examine the physical health and wellbeing of her subjects, either. She only knew that she’d done it plenty of times in the past. Her unique aptitude served the Bureau well. There was no reason to risk sending a SEAL team to rescue a dead victim.
But this was also why her father had left all those years ago. Casey hadn’t been able to control her own sight, and Eden was just learning. Drake refused to have two women inside his head every hour of every day, so he’d walked. Funny. Neither Casey nor Eden had searched for him. Eden hadn’t even considered it. She wondered now why not?
She tried another method to shake Ky’s self-control. Projecting an image of the brutal cell he’d been trapped in, she baited him. Lured him to react. To over-react. To do something to see if Ky really was that man.
Once again, he didn’t do what she’d expected. Didn’t groan. Didn’t shake his head to expel the demonic suggestion. Didn’t even cry out. Instead, he lowered his goggles and snagged the cap off his head. Very slowly, he rotated his head from right to left and lifted his face to the night sky. His chest expanded. Breathing in. Breathing out. He repeated the simple stress-reducing exercise, then ended with the same stare in her direction. Like she didn’t worry him in the least. As if he had all the time in the world.
Ky (In the Company of Snipers Book 13) Page 4