Deadly Game (GhostWalkers, #5)(124)

Jackson melted into the night soundlessly, the way he always did. He had come home with Jonas when they’d both been sick to death of the life of living in the shadows—when Jonas just flat-out missed the hell out of his adopted family. They’d joined the sheriff ’s department and lived a cushy life until Jonas had gotten himself shot on the job and became restless and edgy while recouping. His old boss, Duncan Gray—from a special ops team buried deep in the defense department—had come asking. Jackson would have given him a hard look and they would have stayed safe. But no, Duncan had known to come to Jonas, because he fell for the “we need you” line every damn time.

It was a hell of a thing he’d done, pulling Jackson into this mess. And it wasn’t the way he’d planned to die, a soft recon on Nikitin’s rival mob to see who was coming and going and why. Nothing special, but here they were, shot to hell, and blood leaking out all over the place. Jonas opened the packet of the pressure bandage with his teeth and spit out the wrapper, slapping the bandage in place before he could think too much about the wound.

Fire ripped through him, stabbing so deep his body shuddered in reaction. He had to hold himself up by gripping the garbage container hard—and wasn’t that sanitary. Damn, he was in real trouble this time. He stood swaying; the only thing steady was his gun hand.

He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a photograph, the single one he carried, the one that mattered. He should have destroyed it. He could see his own face, the terrible raw truth caught on film. He was staring down at a woman and the love on his face, the stark hunger, was so evident it was a betrayal, there for everyone—even him—to see. His finger glided over the glossy paper, leaving a smear of blood. Hannah Drake. Supermodel. A woman with extraordinary, magical gifts. A woman so far out of reach he might as well try to pull the moon from the sky.

He heard footsteps and the whisper of clothing sliding against the wall. He rammed the photograph back in the pocket of his shirt, close to his heart, and shook his head to clear it. More sweat dripped into his eyes and he wiped it away. The hard-asses were coming in first, staying to the shadows but definitely advancing. The sweat stung his eyes and blood ran steadily from his side down his leg, mingling with the rain that had begun to fall in a relentless downpour. He steadied the gun and waited.

At the end of the alley, a man dropped and the first shot rang out almost simultaneously. Jackson was hell on wheels at that distance. Lying up on top of the roof, he could just pick them off if they were stupid enough to keep coming—and they were. Jonas took his time, waiting for a muzzle flash as one of them gave his position away by firing up at Jackson. Jonas squeezed and the count was two for them, but the entrance to the alley still looked a long way away when the stabbing fire was spreading through his body and his blood was leaking all over the ground.

Don’t be such a pansy-ass. You’re not going to die in this dirty alley cut down by a few low-life rats. Geez. He spoke sternly to himself, hoping the pep talk would keep him from doing a face plant in the muck. The trouble was, these weren’t just low-life rats—they were the real deal, trained in tactics just as Jackson and he had been, and they were going for the rooftop too. He heard sounds in the building behind him—the building that should have been a warehouse empty of people.

Whatever was on that video tape they’d captured tonight was worth a lot of lives. Jackson fired again and another body dropped. No one returned fire, knowing Jonas was there waiting for the flash. He groaned softly as realization hit him. They knew his position exactly. He should have moved the moment he’d fired. He was even farther gone than he’d thought. He swallowed hard and stayed low, trying to be a part of the container, knowing he had to get out of there, but afraid his legs wouldn’t hold. A wave of dizziness hit him hard, nearly putting him on the ground. He hung on grimly, breathing deeply, desperate to stay on his feet. Once he went down, he’d never be able to get back up.

Jackson came out of the shadows, blood dripping from his chest and arm, his face grim, eyes savage. He touched his knife and drew a line across his throat, indicating another kill—and that kill had come between Jackson and Jonas, which meant they were surrounded. He held up four fingers and directed Jonas’s attention to two positions close and two behind them. He pointed up.

Jonas felt his heart skip a beat. No freakin’ way was he going to climb a fire escape ladder three stories up. He doubted if he could have run the gauntlet, straight down the alley, but it looked a hell of a lot easier—and shorter—than three stories up. He took a breath, ignored the protest as a thousand dull knives sawed into his insides, and nodded his assent. It was their only chance to get away clean.

Jonas took a step away from the receptacle, following behind Jackson. One step and his body went ballistic on him, the pain crushing, robbing him of all ability to breathe. Shit. He was going to die in this damn alley and worse, he was going to take Jackson with him—because Jackson would never leave him.

Enemies were closing in from every direction and there was just no way he could climb that ladder. They needed a miracle and they needed it fast. There was only one miracle that he could count on, and he knew she was waiting for his call. She always knew when he was in trouble. Jonas spent a lifetime protecting her, wanting her so badly he woke up night after night, sweating, her name echoing through his bedroom, his body hard and tight and so damned uncomfortable he sometimes wasn’t sure he’d live through the night. But he refused to give in and claim her when he couldn’t stop himself from taking jobs like the one he was on—because he’d be damned if he got her killed.