Mind Game (GhostWalkers, #2)(47)

He was right, and she hated that he was right. I’ll go, but we can’t go too far. We can backtrack these people or better yet, follow them back to Jesse. If you do have to kill them, don’t kill all of them. She tried to sound grown-up and calm about it. In her line of work, no one died. She went in under cover of darkness and played the same games she played as a child. No one was around to see what she did and no one ever got hurt. In the last few hours she’d seen more death and violence than she ever wished to see in a lifetime.

Nicolas wanted her clear, but not so far away from him that they might get separated. Go to the church in Jackson Square. You can get to the roof. I’ll meet you there. If something goes wrong, get to the NCIS. Don’t try to find Jesse by yourself.

Dahlia didn’t reply. She sensed the movement of the men in the darkness and began to crawl backward, away from Nicolas. The farther she got from him, the more the energy began to mass around her. She felt the familiar signs. The hair on her body standing up. The churning in the pit of her stomach. The pounding in her temples. The last thing he needed was for her to pass out, or worse, have a seizure.

Silently reciting a calming mantra, Dahlia made her way to the other side of the building and slipped over the side. She knew they would never spot her, not unless it was entirely accidental. There were advantages to being small. She lay flat against the side of the wall as she climbed down, using finger and toeholds she found in the cracks. She was always patient, making the descent in silence and without haste. Movement caught the eyes, so most stealth was done with care and in slow motion.

She felt for the ground with her toe, connected and jumped, landing softly in the dirt beside the house. She remained there, crouched down, orienting herself to her position and the light patterns cast from the streetlights and windows of the surrounding buildings. She could no longer see any of the men near the “safe” house. Jesse had been wrong. Someone knew about it. He worked for the NCIS, and yet someone who shouldn’t have had found the safe house. Who could have tipped them off? Someone from Jesse’s office, or had they tortured the information out of him? The idea made her sick. She couldn’t imagine Jesse telling anyone anything. He was always confident to the point of arrogance. And he was dedicated to his job and country. The idea of someone breaking Jesse’s code of honor was abhorrent to her.

She slipped into the shadow of the building and edged around the corner, feeling for the energy that would tip her off to the fact that she wasn’t alone. Energy was a double-edged sword. As it collected around her, she lost the ability to “feel” precisely where it was coming from. Energy poured from the house, masses of nerves and fear and the determination to live. The NCIS team inside the house had expected to find her alone and had gone in “soft,” not looking for trouble. They knew now that they were surrounded and in for a firefight from an unknown enemy.

Nicolas was determined to even the odds. He lay on the roof, his sites steady on his first target. If they were going to wipe out the NCIS team, he was going to make certain they paid for it. For the first time, he was slightly distracted, part of him wanting to touch Dahlia and know she was safe. He was certain he would know if she ran into trouble. He steadied his finger and kept his eye firmly against the scope, hoping she was far enough away when he pulled the trigger.



DAHLIA went to her knees as the wave of violence swamped her. She clutched her stomach, fighting off dizziness. White spots danced in front of her eyes. She could feel her airway begin to close. She pushed herself up and staggered through the narrow pathway of bushes and garbage cans, holding on to branches as she gasped for breath. She tried to control the sound of her breathing. Sound traveled in the night, and even with the music that seemed to pour from various establishments a street or two over, she knew the kind of men hunting for her would be tuned to the slightest noise.

She had to cross an open street. There was no one in sight, and the violent energy was so strong it was impossible to tell if anyone was close to her. She had to chance crossing. It was imperative to get as far from the battle-ground as possible. She glanced around, one last cautious look, and started across the street, moving as quickly as she was able to on rubbery legs. Her vision blurred. The streets were uneven, cracked and pitted in places. She stumbled and hoped if anyone saw her they would assume she’d been drinking. She was three quarters to the other side when a man stepped out of the shadows and off the sidewalk. He was carrying a gun, and it was pointed right at her.

Dahlia felt the waves of malevolence pouring off of him but she kept walking, her gait stumbling and uneven, muttering to herself as if she didn’t notice him. She doubted if anyone knew what she looked like. The French Quarter was packed most of the time, even in the early morning hours before dawn, and tourists drank all the time. She glanced up when she was only a few feet from him, feigned surprise, hoping she looked like a regular on her way home.

“Are you coming home from a costume party? Nice getup.” She slurred her words and swayed drunkenly, inching closer to him, trying to get within striking distance.

Confusion hit her, a wall of it, as he tried to assess if she was a danger to him. She wore a black sweatshirt and boots, but her hair was flowing to her waist and she obviously was without a weapon. She was too small to be a physical threat. The man visibly relaxed. “What the hell are you looking at?”

She muttered something wordless, hoping to continue her impression of a drunk.