Night Game (GhostWalkers, #3)(47)

“That’s Burrell’s track,” Flame said softly as she came up beside him and touched one boot mark. “He comes here every day to build up this area because it was too low and flooded every year.”

“Did you see anyone?”

Flame shook her head as she examined the ground. They shot him here and he fell over the wheelbarrow. He tried to crawl away from them.” She pointed to the twin furrows in the dirt and one handprint. Blood stained the tracks. “That’s where they shot him the second time.” There was a much larger pool of blood seeping into the dark water oozing up from just below the surface. “This is the one.” She indicated a boot print. “The big guy in charge. He shot him. The others dragged him by his ankles off that way.” She didn’t look at Gator. Her voice was tight, but rock steady.

They followed the drag marks in the mud. Water was already filling the crevices, but it was impossible to hide the bright splashes of blood on the leaves and vegetation. The trail led around the side of the island to a natural basin. The mud bank had a distinct slide indicating an alligator used the area. Judging by his tracks, the reptile was large and had been there for some time. The four men hadn’t tried to hide the evidence, dragging the body through the mud and water to the edge of an alligator hole. There were knee marks where two of the men had dropped down beside the body wrapping a cord around it.

Flame picked her way through the fortress of exposed roots, while Gator circled the dark waters of the basin. He slipped twice on the muddy bank. “Over here, Flame. They must have used something to weigh him down.”

“Can you get him out?” She stepped into the murky water, sinking up to her knees. “Can you see him?”

“I can’t see anything including the damn alligator. Get the hell out of there. You know damn well he isn’t alive. You can’t save him, Flame.” He waded toward her, gut churning with a mixture of rage and fear for her safety.

“This is my fault. I should have seen this coming. I thought they were after me, and then I just dismissed them. This is my fault.” She continued to wade out into the black water, feeling for the body.

Gator went after her, his fingers settling around her arm like a vise, yanking her with him toward the shore. “That’s bullshit and you know it. Get the hell out of the water. You think dying is going to help him now?”

Her face remained a stiff mask. She didn’t even wince at his harsh question. She’d seen the massive amount of blood. She knew Burrell was dead. It was the thought of Burrell being fed to the alligator that made her crazy enough to try to get his body out of the basin. An acrid scent drifted to them through the trees.

Flame used a low-hanging branch to pull herself onto the shore. She felt sick to her stomach. “Can you find him? Can you get him out of there? Use a branch and see if you can feel him.”

“Who were they, Flame?”

“Do you smell smoke?” She turned suddenly toward the canal. “Damn them. They’re burning his houseboat.” She took off running, more to get away from the reality of Burrell’s body in the water with the alligator than to save Burrell’s home. There was no way to save anything. Once again the bad guys triumphed and a good man lay dead.

She heard Raoul shout, but his voice was far away, competing with a strange roaring in her head. Her lungs burned for air and her stomach gave a sickening lurch. She stumbled, her vision blurring as the roaring in her head grew to a long wailing scream. For a moment, she thought she’d actually screamed out loud, but the sound only reverberated over and over in her head, so much sorrow, so much rage wanting to get out.

Flame fought it back, held it in, all too aware of Raoul’s close proximity. She could inadvertently hurt him—kill him. She fought for control, the effort making her head pound and her stomach chum.

She emerged from the trees to stare in horror at the black smoke and orange and red flames leaping into the air. The houseboat was completely engulfed by the fire. Birds rose, shrieking alarm, fleeing the area. In spite of the roar of the conflagration and the noise of the retreating wildlife, she caught the sound of a Jeep and, above that, a triumphant yell.

“Wait, Flame!” Gator commanded.

She glanced back and saw him pulling at his boot where he had stepped through the thin layer of earth and sunk into the mud. Celebratory laughter blended with the noise of the vehicle drawing her attention. She caught a glimpse of an open Jeep, four men bouncing on the seats as they tore down the road.

Without hesitation, Flame switched directions, using every ounce of speed she possessed, hurtling her body through vegetation, splashing through muck and water recklessly. Branches slapped at her, needles caught at her clothing, but she felt nothing as she sprinted back to the parking lot where her motorcycle waited. It fired up immediately, roaring to life as she kicked it over and spun, racing down the road after the killers.

Gator swore as he extracted his boot. Damn the woman. Damn the situation. There was no way he could catch her in his Jeep. And she’d definitely catch the murderers with her rocket of a motorcycle. He stood in silence, listening to the sound of the engine until he was certain of the direction. They weren’t heading for the highway; they were going across country, not wanting to be seen, taking one of the old hunting trails. He could hear the whining of the engine and the whooping of the men as they raced inland right into the preserve.