Night Game (GhostWalkers, #3)(57)

Another silence settled over them so that the rain seemed loud as it beat down on them. Gator shrugged his shoulders. “She’s here in New Orleans. She was staying with Burrell in the houseboat.”

“You think she was the one they were after?” Tucker gestured toward the dead men. “You don’t really think they were sent to assassinate her, do you? Who would know about her? Who would send them? And why would there be a son of a bitch just as trained as we are and most likely just as enhanced psychically?”

“You think Whitney is alive.” Kadan made it a statement.

Gator shook his head, a slight, humorless grin tugging at his mouth. “You’re good, Kadan, and you weren’t even touching me. Yeah, I think the bastard just might be alive. And I’m thinking he might be setting us up to see how we match up in the field with the women he experimented on.”

Kadan frowned, thinking it over. “No one saw his body. I suppose it’s possible. He could have fooled Lily and set her up to do his work for him.” He looked around him with suspicious eyes. “Gator, you didn’t think Tucker and I were part of someone else's team, did you?”

Gator shoved a muddy hand through his disheveled hair. “I don’t know what the hell I’m thinking anymore. Who can I trust when her life is on the line? Lily wants her back, but I can’t exactly force her to go back when all she’s ever known there is pain and suffering. She doesn’t trust Lily.”

“What about you, Gator? Do you trust Lily?”

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?”



* * *





CHAPTER 10





Flame was weeping. Gator’s belly knotted. The sound was soft and muffled, probably by a blanket, but he could hear her even through the pounding rain and it broke his heart. He tied his skiff to a post beside the airboat and jumped onto shore. The ground was spongy and his boots sank a couple of inches into muck. In his life, he had never imagined the sound of a woman quietly crying would tear him up the way it was doing. He should have come to her immediately instead of taking the time to shower and pick up a few supplies.

He paused outside the door. What was he going to say to her? Kadan, Tucker, and Ian had all agreed with him that it was possible that Peter Whitney was still alive. They had no idea why Burrell had been murdered. If the one obviously enhanced sniper hadn’t been with the others, Gator would never have suspected that Burrell’s death had anything to do with Flame or the GhostWalkers—now he just didn’t know.

The other GhostWalkers were with his grandmother and he felt far better about her having protection after Burrell’s death—especially as he needed to be with Flame. A shower had helped stave off exhaustion for a short time while he packed a few supplies, but he was feeling the effects of psychic and physical fatigue.

Gator pushed open the door to find Flame straight ahead, leaning against the wall, a throwing knife in her hand. She looked as if she’d been crying for hours, but she faced him with determination. Her hair was still damp from her shower and she wore jeans that were too big and an oversized men’s plaid shirt he recognized as belonging to Wyatt.

“I’m alone,” he assured her.

The tension went out of her and she relaxed visibly. At least she hadn’t thrown the knife at him. That was some progress.

“What did you find out?”

“Not much. A couple of men from my squad showed up and helped Ian and me clean things up. Burrell’s been reported missing and I told the police you were with Grand-mere and me all afternoon and when we came back, we heard shots coming from the island and while we were investigating the shots, someone started the house boat on fire. I stuck to the truth as closely as possible.”

Tears shimmered in her eyes again. “I can’t believe he’s dead. That someone would murder him. All he wanted to do was live on the waterfront and listen to the music in the bayou while he smoked his pipe. He never hurt any one in his life. This isn’t right, Raoul. It just isn’t right.”

“No, it isn’t right,” he agreed, the lump in his throat j threatening to choke him.

“We just left him there in the alligator hole.”

“He would have wanted us to cover for you. We don’t know who we’re dealing with yet, Flame. I was going to track for the forensic people tomorrow if they hadn’t figured it out. It’s been raining heavily and the rain may have wiped out most of the tracks. Burrell’s island is a good distance from where we took down the killers and nothing will lead them to the preserve. The bodies are gone. Even if they find the wrecked Jeep, none of us touched it.”

Another sob escaped, but she choked it back, turning away from him. “I hate this. I hate being out of control.”

He didn’t know how to comfort her. Strange when he’d always been so good with women, but now, when it mattered to him, he didn’t know the right thing to say or do. He rubbed her arm awkwardly. “You have every reason to cry.”

She shrank away from him, glaring. “I’m not crying.”

“Cher.” His tone was incredibly tender and her eyes filled up all over again. He watched her wipe at them with the back of her hand. “It’s okay to cry. It’s good to cry.”

“No it’s not. Why do people say that? Crying is a complete waste of time. It doesn’t do any good whatsoever. Your face swells up and turns red. Your eyes burn and you get the headache from hell. Will crying bring Burrell back?” She sank down onto the bed, back against the wall, drawing her knees up. “I cried once in a while after I learned to screw up Whitney’s camera and recorders. It didn’t make me well. It didn’t get me out of the cage he put me in. It didn’t do a damn thing but give him satisfaction when he found out. I’m not crying.”