Night Game (GhostWalkers, #3)(76)

Pain shot through her head momentarily taking away the pain in her arm. It robbed her of breath and she bent over, dragging air into her lungs to keep from fainting. It was odd, but she always associated pain with her memories of the other girls. She tried never to think of them, not as children, not when they were with her.

Flash wiped her mind blank, pretending it was a chalkboard and she could just simply erase all thoughts. She wouldn’t think of her past. She wouldn’t think of Raoul and her bleak future, and she wouldn’t feel the broken bones in her arm or the raw flesh where the alligator had taken hold of her. She would concentrate only on walking.

The rain seemed endless, as if the storm had stalled right over the island. She was soaked and muddy, blood running down her arm, hair plastered to her face. She stumbled again and stopped, the jarring pain making her sick. She looked around carefully, frowning as she did so, all senses going on alert.

All she really wanted to do was lie down and go to sleep. The kick came out from behind a tree, slamming into her hard, driving her back and down so that she landed on her butt, cradling her arm protectively. She actually saw white stars as she fought to keep from fainting. When she could control the pain she forced her head up to look at her assailant. A man dressed in military-issue camouflage clothes stood over her pointing his rifle at her face.

She started to laugh, the sound slightly hysterical. “You know, this hurts like a son of a bitch. You’d be doing me a favor. Go ahead and shoot.”

“Get up.” He glanced right and left and then reached down, grasping her good arm and yanking her to her feet.

She went boneless, turning into a helpless rag doll. The barrel of his rifle dipped low as he used his strength to drag the dead weight of her body up. Blood dripped steadily down her useless arm and hit the reeds with small splatters. She concentrated on the pattern of the drops, focusing to keep from feeling the pain pumping through her, making her sick as he jarred her broken bones. The moment her feet were under her, she lashed out, kicking the rifle from his hands with enough force to send it spinning into the water.

He swore at her, circling a safe distance from her feet. “You’re losing a lot of blood. Eventually you’re going to go down and then I’ll just drag your ass through the swamp.”

“You can’t wait. They’re hunting you and this time there’s a pack after you. You don’t stand a chance and you know it.” She reached back between her shoulder blades and slid a knife out. The hilt was familiar and oddly comforting in her palm.

“I think I have more time than you do. You’re going to pass out.”

She drew in air, slow and even, watching him, turning in a slow circle to stay facing him, using the minimum amount of energy. “Men always underestimate women.” She watched the middle of his chest, able to see arms and legs, his entire body as he continued his slow stalking cir de. “You shouldn’t have come after me. You can walk away from this right now. Whitney will never know. If you don’t, I’ll have to kill you.”

He spat on the ground. “So you’re a tough chick.”

“Oh, you have no idea how tough.”

He moved with blurring speed, kicking out at her bro ken arm in an attempt to quickly end the standoff.

She stepped aside, just barely, just enough to allow the booted foot to miss her by a hair’s breadth. As she stepped she slashed his calf with the knife, slicing through his heavy clothes to cut deep.

“You bitch!”

“That was me being nice,” she contradicted.

He rushed her, fists clenched, the promise of death in his eyes.

She stood her ground, let him come, the knife held low and close to her body. She knew he expected her to try to bring it up when he was in close, but he was far too big and she was in bad shape. She didn’t dare let him get his hands on her. When he was two feet from her, she threw the blade straight and hard, using every bit of enhancement Whitney had given her. She stood unmoving when he clutched at the knife, blood bubbling around the shaft, a shocked look on his face. His legs crumpled and he went down hard, face in the muck.

“That was me being a bitch,” she said. She swayed, wanting to retrieve the knife, but knowing she didn’t have the strength to turn him over and pull it out of his chest.

She had to get off the island before Raoul found her gone. She couldn’t go into the hospital. She’d thrown Whitney’s name out to the hunter and he hadn’t even flinched, hadn’t questioned her. He knew Whitney and he definitely was part of the doctor’s experiments. “I’m sorry, Raoul,” she whispered. “But I’m never going back there. Never. Not even for you.”

She began walking toward the small strip of land that connected to the frontage road. If she could find one of the bayou people, someone older, someone maybe versed in treating injuries, she’d hole up there until she could make it out of New Orleans. It was a temptation to go to her airboat. She had everything she needed on it, but if anyone was watching, or it was rigged to blow, she wouldn’t have the strength—or time—to find out. She’d have to rely on the bayou courtesy to help her escape.

Most of Burrell’s friends knew her and they would treat her injuries and give her a place to stay, but unfortunately Raoul was part of their community—she doubted if they would hide her presence from his grandmother or him. She would have to find a way to keep the gossip from getting out until she could leave.