Predatory Game (GhostWalkers, #6)(84)

The sound of the rain beat down steadily and the seconds crawled by. He heard the first soft footfall and then a second one.

“Henry? You down there?”

Jess remained silent, knowing the men wouldn’t fail to smell blood. The open door was an invitation. He remained still, patient. He heard a whispered consultation. He simply lay there waiting. They would come because they had to. They had gone to the trouble of torturing Patsy for information. They would surely want him.

A figure appeared in the doorway, stepped hastily to the side in a crouch, sweeping the basement with a flashlight. Jess concentrated on the gun he’d left on the shelf. It rose in the air, levitating just about the height of a man’s chest before firing. The flash was bright in the room, and the flashlight clattered to the ground. The man holding it clutched his stinging hand and swore as the room once again was plunged into darkness.

“Calhoun. We know you’re in there. Come out into the open and drop your weapon.” The voice came from outside the room.

Jess glanced at his watch. Saber and Patsy should be clear of the house. If he made a mistake, both should still be fine. He tested his control, felt the concrete under him shift slightly. The walls shimmered uneasily for just a moment. The stairs creaked.

“Calhoun, don’t make this hard on yourself. Ben just came in and we’ve got your sister.”

Your sister. Not both women. Saber would never allow them to take Patsy from her. If they had captured Patsy, they’d have taken Saber as well. They were lying. Even with logic telling him both women were safe, his heart still stuttered. He felt the floor quiver, always a problem when he was upset. Control was of vital importance when you could shake apart a house.

“Calhoun. Let’s just talk.”

The first man, already inside, began to make a cautious move to find cover. The gun hovering over the shelf fired a second warning shot, and the man brought up his gun and sprayed the basement with bullets.

“Stop! What the f*ck is wrong with you, Stan? We need him alive.”

The gun fell silent, although Jess could hear harsh breathing. The man giving orders stepped to the door’s edge and flashed a light over the basement. He caught the splash of blood and the shadowy figure of the man in the wheelchair. Swearing, he tried for a better angle.

“I think you killed him, Stan.”

“He was shooting at me. What the hell was I supposed to do, Bob?” Stan felt around for his flashlight. “The damn thing’s dead. He put a bullet in it.”

The two men remained where they were, observing what they could see of the body, taking care not to expose themselves to further gunfire. Jess had positioned the chair so only a part of it could be seen from the door, the rest hidden by the alcove. He remained silent. There was a third man still alive, and Jess willed him to enter the basement. He couldn’t attack until the man was inside, but he remained stubbornly cautious.

“Get your ass moving, Specialist,” the one near the doorway urged. “And you’d better hope you didn’t kill the bastard. I’ll cover you.”

Jess felt the beginnings of a smile. Yeah, dark hair in the doorway had it right. He was a bastard. He lived for this.

“Hooah, Sergeant.” Stan started down the stairs and the second man moved onto the landing. His gun was steady on the body slumped in the wheelchair. Jess remained still, silently urging the third man to join the party. For a moment it looked as if it wouldn’t happen.

“Keep the talk down until we have the bastard,” another voice snapped.

Bob moved completely to one side, giving the other man, who was obviously in charge, the better position. Immediately he stepped inside the room as well, shifting to the left of his partner.

The door to the basement slammed closed behind them, plunging the room into darkness. The two men closest tried to open it, pounding and rattling the doorknob, swearing and kicking at it, but the door held fast.

The stairs and landing began to shake, gathering momentum until nails and screws began to pop out of the frame and drop to the floor. There were shouts. Stan fired his gun, the sound deafening in the small space. The flash blinded everyone even more.

“It’s an earthquake,” Bob yelled. “You’re going to shoot one of us, Stan. Just hang on until it’s over.”

The shaking grew worse until the boards on the landing and stairs began to break apart. Stan yelled hoarsely as he fell and the two other men followed, one grabbing at the rail and swinging by his arm before dropping to the floor below.

“Son of bitch. Son of a bitch.” Stan scuttled across the cement toward the wheelchair, his gun aimed at the dead man’s head.

“It’s a f*cking earthquake, Stan,” Bob shouted again.

“This is no earthquake,” the one in charge snarled.

“It’s him, Bob, you moron. It’s him. I told you it was true. I’m killing the son of a bitch.” Stan pulled the trigger several times, the bullets tearing into the body in the wheelchair. The body jerked with the force of the impact and the dead man slumped over, sliding down in spite of the belt holding him to the chair.

Stan crawled closer, moving around the protruding wall housing the hot water heater. Jess rolled swiftly into position, each move already mapped out in his head. His arm slipped around Stan’s throat and clamped down hard in a half nelson. Stan thrashed wildly. He was a big man and his feet drummed on the concrete as he tried desperately to break the stranglehold Jess had on him.