Samurai Game (Ghostwalkers, #10)(106)
She had trained for this, but it wasn’t a role she relished. She used broken English and a Japanese accent, playing her part, but it was annoying. She turned her head and everything in her went absolutely still. The breath rushed from her lungs. Whitney. He was seated a few tables away, back in the shadows, with two obvious bodyguards on either side of him. For a moment she was totally paralyzed. She couldn’t even lower her gaze, she could only stare in shock and a kind of horror.
She’d been eight when he’d thrown her away, but she wouldn’t forget that face. How could she? He’d stood over her trembling body a million times, a scalpel in his hand and annoyance on his face. Her body actually hurt. She wanted to press her hand over her heart, but she forced air into her lungs and smiled vacuously up at her “date.”
Her target had changed. The deck was stacked against her. Whitney had the place nailed down with his army, but she was fast and she could take him out and maybe make it out alive. In any case, this was the opportunity of a lifetime and one she thought she’d never get. The most she’d hoped for was to cut his pipeline to legitimacy, but this . . . this was a miracle and she had no choice but to grab the chance with both hands.
The waiter put a delicate salad in front of her, giving her another opportunity to let her gaze wander around the room. The three tables flanking Whitney’s were definitely bodyguards. Behind him was a tall divider with plants on top of it. There were tables on the other side of it, no doubt more of his enhanced army. Killers. Not real GhostWalkers, but men who failed their psych tests and traded honor for money—just as Melanie had done.
Success was always determined by careful preparation. She couldn’t let her emotions dictate panic or rushing what had to be a certain kill. She nibbled at her salad, giggled and flirted with Frankie, and planned each move carefully. She would only get one chance. Everyone was armed and shots would be fired, but she had the advantage in that she would be weaving in and out of the soldiers at blurring speed, and if they fired, they’d be killing their own companions. That would help create chaos.
Melanie and Sheila continued to chatter about their lives and the men they took home and got rid of just as fast, comparing notes on lovers and laughing together. Their laughter offended Azami, when they had just dismissed Sam’s death—and any of the other GhostWalkers—as if he were no more than a tool to be disposed of. That kind of thinking was Whitney’s fault. The men and women in his employ took on his attitude toward the one’s he experimented on. They were disposable lab rats. He believed that premise and he taught it to those he surrounded himself with. Since their true motivation was money, it was easy enough to persuade them those he experimented on weren’t human and didn’t deserve to be treated as if they were.
She drew another deep breath to calm the building rage. Her temper had always been a major drawback, and she couldn’t allow it to explode here. This couldn’t be personal. She had a mission to complete. A job. She had to do it to the best of her ability. Whether she lived or died didn’t matter. Only the job. It couldn’t be revenge. She couldn’t operate out of anger. She was samurai and she had been trained for this very moment.
She needed to get close to Whitney without alerting his soldiers he was in danger. That meant she had to make it clear to everyone present that it wasn’t her idea to get up and move around the restaurant. She planned out each move carefully, judging the amount of steps necessary to get in close enough to the table to use her speed to cut down Whitney’s guards and kill him. She went over and over the moves in her mind until she was certain she could execute each one perfectly and complete the mission.
She palmed the drug she’d brought and, keeping it in her hand, slid her other one up along Frankie’s thigh, fingers teasing and dancing their way higher and higher while she leaned toward him, her eyes smoldering with lust, her lips parted, tongue darting out to deliberately moisten her lower lip and give him ideas.
“Frankie. You’re so . . . big. I like big.” She batted her lashes, waiting for the inevitable. The moment his gaze dropped to the close proximity of her hand to his groin, she released the small vial of powder into his wine, using her body to jiggle the table. Fast acting, the powder dissolved with that small movement of the table.
“You have no idea, baby,” he murmured, leaning closer to her.
Her hand brushed his lap while the other picked up his drink and held it to his lips. Watching her, he took a drink and licked the rim suggestively. She managed another giggle. “Too bad the table doesn’t have long tablecloth. I could take care of this monster.” She petted him and continued to hold the wineglass for him.
He drank another healthy swallow, and she lowered the glass to pick up a piece of nearly bloody steak with her fingers, holding that up to his mouth, breathing heavily, her lashes at half-mast as she gave him a sultry look.
He ate the piece of steak and drew her fingers into his mouth. She laughed and handed him his wineglass while she picked up hers, holding it up so they could touch glasses. “To later. I will make you feel so good, Frankie.” She let her tongue tease her lip again. “Do you want to leave?” She knew he couldn’t, but the drug was going to take effect very soon and he’d be on fire for her.
He grabbed her hand and placed it over his hard crotch, grinding it against him. “Damn it, baby, we have to stay for a few more minutes.” He glanced toward Whitney and then over to Sheila and Melanie. All three were enjoying the great food. He leaned toward her, putting his lips against her ear. “Come with me to the men’s room.” He sounded a little desperate.