Samurai Game (Ghostwalkers, #10)(21)

“It isn’t going to happen,” he muttered. “You’re a f*ckin’ GhostWalker. Get on your feet and move, soldier.”

He felt a surge of psychic energy, a strong wash surrounding him, and instinctively he twisted, looking for the threat. Azami materialized on his left side, reaching down to slide her arm around his waist. Shock waves rocked him. There was no way she could use teleportation, yet she’d been a great distance from him. How had she managed to cross that space in under a second? As far as he knew, he was the only one in the world who could do such a thing—and yet, she had. He recognized the burst of power, the alarming buildup of energy and the way her body shimmered for a moment, nearly transparent until all molecules caught up with her speed.

He found himself looking into those dark, mysterious eyes. For one moment, he felt as if he was falling forward and he caught himself. He was not about to lean on anyone, let alone a woman. “Who the hell are you?” Because she was no ordinary woman, and more and more his radar told him he was dealing with a fellow GhostWalker. And if that was so, and she hadn’t identified herself as such, if she was lying about who she was, they had a major problem.

He did not want to kill this woman. Everything in him rebelled against the idea, yet that nagging suspicion refused to go away. He held his breath. The wind seemed to cease.

“I’m the woman who happens to be saving your butt right now. Keep walking. We’re about to have more company. If you go down again, you won’t be getting back up.”

Hell. He knew he’d been hit, it just hadn’t registered in his brain yet. He’d been moving too fast, but someone had fired repeatedly and a bullet had clipped him—somewhere. He was used to the aftermath of teleporting, the sheer exhaustion and the pain as bones and tissue realigned, as if somehow, they hadn’t all quite found their rightful places back in his body. He accepted the help from her, not wanting to fall on his face in front of her.

Her waist was very small. His hand was so big, he was almost afraid to put it on her—afraid anywhere he touched would be inappropriate. Fucking hell. He should be thinking about guns and bullets and self-preservation, not how perfectly her body felt against his.

They hobbled away from that scene of death and chaos, back into deeper woods. Azami didn’t go far. She set him down beside a large tree. He could feel the earth trembling.

“The others are close. My team’s about five minutes out.” He blew out his breath and assessed the damage. “I can handle this. Seriously, woman, you’re driving me crazy.” She was too, but not in the way she should be. He should want her hiding in the bunker with her brothers, Kadan and Nico protecting her, but no, she was here, in danger, and all he could think about was how good she smelled. And how very glad he was that Kadan and Nico had wives they adored.

Azami laughed softly. “I seem to have that effect on men—driving them crazy. Apparently my behavior is not normal.”

“You’re damned attractive and you’re distracting me.” The words were out before he could censor them, shocking him and judging by her face, shocking her.

“I think you’re a little delirious.”

The teasing note in her voice slipped inside his guard and warmed him. Damn it all, she wasn’t who she claimed to be and he was responsible for the safety of his team and for Lily’s baby. The woman was overpowering his good sense with sheer sex appeal. He turned his head toward the sound of the engine drawing near, more to distract himself than for any other reason. He’d known all along that Jeep was close.

Overhead they could hear an approaching helicopter, the sound of the blades growing loud. Azami sent him another smile and made a move to rise from behind the brush. Alarm rushed over him and Sam caught her wrist, yanking her back to safety. She didn’t resist, or even look annoyed. She simply looked down at the fingers shackling her and then back up to him, raising an eyebrow.

Damn, she was calm. He liked that. He also liked that her fingers had settled around the hilt of her knife. His curved around hers, holding her hand still. “You don’t trust me.”

“I don’t know you. But I see you lack trust in me as well.”

He flashed a wan grin. “I don’t know you either.” He indicated above the canopy with his chin. “They aren’t ours.”

Thorn glanced at the sky, her heart thudding hard in her chest. Two helicopters? That was some serious firepower. Mercenaries and Iranians. What was going on? Someone wanted either Sam Johnson or her—very badly.

Ropes dropped from the helicopter hovering some distance away, and several men began fast-roping down. She assessed the damage to Sam. He’d been shot. It looked like a through and through, but the bullet had entered on his right side and come out the back. He’d lost a lot of blood. It was only his training and iron will that kept the pain at bay and the soldier from passing out.

It was impossible for a woman like Thorn not to admire Sam as he pushed himself up, sliding his weapon forward and going to ground without so much as wincing. The back of his shirt was covered in blood and there was more on his calf. “Stay still,” she advised. “And take a breath.”

She didn’t give him time to think about it, as she pulled a thin, rather large rectangle-shaped bandage from her pack. Shoving up his shirt, she slapped it over the wound. He gasped and turned his head to look at her over his shoulder, suspicion in his eyes. She ignored it and reached for the front of his shirt.