Samurai Game (Ghostwalkers, #10)(6)
Art was very skilled at portraying emotion he didn’t feel. He blew out his breath, shook his head, and took another drink of coffee. “That’s bullshit, Sheila, and you know it. That puts the entire team at risk. What’s to say Ekabela doesn’t go after more than one GhostWalker and keep the diamond anyway?”
“The money, of course. He needs the money for his war chest and he needs an ally like Whitney.” She looked around, lowered her voice further, and beckoned him close. “Did you get the intel on the recent jailbreak in Lubumbashi? Nine hundred and sixty-seven prisoners escaped. It appeared that eight armed men attacked the prison guards, allowing the prisoners to flee, trying to free a militant who had been condemned to death. Unbeknownst to the minister, they had three members of Ekabela’s family: another brother, a son, and a nephew. It was only a matter of time before someone gave up their true identities. Whitney arranged to help Ekabela recover them as part of the good faith deal. Ekabela needs Whitney, although his is a lost cause. He’ll never find enough followers to keep those mines for long.”
“He massacres entire villages and the children, forcing them to join with him or die. This man is no saint. His reputation is terrifying in that region. He’s not a man Whitney wants to be in bed with.”
“Of course not,” Sheila soothed. “Of course Whitney doesn’t want to deal with such a man, but he needs that diamond for the defense of our country, and he can’t chance that the local military gets enough guts to take back those mineral-rich lands, nor can he take the chance that whoever has the mines next will do business with him. The moment the diamond is in his hands, you know that he’ll destroy Ekabela. He’ll move heaven and earth to make certain the man dies, and with him, all of his terrible atrocities. The price for this powerful weapon that could end wars, for the defense of everything we hold dear, is one man. One, Art. You and I both know it’s a small price.”
The major frowned and scratched the back of his head. “These soldiers are elite, every one of them. They’ve trained extensively. Even without their psychic abilities, just the training alone is worth so much to our government. Do you have any idea how many operations these men have run, just this team alone? To give one up to the enemy, that just doesn’t sit right.”
“Of course no one wants it that way, Art,” Sheila said, leaning forward to touch his hand with her fingertips. “Dr. Whitney agonized over this decision. The mission has to take place. If we don’t sacrifice a knight, then many good men will die.” She took a small package from her purse and, with one finger, pushed it across the table at him. “Dr. Whitney really needs your help on this. Make certain Johnson is on that team when the orders come through.”
The major loved this part. Negotiation—his forte. He frowned. Drew a hand over his face and shook his head. “Ekabela will torture that GhostWalker the way they did Jack and Ken Norton. Ken is covered in scars,” Patterson said. “Sam Johnson has served this country time and time again, going above the call of duty.”
Sheila withdrew another packet and placed it carefully on top of the other one.
Patterson studied her face. Should he push? Sheila bit her lip when he remained silent. Laughter bubbled up. He had her. He sank back in his chair and shook his head. “Not this time. I’ve read what Ekabela does to people he doesn’t like. If you told him Johnson killed his brother, he’ll f*ck him up so bad the man will beg for death and I doubt if Ekabela will give it to him—not for a very long time.”
She took out a third packet and placed it beside the other two. Her lips compressed tight. Patterson swept up the money. “You’d better have a sniper in place, Sheila,” he warned, knowing full well Whitney wouldn’t risk blowing the deal by killing Ekabela’s prize. “I’ll see what I can do, but Whitney blew it when he had me talk to the general. I don’t hold a trusted position anymore. He plays his cards close to his chest. He and that aide of his go way back.”
“Nevertheless, see to it that the orders change before they get to the general.”
Patterson stood up, sliding the packs of money inside his coat in the pocket specially tailored for just such lucrative transactions, satisfaction welling up. He turned from the table to walk out.
Sheila hastily plugged in her earpiece. “He’s on the move. Watch him closely. If anything happens to him, we’re all in trouble.” She had a team in place this time—Whitney’s own men, his private army of GhostWalkers on his payroll, men not quite as perfect as the elite soldiers on the teams, but enhanced nonetheless. She’d noticed those men—mercenaries—rarely lasted long. The effects of the enhancements seemed to take a toll on them, making them belligerent and always ready to fight.
Several people in the café had gotten up to pay, cutting across Patterson’s path, slowing him down. A tall, slender man in a business suit picked up his briefcase and stood, nearly running into the major. He stepped back with an apology to allow the soldier to continue his line of travel. A small Asian woman turned from the cash register with a small cough, her fist going to her mouth to politely cover the soft sound.
The major glanced back and grinned at Sheila. “See you later.” He turned and faltered in his stride, both hands going to his throat. He made a sound, much like a death rattle. He staggered, and took three more steps.
The tall man passed him, heading for the counter, his bill in his hand. Two of Sheila’s team paced alongside Patterson but from opposite sides of the room. The major once again turned toward Sheila. She could see his face was nearly purple, his lips blue.