Spider Game (GhostWalkers, #12)(106)

Trap shut down his emotions hard, but his brain kept processing even as he ran, the helicopters directly overhead. He caught flashes of them through the trees, large silver birds, doors wide open, gunners manning their large caliber gun.


Fuck. They’ve got a .50 cal FN M3M/GAU-21 machine gun.


Badass, Draden said. Eleven hundred rounds per minute. Serious fire power. They’ve come to kill.


It doesn’t make sense. They have no way of knowing that Wyatt’s three little girls aren’t home. Whitney wants them alive, doesn’t he? Trap asked.


He could no longer hear three bodies moving fast through the swamp. Two, a good distance ahead, but not all three. He slowed instantly and then came to a halt. There was a strange buzzing in his head that told him at least some of Whitney’s soldiers had telepathy and were in communication.


I’ve got the girls undercover in the swamp, Wyatt said. Pepper, I need to know you’re all right.


I’m good, in position to protect Malichai, Cayenne and Nonny. Take care of the girls, Wyatt. Don’t worry about me, Pepper said.


Status on Cayenne, Trap snapped because he had to know in spite of all resolve not to allow himself to think.


Malichai has already started on Cayenne. They’re extracting the bullets now. She’s alive, Trap, but her heart and lungs took a beating.


First helicopter in sight, Draden reported. The second is hanging back. I don’t have a clear shot. Trap, you might have to take that one if they stay out of my range.


Roger that.


Trap studied the swamp ahead, pushing all thoughts of his woman as far from him as possible. The foliage was thick in some places, lending cover to anyone lying in wait for him. A small clearing of only about seven feet by eight feet where two trees had dropped was just ahead. On both sides, the swamp was edged with cypress trees and veils of moss hanging, again providing cover. He studied the entire layout, cataloguing everything in seconds. The temptation was to skirt the clearing and move to the outer rim of the swamp.


The sound of Draden’s rifle cut through the air. The quick one-two Draden was famous for. He’d placed both shots precisely in the pilot’s head. The lead helicopter lurched. Spun. One of the gunners went flying. The other fell back into the spinning craft. The helicopter continued to spin as it fell from the sky. The wheels touched earth. Bounced a few feet into the air spinning like a top. The craft listed to the side, the left back wheels touched first, almost gently, and then crumbled as the helicopter spun on the ground.


It looked as if for a moment time slowed. The helicopter continued to tip to the side. The tail crashed into the ground, as the entire craft swept around in a circle on its side, throwing up dirt, debris and pieces of the wheels and tail. The rotor collapsed into the dirt, crumbling, forcing more debris, plants and dirt into the air, so that the sight was nearly obscured from vision. The craft, on its side, continued to spin as more debris flew into the air. It seemed alive, thrashing wildly for a moment, and then it came to a rest on its side, completely broken.


The second helicopter pulled back deeper into the cover of the swamp, hovering behind the taller trees where their leader barked out orders to his ground crew. Trap felt those orders like a tedious buzzing in his ear. He kept his gaze fixed on the tiny bit of clearing covered with vegetation, rather than the temptation of the moss-covered trees. The man they’d left behind to deal with him was in that clearing.


I know you’re there, he whispered into the midst of the buzzing.


There was an abrupt silence, as if the leader heard him. Not just the leader, but the entire team. He was a strong telepath and he wanted them to hear him. He willed them to hear him.


You should have left her alone. He stayed still. Motionless. He was inside the grove of trees, surrounded by brush, so even if the helicopter swung back to aid the rear guard, they wouldn’t spot him. They could sweep the area with their powerful gun, but they’d kill their own man as well.


You’ll never find me, the rear guard hissed. Keep looking, you big son of a bitch. They’ll be on that insect before you ever find me. It’s already too late.


There was a heartbeat of silence and then a furious hiss of command. The leader wasn’t in the least bit happy that his rear guard had engaged with the enemy.


Trap stared at the small clearing of leaves, calmly calculating the cubic feet and how best to direct his blast. He knew Gino was in front of the other two men and any others converging on the house. Gino was a ghost. Phantom wind, they called him. No one saw Gino, even when he made his kill. One moment no one was there, the next the body was already dropping to the ground and he was gone. Trap trusted him to do his job.


He sent a gust of air, lifting the vegetation to reveal the rear guard lying prone. Trap changed the actual chemicals in the air, a gift he had in abundance now, one that he’d practiced and honed, one he used when he went into enemy camps and left behind the dead. Gasses changed. The strange shimmer, a veil more opaque than translucent, surrounded the guard.


The man coughed. Tried to push himself up. Coughed again. Spat blood. Collapsed. Keeping to the edge of the heavier brush, Trap skirted around the clearing, holding to cover, keeping an eye on the dying man. Once around the rear guard, he picked up his speed, running full out to catch up with the last two team members.