Street Game (GhostWalkers, #8)(29)

Mack stared out the window to the streets below. He didn’t dare move. He leaned his forehead against the thick glass, desperately trying to shut out the sounds of the water running. Just the thought of Jaimie naked, eyes closed, her face turned up to allow the water to cascade over her breasts, run along her narrow ribs, her flat belly, still lower to the silky triangle of tight curls . . . He just stopped himself from groaning out loud.

Kane, damn him, would know immediately what was wrong. Mack rubbed his pounding temples. It felt like someone was using a pile driver on his head. His entire body burned, throbbed with pain. He hadn’t felt this way in his worst teenage years.

He had a sudden vision of Joe Spagnola in that elegant glass shower with Jaimie, his hands moving over her body. Mack’s large hand balled into a fist, slammed into the window ledge, instantly dispelling the scene.

Kane whistled softly. “Need a couple of aspirin?”

“The woman makes me crazy,” Mack said between clenched teeth. His voice grated.

“The woman has always made you crazy,” Kane was compelled to point out.

“Don’t laugh about this, Kane. She’s living in this . . .” Mack gestured wildly with his hands, swinging around to encompass the huge floor. “Look at this, a f*cking warehouse in a not so great part of the city. And . . . and,” he added when he saw Kane’s mouth twitch, “she’s got some six foot Adonis drinking beer in her bedroom.”

“Let’s be fair, Mack, she probably had him drink it in the living room or maybe the kitchen,” Kane replied mildly.

“Just how the hell can you tell the difference? If he’s sitting in her living room, he can see the bed, can’t he? Don’t you think that’s going to put a few ideas in the bastard’s head?”

“Looking at Jaimie probably put ideas in this guy’s head,” Kane corrected. He poured two mugs of coffee.

“I think I’ll have a private little chat with him. Find out what the hell he wants with her.”

“What do you think he wants, you idiot? He’s a man, isn’t he? She’s beautiful, intelligent, going to make a load of money, and she’s single. He’s no fool.”

“You aren’t helping, Kane.” Mack curled his fingers into fists and hit his thighs. “He’s looking to take advantage of her because she’s lonely.”

“Don’t do anything to make her feel sorry for him. You know Jaimie and her underdog syndrome.” Kane flashed a small grin. “And she didn’t look all that lonely to me, not with beer in her fridge.”

“It was a big mistake to give her all this time.” Mack accepted the steaming mug of aromatic liquid. “So, all right, Jaimie doesn’t like what we do . . .”

“Back up, Mack,” Kane cautioned. “It’s more than that and you know it. Jaimie can’t stomach it. End of discussion. You, better than anyone, know that. You saw her. Don’t get any ideas about discussing it with her. She was traumatized. In shock. She can’t live this life.”

“We can’t just dance around the subject.” Mack’s black eyes gleamed like firestones.

“Isn’t that exactly what you said the night she left?” Kane rested a hip against the butcher-block table.

Mack swore softly. He had bungled that so badly. “The whole thing went wrong from the start.” He pressed his fingertips to his eyes, remembering that horrible night.

The weather turned bad as they were nearing the shore. They were in dark, skintight clothing, crepe-soled shoes. Nine men, one woman. Rhianna had been chosen for a special assignment in Brazil, leaving Jaimie the only woman on the team. The raft was put over the side and the men took up the oars. No one spoke, their faces like masks in the reflection of the choppy water.

Mack hit the sand first, covered the others as they pulled the raft onto shore. The raft was camouflaged and the group headed stealthily up the beach. Two cars waited for them. No one spoke. At precisely 3:58 the cars split up, one stopping at the top of the block, the other at the other end. The silent team closed in on either side of the fourth building. Rain hammered at them, visibility was poor.

“Sentry,” Jaimie hissed softly. “Another across the street, on the roof.”

Kane moved around her to take care of the guard in front. A second man split from the group to warily cross the street. The rest waited, crouched in position, until first Kane and then Javier signaled.

They moved like lightning, entering the house from two points, heading for the second floor, third door on the left. Their informant had been positive the two French hostages were still alive in that room.

Jaimie suddenly signaled, her eyes wild with fear. “They’re waiting for us, it’s a trap, there’s at least two dozen of them.”

Mack didn’t hesitate. “Pull out! Pull out!” Mack gave the order clearly, quickly, into the radio.

All hell broke loose, machine gun fire erupting from all directions. They were forced up the stairs to the second floor. “Don’t touch the doors, none of the doors.” Jaimie yelled the warning into her radio, danger emanating in waves from their surroundings.

Mack stayed in the lead with Jaimie behind him, the others, and, finally, Kane bringing up the rear. Screams, blood, dragging their friends—it was an eternity of hell. A hailstorm of bullets followed them everywhere. Jaimie found their escape route with her unerring, uncanny, undefined ability. One door, looking like a closet, not wired, but locked. Jaimie dispatched the lock holding up two fingers.