Night Game (GhostWalkers #3)(43)
Author: Christine Feehan

The rain poured from the skies, through the canopy of trees, so heavy it obscured vision. The water would help obliterate the tracks when it came to clean up, but it also provided a conductor for sound. He muted noise and sent out sonar, using echolocation in an attempt to pinpoint the location of the sniper. The man had to be concealed in the network of tree roots. Gator willed Flame to remain still as he crawled through the reeds and muck toward the last known spot where his adversary had been.

He scooted through a water-filled depression before realizing it was a man-made trench, narrow with just enough space for a man to lie in. He froze. He had to be almost on top of the sniper. Carefully, only allowing his eyes to move, he searched the area around him, quartering every section of ground. He barely allowed his breath to escape, waiting for something, anything at all to give the sniper’s position away.

Time crept by. The rain poured down. Gator felt the rhythm of the marsh now, the teeming of insect life and the whisper of movement as frogs and lizards darted out from cover to grab a quick meal. His watchful gaze poured over the terrain again and again. The log to his left had split apart, rotted with age and was home to various life forms. A small green lizard skittered toward the log in small stops and starts, dashed forward and abruptly stopped before going up and over a slight mound.

Gator’s breath caught in his throat. That mound, no more than ten feet from him, was the sniper. He hadn’t moved, lying so completely still, covered in reeds and mud, he appeared part of the landscape. If he turned his head and looked, he would be able to spot Gator as only Gator’s head and shirt were camouflaged. His jeans were muddy, but no way, at such a close range, would he escape detection. He didn’t have a gun, which meant he would have to use a knife – and that meant working his way without detection until he was within striking range.

What’s wrong?

He heard the anxiety in Flame’s voice clearly.

Nothing. Stay down.

Your heart rate just went through the ceiling. Don’t give me nothing. Fill me in. I’m not some pansy ass that can’t take bad news.

No, she wasn’t that. She’d coped with bad news most of her life. No, you’re a hothead and you might get yourself killed.

I knew that weasel Whitney wanted me alive. Give it to me straight, Raoul. I need to know what’s going on.

He weighed his options. He’d only have one chance at the sniper. She had to know the danger. He’s a few feet away. If he turns his head, he’ll see me. Don’t move, Flame. This guy knows what he’s doing. He hasn’t moved a muscle and he’s had his eye to the scope the entire time.

There was a small silence. He found himself holding his breath. Raoul. I’ll be really angry at you if you blow this and get killed.

Now cher, make up your mind. I thought you wanted me dead.

You haven’t had time to take out an insurance policy for the baby and me.

Nothing’s goin’ to be happening to me.

Flame was silent again. I could kill him using sound. It’s risky, but better that, than taking a chance…

No! He forced calm into his voice. She was shrewd. He’d just given away too much to her, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to chance it. He wouldn’t let her chance it. No. We’ll do it the old-fashioned way.

Count off. On every fifth second I’ll use sound to move the reeds off to my right.

Was there relief in her voice? He couldn’t tell. Damn it, no.

Damn it, yes. Just enough to make him worried I might be on the move. He’ll be concentrating on me and it will give you a chance. I’m not stupid enough to let him get a shot at me. There was determination in her voice. You can’t have it both ways. Either we use sound or we take the chance together.

Gator counted to five and propelled his body forward through the mud using his elbows. He silenced the sucking sound as muck dragged at his body in an attempt to hold him in place. He gained two feet. A few more and he could launch himself onto his target. He would have to go from a crouch to a full-on attack, leaping the distance before the sniper could turn and get a clear shot.

The second count he pushed forward only to see the sniper shift ever so slightly, shoulder hunching.

He’s taking his shot.

He sent the warning simultaneously as the gun went off. The sniper rolled to his left, came up on his knee, rifle to his shoulder for the second shot. Gator sprang, more than grateful for the physical enhancement that allowed him to smash into the sniper, driving him facedown into the mud.

The man must have sensed his presence at the last second because he tried to turn, tried to keep the rifle out of the mud. Gator drove his knife into the man’s side just as the sniper slammed the rifle stock against the side of Gator’s head. For a moment, everything faded in and out. The sniper heaved him off, but Gator caught the rifle, hanging on and kicking at the other man’s crotch.

Flame! Are you hit? He felt frantic, needing reassurance, needing to hear she was alive and well even as he was fighting for his own life. The sniper fought savagely, fear and anger lending him strength as they struggled for possession of the gun. Answer me.

“I’m here,” Flame called out to him as she pushed up out of the muck. The wet ground sucked at her, tried to hold her in place and her leg was throbbing and painful as she tried to stand. Gator had jerked the rifle from the sniper’s hands and it went flying away from them. Both men pulled knives and began to circle.

She dragged herself out of the mud, willing her leg to work when it buckled under her. It didn’t matter, nothing mattered but that she get to the gun. Gator leapt back avoiding the slice of the sniper’s knife by a hair’s breadth, feinted with his right hand, and moved in, going for the kill with his left hand. Flame launched herself into the air, landing hard beside the gun, going down as her leg collapsed under her, but she wrapped her fist around the rifle and brought it to her shoulder. The sniper was already stumbling backward, Gator’s knife in his heart. He toppled over slowly, landing face-up in the rain, eyes wide open, shock on his face.

Gator turned and looked at her. Her gaze clung to his. She looked worn. Beat up. Shocked. Both heard the approach of a four-wheel-drive vehicle, but they didn’t look away from each other. Gator walked over to her and pulled her to her feet. She stumbled, lacking her normal fluid grace and he caught her arms, steadying her, then reached out to wipe the mud from her hair. Streaks of brown and red ran down her pale face as the rain tried to wash her clean.