Night Game (GhostWalkers #3)(64)
Author: Christine Feehan

She had to get off the island before Raoul found her gone. She couldn’t go into the hospital. She’d thrown Whitney’s name out to the hunter and he hadn’t even flinched, hadn’t questioned her. He knew Whitney and he definitely was part of the doctor’s experiments. “I’m sorry, Raoul,” she whispered. “But I’m never going back there. Never. Not even for you.”

She began walking toward the small strip of land that connected to the frontage road. If she could find one of the bayou people, someone older, someone maybe versed in treating injuries, she’d hole up there until she could make it out of New Orleans. It was a temptation to go to her airboat. She had everything she needed on it, but if anyone was watching, or it was rigged to blow, she wouldn’t have the strength-or time-to find out. She’d have to rely on the bayou courtesy to help her escape.

Most of Burrell’s friends knew her and they would treat her injuries and give her a place to stay, but unfortunately Raoul was part of their community-she doubted if they would hide her presence from his grandmother or him. She would have to find a way to keep the gossip from getting out until she could leave.

Light-headed, she stumbled over several rocks and plants before finding the small narrow trail leading to the strip of land. She’d lost too much blood. Flame recognized the signs. She had to hurry to get onto the road where someone might stop for her before Raoul came out of the marshland.

She threw up twice as she made her way toward the frontage road. She just kept moving, one foot in front of the other until she was on the road. She walked toward the bridge, swaying, making a great effort to keep her feet under her and praying for a car to come by.

It wasn’t a beat-up old pickup truck, or one of the older cars that passed her, but a shiny new town car complete with a chauffeur. The black car slammed on its brakes and backed up until it was beside her. The driver’s door burst open simultaneously with the passenger’s door. James Parsons and his driver both rushed to her side. James caught her good arm to steady her and the driver circled her waist to keep her from falling.

“Let me help you into the car,” the driver said. “I’m Carl. Carl Raines, Mr. Parsons’s chauffeur. You remember me. My God. What happened to you?”

Flame heard his voice as if in the distance trying to soothe her. She shook her head. She couldn’t go to the hospital. There was no way she could protect herself if they took her there. She was too weak to stop the two men from putting her in the car. James Parsons slid in be side her and slammed the door closed.

Out of energy and unable to turn her head, Flame just stared at the closed door. All around her was rich leather and mahogany. She slipped farther down on the seat unable to hold herself upright. Her line of sight was below the seat. It took a moment or two before she noticed small details. Leather ties anchored to the seat. The scratches in the leather. There were three of them, one deep and two much more shallow. Her hand fell heavily to the floor between the seat and the door. Her eyes followed. There was a small distinct earring, one she was certain she’d seen before. It was a gold hoop with silver footprints on it. The same earrings Joy Chiasson wore in the picture her mother had given Flame. She’d told Flame all about giving the earrings to her daughter.

Flame managed to bring her head up, her movements slow and uncoordinated. Across the leather seat her eyes met James Parsons’s. He was smiling. She became aware of the musty scent of sex. Both James and the driver wore evening clothes, as if they were returning from a party.

She smiled back, sliding deeper into the seat. Her gaze shifted around the car, taking in the neat bar and the plasma screen. The player was tiny, a mini DVD player. Beside it was a disc much like a CD but smaller. “Thanks for helping me.” Her gaze drifted toward the front. A small red eye blinked back at her.

“James, get her something to drink.”

The order came from the driver and there was a distinct command to the voice. James reddened as he leaned forward to pour amber liquid over ice in a small Waterford tumbler. “I know what to do,” James snapped under his breath. He thrust the glass into her hand. “Drink this.”

Flame swirled the liquid over the ice. She’d bet her last dollar that the drink was doped. “I’m dripping blood all over your seat. Do you have a towel?” No matter how hard she reached for her voice, it wasn’t there. She sounded thin and reedy.

James’s smile stretched wider, but didn’t reach his eyes. His expression remained flat and cold and empty.

Flame glanced away from him to the front where the driver sat. His eyes stared back at her from the rearview mirror. Not cold. Not flat. Not even empty. There was cruelty there-worse-evil. And there was a carnal lust she’d never encountered. Not normal, not even kinky. Just raw depravity.

James leaned into her, pushing the drink toward her mouth. Still staring into her eyes, he yanked at the front of her plaid shirt, ripping it away to expose her bare br**sts.

She threw the contents of the drink in his face, followed the liquid up with a hard slam of the Waterford crystal tumbler to the side of his head. “Back off you slime bucket.” She tried the door, found it locked and slammed the tumbler against James’s head a second time when he lunged at her. “I’m not sweet little drugged Joy, am I?”

She might not be drugged and she might not be Joy, but she was definitely going to get sick again. The bones in her arm grated together, this time taking her breath away.

“What the hell!” Carl exclaimed.

Flame glanced at him and her eyes widened as she saw the GhostWalkers materializing out of the gray rain.

They stood in a line across the frontage road, semiautomatic rifles to their shoulders, muddy, wet, barely discernible in the driving rain. Behind them, a helicopter set down making it impossible to get past them. Carl slammed on the brakes instantly.

He shoved open his door. “I’ve got a woman hurt here. I’m trying to get her to the hospital.”

Gator and Kadan split off from their group, walking up from either side of the car, the rifles rock steady. “Where is she?” Gator asked.

“In the back,” the driver said. “She’s bleeding all over the place.”

“Did you call an ambulance to meet you?” Kadan asked. “Unlock the back door,” he added when Gator stepped back as if he might drive the butt of his gun through the window.

“I just picked her up. I was calling when I saw you.”