Samurai Game (GhostWalkers #10)(39)
Author: Christine Feehan

Ryland heaved a sigh. “You’re one obstinate son of a bitch, Sam. Is there a reason why you’re not coughing up all the information?”

The other men stopped their antics, although Gator stuffed another handful of peanuts into his mouth, crunching while they all waited for his answer.

Sam shrugged. “I saw Ms. Yoshiie use a blowgun in combat. It was very small and I realized, when I read the report, that a small blowgun would fit into a man’s hand easily and if he was good enough, he might be able to deliver poison to the back of a throat.”

Now he couldn’t gracefully exit. He had to hear what that revelation brought. Just because Azami had a blowgun didn’t mean anything. Hell, he was probably going to faint if he stood up and made an exit anyway.

“You don’ look so good.” Gator’s voice was suddenly concerned. “Tucker, let’s get him out of here.”

“I’m fine.” If they were going to discuss reasons for Azami to have a blowgun, he wanted to hear every word. Sadly, even sounds were fading in and out. He looked around the room, saw mouths moving, but he couldn’t hear a word.

Ryland suddenly stood, as did most of his teammates. Tucker and Gator reached him first, supporting his large frame with strength.

“You’re done, Knight,” Ryland said. “Take him back to his room. I’ll send for Lily.”

He didn’t have the strength to protest and in any case, when Ryland spoke in that tone, no one disobeyed him.

CHAPTER 8

Screams pierced Sam’s ears, jerking him out of a deep sleep. The sound of a mindless animal in excruciating pain. Long, dreadful wails. Pleading, incoherent cries. He leapt up and sprinted down the long hallway. The stark white hall was narrow and stretched out before him for seemingly miles. The screams grew loud, more agonized, the begging unintelligible, but clearly pleas, the voice taking on the pitch of a child.

His heart pounded as he passed great glass windows. He peered in as he ran and his blood went ice cold. Room after room was empty, but the aftermath of the butchery was everywhere. Blood was splattered up the walls and dripped steadily from steel tables to form dark puddles on the floor. White hospital coats had been carelessly tossed aside along with trays of surgical instruments, all stained a murky wine red.

His mouth was dry and he pushed himself to greater speed, using blurring speed, but still the hallway extended on and on. The screams began to wane, trailing off into a gasping hoarse plea that wrenched at his heart. He found the last room, still filled with men in bloodstained coats and small masks bending over a cold surgical table. Great drops of blood dripped steadily from a patient he couldn’t see. The child writhed and moaned and pleaded, the tone filled with horror and pain.

A guard posted at the door leapt at him, coming out of the shadows fast. The blade of a knife glittered bright, caught in the light from the surgery room. He slapped the knife hand down, controlling the wrist with his palm while he slammed his fist hard into the guard’s throat. Choking, the man fell backward and Sam kept moving, rushing forward, kicking open the door to the surgery. Glass shattered around him, exploding into the room, showering the nearest bloodstained coats with long splinters and lethal shards.

He threw the nearest man into the wall, wading through them as if they were nothing more than paper dolls. He shoved them out of his way, reaching the stainless steel table and the child strapped to that cold metal. Blood ran from her body, her chest ripped open. Her eyes were wide-open, staring at him, filled with horror, with terror and pain. She had Asian features, but her hair was as white as snow, a thick cap of cornsilk.

“It’s all right now, baby,” he whispered, his throat closing on a terrible lump. He’d never seen such a thing, a mere child dissected like an insect. “I’ve got you. I won’t let them hurt you ever again.” Tears burned in his eyes as he reached for her. “I’ll take you to someone who can help you.”

He found the ties binding her to the table. The ties bit into her soft skin, digging deep so her wrists and ankles bled as well. Cursing, he turned to face the faceless monsters who had done such a thing.

“Why?” he demanded, taking a threatening step toward them. For the first time in his life he wanted to kill another human being.

“Science of course.” The disembodied voice sounded reasonable and not in the least afraid of him. The surgeon removed the bloody gloves and tossed them carelessly into the sink. “She’s a throwaway. I’ve given her a useful purpose for her life. She understands.”

Sam took a step toward the surgeon, his fingers itching to wrap around that neck and strangle until there was no more breath in the body. The surgical mask was removed with that same careless precision, and Sam found himself looking at Dr. Peter Whitney. With an oath, he took a step toward the monster. The child’s breath rattled in her chest and Sam swung quickly around to see her cat-shaped eyes glazing.

“No, baby,” he whispered. “Stay with me,” he coaxed. “Stay with me.”

He stared down at that baby face. She looked so familiar. That silky white hair that made no sense, the dark eyes fringed heavily with black lashes, the soft skin. He recognized her face and yet her name eluded him.

“Please,” he pleaded, afraid to lift her into his arms. She was like a broken doll, and anywhere he touched her would hurt. “Stay with me,” he repeated.

“Open your eyes,” she answered softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Sam blinked. Above him, that same face swam into view, older now, no longer ravaged, but serene and composed. He blinked again, trying to understand. The child had white hair, this woman had hair as black as midnight.

“Sam, look at me. Wake up. You’re having another night-mare.”

“Azami.” He breathed her name, more breath than sound. His heart jumped at the sight of her. “You’re so damn beautiful.”

She brushed at his hair with gentle fingers, barely a touch, just that whisper of movement against his skin, but he felt it right through to his bones. “You were having a night-mare.”

He caught her hand. She instantly curled her fingers into a fist and took a step back, shaking her head. He pried open her fingers one by one and pressed her palm over his heart. His gaze searched hers. Her eyes didn’t drop. She let him see who she was. His breath caught in his throat and he lifted a hand to her cap of black silk.

“Your hair was white,” he whispered. “The child in my nightmares was you, but your hair was white.”