Samurai Game (GhostWalkers #10)(87)
Author: Christine Feehan

Gator nudged Tucker. “More businessmen. I’m wearin’ my suit. The ladies love that.”

Ryland suppressed a grin. “Yeah, they will, Gator; we’ll let you drop first.”

“Thanks, Captain, I’ll let Flame know she needs to pick up a little more life insurance.”

Ryland shook his head and returned to the instructions. “We’ll insert by HAHO from twenty-seven thousand feet AGL,” he said, referring to air to ground level.

HAHO was a high altitude, high opening jump. Never fun over a jungle in the dark in hostile territory. They would glide for thirty-five miles using compass and map to reference land features for directional reference.

“We’ll be dropped thirty-eight miles east of the objective. We’ll soar into the DZ Team One established, approximately two miles from the objective. Four of us will have AKMs and the fifth will have an RPK light machine gun. All of us will carry the Pya Yariggi pistol.”

He looked around the room. “Each one of you will carry the following . . .” He waited until his men were ready for the list.

“Four claymore mines, four pounds of C-4, eight blasting caps, eight time-delay igniters, thirty feet of det cord explosive, ten minutes’ worth of fuse time, six Mk II frag grenades, four M18 smoke grenades. One red, one green, and two white. I want each of you to also have two M-14 thermite incendiary grenades, three hundred and thirty-five rounds rifle, three magazines pistol, the snipers bring seventy rounds for the SVDs. Everyone,” he continued, “two extra battery sets for each radio issued you, UV water purification device, and trauma kit.”

Ryland waited again until his men were all finished listing the necessities. “Our objective is to secure and transport a political package. We will take out two rebel combatant leaders and destroy as much rebel equipment and munitions as we can. If we are compromised, we are on our own.”

“Wow. How new is that?” Gator asked, looking around with a grin. “I don’ think any of us has ever been in that situation.”

Tucker nudged him hard enough to make him nearly topple over. “They’ve been trying to lose you for years, Cajun man.”

“I grew up wrestlin’ gators; a little romp in the jungle isn’t goin’ to get me lost,” Gator assured. “Try as they might to get it done.”

Ryland held up his hand to return attention on him. “Extraction is scheduled to be provided by the 160th SOAR, special operations aviation regiment. They will be flying an MH-53D Pave Low with two AH-6 ‘Little Bird’ gunships for cover. If both PZs are compromised, then we secure our own transport and try to get to a friendly country.” He looked around at the men he’d gone into combat with hundreds of times.

Nico Trevane was Lakota Indian and Japanese, with bronze skin, long black hair, and flat, cold eyes. He was tall, with obvious muscles, yet he could walk silently and slide through any terrain without a sound. He was not only a renowned marksman but he spoke many languages. His psychic abilities were an asset at any time. He was an anchor, drawing unwanted psychic overload away from the other members of his team. He seemed to always know where the enemy was by the emotions and energy surrounding the individual.

Kadan Montague was a broad-shouldered man with strong arms, very muscular, with dark blue, almost black eyes. A thin white scar ran the length of his face. Known for his coolness under fire, at home in any environment, very calm in any crisis, he was Ryland’s second in command. He could do what few other GhostWalkers could. He enhanced other psychic gifts, could see images in sound, could be nearly invisible, and was able to shield an entire team from detection. Kadan could cling to any surface like a lizard and change his skin color to match his background. Ryland always knew he could rely on his judgment.

Jonas Harper did his job with the minimum amount of fuss. Blond, medium build with hard, sinewy muscles that allowed him to fold himself into small spaces, Jonas had Florentine gold eyes that could look right through a building. Expert with knives, he’d grown up in the circus and was a high wire specialist, spoke multiple languages, was a master of disguise, a master thief and pickpocket, and could disappear into fog, shadow, or anything available to him. Like Nico, he was a quiet man, but could always be counted on.

Sam Johnson was an undisputed genius, had dark eyes and curly hair, and quiet laughter. He was another who spoke multiple languages and who could do extraordinary things such as teleport. He was also a marksman and incredible at hand-to-hand.

Ryland looked at the four men he called family. He was sending them into hell with no backup.

“Team One is wheels up in six hours.”

Sam waited until the others had filed out. “Rye, I want you to talk with Azami. I think she can help.”

Ryland scowled at him. “Am I supposed to tell a civilian what we’re doing?”

Sam shook his head. “She’s a GhostWalker. One of us. And she can make sure we have a chance at getting out of there alive.”

CHAPTER 17

Sheila Benet smiled at the maître d’ and murmured her name, resisting the urge to glance around the popular restaurant. She was dressed impeccably, as always. Her red power suit had always given her confidence and she needed it more than ever tonight. She clutched her Gucci bag tightly as she followed him to the small table in a very private corner, just as she’d requested. Melanie Freesha waited with that amused superior look on her face she’d worn since they’d first met in kindergarten. Sheila always enjoyed watching her when Melanie wasn’t aware she was being observed.

The moment Melanie spotted Sheila, her face lit up. “There you are.” She leaned in and brushed a kiss on Sheila’s cheek. “It’s been far too long. We need to find a way to get together more often.”

Melanie was one of the few people Sheila really enjoyed. They’d been friends for a long time, long before Sheila had become Sheila Benet, back when she was merely hungry and afraid all the time. Melanie knew everything there was to know about her.

“I wish we could too,” Sheila said, genuinely meaning it. “I miss you, but Dr. Whitney thinks spending too much time together is risky.”

Melanie rolled her eyes and poured Sheila her favorite red wine. Melanie always remembered small details. “He likes to dictate to everyone. How are you?” She frowned, observing her friend in the flickering candlelight. “You look tired, Sheila. Is he running you ragged?”

Some of the terrible tension eased. It was nice to have a real friend. Melanie had “saved” her so many years ago, introducing her to Whitney and giving her a purpose and essentially a life. She’d been smart but had no chances, not with her drunken prostitute mother who was willing to sell her to any man for a drink. Melanie always left her window open at night, giving Sheila a place to hide when things got too bad. It was Melanie who came up with her new name and Whitney who provided her identity.