Street Game (GhostWalkers #8)(2)
Author: Christine Feehan

The little band of terrorists had no cause, no politics, no religious war to fight.

They were mercenaries, a brand-new type spawned by the times. They showed off their talents, sparing no country, no man, woman, or child, with one idea: working for the highest bidder. They sold their services to whoever paid, which made them difficult to track, as no one could ever figure out who they worked for and where they would be next. This was the GhostWalkers’ one opportunity to get them, by following the weapons, yet Mack just couldn’t shake it that something was wrong.

Even as his mind struggled desperately with the problem, he was aware of every detail around him, aware that the newbie, young Paul, was an inch too high, close beneath one of the beams. Mack hissed and all movement ceased. The warehouse was utterly still. His cold gaze pinned Paul. Mack signaled with a flat hand. The rookie’s body hugged the cold cement. Despite the cover of darkness, Mack knew Paul flushed crimson.

The kid blushed a lot. What the hell he was doing with their team, Mack couldn’t figure out. Basically, they were babysitting, and that could get them all killed. No one on the team wanted the kid with them, but Sergeant Major Griffen had been more than insistent. It wasn’t that the kid wasn’t highly intelligent—he was. He also was psychic, although none of them had gone through Dr. Whitney’s program with him.

All the GhostWalkers tended to know or at least recognize one another. Paul was an exception. Mack didn’t like question marks, and the kid posed too many.

Mack rolled free of the interlocking track beams. The loudness of the freight lift was out of the question. It had to be the stairs, each one more perilous than the next. There would be two flights to get to that third floor.

Where the hell are the sentries? The question nagged at him, would not let him go.

Everyone was on high alert now, the question as disturbing to them as it was to him. He waited a heartbeat, but couldn’t find a reason not to continue.

He moved cautiously. Four stairs . . . seven. He felt it on eight. The wire puzzled him.

It was an alarm, not a mine. His mind seized on that, worried at it.

Mack had done this so many times that he knew exactly how each one of his men was feeling. Adrenaline pumping, heart racing, fear choking, guns rock steady. Something was off-kilter. Wrong. The word fluttered in his head, beat at him like tiny wings.

Definitely off.

Kane’s anxiety heightened his own.

Mack gained the second floor. Where the first floor had been mostly empty space and building materials, this one was packed with electronic equipment. A bank of computers was built into the far wall, the only thing completed. Everything else was in boxes, all electronics equipment, high-end.

“Bingo,” Paul’s whisper came over the radio, trembling with excitement. “Moving day.”

Check it, Kane. Maybe we’re looking at how they transported the guns.

Inside electronic equipment? This is satellite tracking, cameras, stuff like that. Not guns. We’ve stumbled onto something, but I’m not certain it’s what we’re after.

Mack wasn’t certain either. He shook his head, his mind screaming at him now. This was all wrong. No sentries. This type of equipment was far too advanced for the kind of terrorists that made up the Doomsday organization.

He moved up the staircase. Third stair this time. No explosives. Seventh stair. He rolled beneath the beam on the landing, came up on one knee, breathing deeply. Here!

Here! His men were spreading out, back-to-back, in a standard search pattern.

What is it? What’s wrong? Find the answer! Find the answer! Mack moved carefully through the furniture.

The furniture, Mack. All wrong, Kane hissed in his mind.

A long plush couch, a hand-carved wooden coffee table, a priceless Persian rug.

Beautiful, expensive. A small object on an end table. A dragon. Like in a living room.

A home. Knowledge came a heartbeat too late.

Something stirred just feet from him, a weapon glinted.

“Break off! Break off!” He yelled it even as he launched himself toward the small figure crouched behind the recliner. His body, solid, heavily muscled, hit the smaller, softer one squarely, knocking the woman flat, pinning her to the floor.

She shocked him by fighting hard, going for pressure points, obviously having a working knowledge of hand-to-hand combat tactics. It took some strength and finesse to subdue her. He successfully blanketed her body with his, tensed for the bullets he was certain would tear into him. His team was well trained, superb even. Not a shot was fired. Even so, as a precaution, Kane caught Paul’s weapon, pushing it away so it wasn’t pointed at McKinley’s body.

There was a long, deadly silence. Mack could hear her breathing, her heart racing.

There was no struggle once he’d pinned her; she lay perfectly still beneath him. For a moment he was afraid he had knocked her unconscious, but her breathing was too ragged.

“Is anyone else up here?” He whispered the words in her ear.

She shook her head.

Kane and the others began a standard search pattern. McKinley hoped she was telling the truth. She smelled fresh and faintly exotic, her skin satin smooth, petal soft.

The scent, the feel of her, was oddly familiar. Too familiar. His body recognized her before his brain did, reacting with enough testosterone for his entire unit, mixed with more adrenaline than any of them could possibly handle.

McKinley slowly, carefully, eased his weight until he was certain he wasn’t hurting her, yet still kept her pinned. As each member of the team barked, “Clear,” he shifted enough to get a good look at her face. One leg remained firmly over her thighs, a warning not to move.

Behind them, a lamp was switched on. “All clear, sir.” That was young Paul. His men were all staring, yet trying not to stare. The woman was in a long nightgown.

See-through. One of those diaphanous, filmy things that clung to every curve and sent a jackhammer through the middle of a man’s skull. Her gown had pulled up her thigh, revealing a more than generous expanse of gleaming skin.

She had tousled hair, a riot of curls, and large, haunting, sapphire-colored eyes. He would know her anywhere, anyplace.

Jaimie. He said her name, at least he thought he said it, but no sound emerged.

Maybe he’d just breathed her name. He touched her thick mane of silky, midnight black hair, his fingers sliding into one of the curls and tugging, letting the strands slide through the pads of his fingers, trying to regain the breath she’d stolen.

“Get off me, McKinley.” The fear was in her voice, but she was striving for control.