Street Game (GhostWalkers #8)(7)
Author: Christine Feehan

“Don’t trust anyone, not even those we know. We’ve got a rat problem ourselves.”

Paul stirred, frowned, and then glared at Mack. “Are you accusing me of something?”

“You’re just the new kid, Paul,” Mack said. “Not necessarily the rat. And if we all get blown to hell, I’m guessing you’re going to be right alongside us.”

Javier winked at the boy. “That doesn’t make a whole hell of a lot of sense, although if you were a dumbshit rat, maybe it would.”

Paul stared at them for a long moment, obviously making up his mind whether or not to take offense. He seemed satisfied that they didn’t consider him the rat and shrugged. “I’m no dumbshit rat.”

“Glad to hear it, boy. Just the same, I’m keeping a close eye on you, so stick to me like glue,” Mack said, and winked at him.

Javier slid back into the shadows and worked his way down the fire escape to the uneven sidewalk. He stayed low, sticking as close to the side of the building as he could, his gaze restless, moving along the buildings. There were too many windows and doorways. Tension wound him tight, coiling his gut tighter and tighter. Every entryway was a potential threat. Each boat tied up to the wharf. Every car.

Everywhere he looked, above and around him, were places the enemy could easily be hiding.

Voices had him crouching low, a statue, not so much as breathing in the cool night air, not wanting the vapor trail to give him away. Nerves stretched taut. Couple of civvies, Top. The two men were older, grizzled. Unlikely terrorists, their heavy worn sweaters smelled of fish and age, yet their belts were heavy with tools. He could see a knife tucked down into a scabbard lying along each man’s thighs.

That was the trouble with urban warfare. You had to have good instincts, nerves of steel, good eyesight, and fast processing to be able to move through a city where anyone—man, woman, or child—could be a potential enemy.

Don’t go hero on me, Javier. We’re all going home tonight.

Mack’s determination flooded Javier with warmth. He didn’t ever like to admit it, but even Mack’s lectures could make him feel as though he belonged.

Javier waited in silence, unmoving, watching the two old men shuffle along the sidewalk until they came to a car. The vehicle seemed as beat-up as they were. He watched them drive down the street, the car hiccupping and puffing out gasps of black smoke.

We’re good here. Just a couple of C.O.B.s. Javier reported the two civilians in the battle zone. He stayed in the shadows as he made his way down the blocks of warehouses back up toward Jaimie’s place.

So far he’d had good cover, and there were few people out so late. The wharf was quiet, although music blared somewhere off to his right and Javier could smell the distinct odor of marijuana. Kids, he guessed, finding a place to hang out and stay warm when they had nowhere else to go. He remembered those days, when the wind blew cool and cruel and he would look up at the windows mocking him with warmth and laughter, the days when his world was so stark and hungry and he was utterly alone. He’d thrown a few rocks in those days, angry and starving for both food and affection, until Mack had found a couple of street bullies stalking him and intervened.

He hadn’t told Mack the toughs would have lost the battle. He didn’t want to take chances that he wouldn’t fit in and Mack would throw him back.

He’d stayed quiet and looked as young and as nerdy as he could. He had better than 20/20 vision, yet he often hid his dark eyes behind thick clear lenses. He had been smarter than just about anyone until he met Mack. The man had changed his life.

Brought him purpose and definitely saved him from a life of crime.

He felt a smile coming on. He got to do all the things he wanted to do, but now they were legal. Of course, Mack kept a close rein on him. Just as well. Sometimes he went totally berserk and didn’t have a lick of sense. Mack was always the voice of reason and things like this—this assignment, being chosen to guard Jaimie—were signs of respect and just made him love Mack all the more.

He was coming up to the open area. Jaimie had picked her location carefully. Her warehouse could be approached from water on one side or by land on three sides.

Two of the three sides were as open as they could get. Anyone coming at her would have to expose themselves. She could sit up in her tower and pick them off one at a time—if that was Jaimie’s way, which they all knew it wasn’t. She would have an escape route. More than one. Jaimie was the biggest pacifist he knew. What she saw—and loved—in all of them, he never knew. They were all fighters, but like Mack, Jaimie was family, and he’d go to hell and back for family.

He stayed very still, scanning the area, his gaze quartering from rooftops to windows and then sweeping along the open sidewalk. Two men rounded the corner and paused to light cigarettes, hands shielding the flames, hiding their faces in the brief flare of light, but not before he caught a glimpse of their eyes. They were dressed in casual fishermen gear, but two things caught his attention. Their boots and their eyes. They were doing the same thorough scanning of the area, and he saw them look upward several times, toward that third floor where Jaimie Fielding was probably dropping off to sleep.

Jaimie’s about to get company, Mack, he reported.

Mack swore softly. Can you get to her without exposing yourself?

Javier looked at the wide-open space running along the front of Jaimie’s building and the two men between him and his destination. That’s affirmative, boss.

We’ll be sweeping up behind you, Javier. Don’t kill any of us.

Tell the boys to identify themselves before they set foot inside Jaimie’s home.

You got it. Be damn careful until backup comes, Mack warned again.

Careful is my middle name, Top.

Grinning, with eyes on the two men studying Jaimie’s building, Javier quickly turned his jacket inside out. The black combat jacket now looked like a kid’s jacket, complete with hood. He dragged the thick black-rimmed glasses from his pocket and set them on his nose. He spun his MP7 with its silencer to lie under his arm where he had easy access, and drew a skateboard and ball cap from his small duffel bag. If someone stopped him, the bag wouldn’t stand up to a thorough examination, but he wasn’t taking prisoners.

Javier shoved the hat backward on his head, dropped the board to the walkway, and began to kick-push his skateboard down the sidewalk. Just before he emerged from the shadows he half turned toward the sound of music and raised one hand.