Conspiracy Game (GhostWalkers #4)(82)
Author: Christine Feehan

They’re breaking in through the living room. Send Briony into the tunnel.

Jack stuffed the last of the clothes into the backpack and shoved the rug out of the way to lift a trapdoor with a smooth, practiced motion. There was nothing hurried about his deliberate movements. He tapped Briony’s shoulder.

Three steps to the trapdoor and then you’re going to jump straight down. I know you can’t see where you’re landing, but trust me, it’s safe. You can open your eyes once you’re in the tunnel; no gas there yet. When you hit the floor, follow the tunnel. Ken will meet you.

He held her right at the edge of the hole, letting her feel empty space with her foot. She felt his mouth touch her neck, a brush of his lips, and it felt too much like good-bye. Wait! Aren’t you coming with me? Jack, come with me.

He ignored the fear and desperation in her voice. I’ll be there soon. Go, baby. Do what I say. He pulled her tighter against him and kissed her mouth, holding her close. Get out of here before we run out of time.

Briony wavered and Jack dropped her into the darkness. Jack! Her startled protest was more shocked than anything else as she landed in a crouch, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

Get the hell out of here, baby. I’ve got work to do.

Stay alive, Jack. For me. You stay alive.

Jack’s heart twisted in his chest at the worry in her voice, the love that washed through him. He couldn’t afford to think about anything but the enemy, and she was turning him inside out. He yanked on night vision goggles and calmly slung a rifle around his neck, tucking two handguns into his belt and adding clips of ammo to the loops. He covered the trapdoor and replaced the rug before stepping to one side of the broken window. Shadows flitted through the trees, surrounding the house. The strobes in his room and probably in Ken’s began flashing as the alarms were tripped. Someone had used the tree branches to get close enough to fire the canisters of gas through the windows, and that told Jack that at least some of the soldiers were enhanced.

He lobbed two smoke bombs into the yard, one right after the other, and followed them out, leaping onto the rail and grasping the edge of the roof to somersault up. The moment his feet touched, he knew he wasn’t alone. He smelled sweat, heard air rushing eagerly through lungs-and he spun toward the sound, firing quickly, blindly, relying solely on his enhanced senses. As he pulled the trigger, he moved fast, a blur of speed across the rooftop, making his way toward the wide chimney, the only possible cover.

The enemy returned fire, ribbons of color streaking in the darkness. Jack dove for the chimney, rolling partway and flattening his body as best he could while he lay still, allowing the shadows to absorb him. He waited, listening, inhaling to track his enemy by sweat and smell, body heat, whatever worked.

Smoke drifted over the house and into the canopy of the trees. Along the ground the smoke rolled in strange shapes, so that the trunks of the trees seemed to emerge out of dark, turbulent clouds. He heard shuffling, the sound of boots running through his home, voices reporting into radios-but not the sounds he needed to hear. He smelled sweat and fear and excitement along with the chemicals of gas and smoke-but couldn’t find the scents he needed to tell him where his opponents were. The rest didn’t matter yet. He had to take out the enhanced soldiers first, and they were trained enough to keep still and try to wait him out.

Ken would be returning as soon as Briony was safe, and he would run into a buzz saw if Jack didn’t get the job done. The hell with it; the soldiers knew exactly where he was. Let them come for him. He lay flat, fitting his rifle with care, scope to his eye and sighting a soldier working his way through the woods, moving bush to bush, tree to tree. Jack squeezed the trigger and sighted the next target.

A hail of bullets fell all around him and he kept his head down. The whisper of movement on the roof tipped him off, and he drew his handgun and fired off three rounds toward the sound.

Talk to me, Jack, Ken demanded.

A curse told him he’d scored a minor hit-still, it was a hit. Whitney must have wanted these yahoos dead, he informed his twin as he calmly turned back to his original target. And they’re f**kin’ idiots for coming after us. They know who we are and their egos are going to get them killed. I can smell the blood on one of them now. He’s a dead man if he’s stupid enough to move. Again he squeezed the trigger, watching his target slump to the ground. And why would Whitney send these infants after us? It’s like picking off ducks in a pond.

Just don’t let your ego get you killed, Ken warned.

Two soldiers on the ground opened fire on Jack, but Ken had designed the roof to make it difficult to get a clear shot from the ground. Jack took out both shooters, then set the rifle down, picked up the handgun, rolled out to his left, toward the smell of blood, and fired three shots in rapid succession again, before rolling back to cover just as efficiently. He and Ken had practiced the moves on the roof hundreds of times. He knew every square inch of it, every depression, every place an enemy might think he was safe.

One enhanced down, Ken, Jack said. There’s no way I missed. I shot him between the eyes just in case he was wearing body armor. They can get the hell off our property or die here. It’s their choice. Doesn’t much matter to me.

You’re a mean son of a bitch, bro, Ken informed him. You recognize the enhanced soldier? I’d kind of like to know who our enemy is.

Didn’t see him, shot by smell. He’s dead, though, heard him drop, and that was a dead man hitting our roof.

Not the roof. Damn it, Jack. I’m not hauling his dead ass down; you can clean up your own mess.

What the hell did you want me to do? Jack fit the scope to his eye again.

Wait until he stood up near the edge of the roof and shoot him so he falls over. Is that too much to ask?

Jack lifted his eye away from the scope, a small, humorless smile escaping. They had always talked to each other, years ago, as children, long before the death of their mother, using banter to get through the scary moments when their father was home and searching the house for them. Later, it was the same in the numerous foster homes, and then on the street. The habit never left them, the reassuring touch of mind to mind, to know the other still lived, still breathed, that no monster had managed to swallow him.

You’re such a damned wimp, always wanting the easy way out. You can drag his ass off the roof. It’s a good workout for you. And quit messing around and get back here. I’m a little outnumbered.

“Give me a gun, Ken,” Briony demanded as she raced toward him. “Jack didn’t make it into the tunnel.”