Conspiracy Game (GhostWalkers #4)(86)
Author: Christine Feehan

Jack didn’t respond, merely watched him, refusing to be drawn into a conversation with a man he already considered dead. On some level he was aware of the helicopter hovering overhead, trying to find a way around the shield Gunthrie had built, and he was very much aware that when that shield came down, he would have to move faster than he’d ever moved in his life. His mind plotted every step, even to collecting his rifle, and all the while he watched Gunthrie, waiting for that one mistake he knew would come.

The soldier lifted his hand to wipe the blood from his face, and Jack went in fast, slamming the knife deep, tearing through the wall of the chest and burying it in Gunthrie’s heart. They stood toe to toe, staring into each other’s eyes. “It’s very personal this time to me, Gunthrie, and you should have taken that into account.”

The light faded from the other man’s eyes, leaving them opaque, flat, and as lifeless as the body slumping to the rooftop. As Gunthrie died, the shield shimmered into transparency, dissolving to leave Jack standing on the roof with half a dozen guns aimed at him and a helicopter circling.

The soldier manning the machine gun let loose with a hail of bullets. Jack dove for the edge of the roof, catching his rifle with one hand and slipping the strap over his head in a smooth practiced move as he flipped over the eaves and swung hard to bring his feet back through the window, into the relative cover of his bedroom.

Down, down. Incoming.

Everything around him exploded, taking out part of the wall and burning down his leg, charring his pants and searing flesh as he crawled to the reach the protection of the bathroom. He slapped his smoldering jeans, rolling over and over to put out any flames. He swore as blisters rose along his calf and thigh and his skin turned bright red.

Take that f**king guy out.

I’m on it. Even as Ken spoke, Jack squeezed the trigger, focusing first on the shooter with the machine gun and second on the soldier lobbing grenades. I’m going for the helicopter.

Wait until the damn thing is clear of the house. I don’t want it coming down on my head.

Ken squeezed off three rounds in rapid succession, and the helicopter began to spin wildly. Jack lifted his head enough to take aim and add another two rounds. The helicopter slipped sideways and spun again, black smoke pouring off of it.

Damn it, Ken. It’s going to hit the garage. My Jeep is parked there. Your Rover just happens to be in the shed. How did that happen?

Bitch-bitch-bitch. Get out of there. Someone just jumped from the helicopter, and the way he landed, he’s a supersoldier.

The helicopter slid to the ground, crumbling, almost in slow motion, metal grinding loudly and more smoke choking the air. Clouds of smoke burst all around them.

He’s blanketing the area, Jack, could be coming at you. Are you hit?

Not exactly, but I’m really pissed you blew up my car.

I didn’t blow up your car, you jackass. I saved your life. I told you to park the thing in the shed. I was cleaning the garage out and you wouldn’t move it. Serves your happy ass right.

Something stilled inside of Jack. Where’s the second helicopter?

I shot at him a couple of times and he drew back.

Jack shook his head, trying to force his mind to rise above combat mode. Something’s not right, he said. They’re engaging with us, Ken, but they aren’t trying all that hard. You think they’re afraid?

Ken turned that over and over in his mind, frowning as he did so. I think they’re obeying orders.

So they’re keeping us occupied. Whitney ran his computer probabilities like he did for every mission, and his damn computer said we’d stash Briony somewhere safe. Jack’s gut knotted-not a good sign. Warning alarms were beginning to shriek at him.

Ken’s alarm rang just as loud. Briony was worried because they keep finding her. How, Jack? How are they finding her?

CHAPTER 17

Briony crouched in the tunnel leading down into the mine. Something wasn’t right, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. How were they finding her? If Ken was right, they would never have sent soldiers against him and Jack. How could Whitney get away with sending soldiers after members of the military? They had no one they could trust.

The tunnel was far darker than the woods, and she sat at the entrance, where she could hurriedly escape back into the mine should someone come, but there was solace in being close to the woods. She occasionally saw a flash of light in the sky and heard the sound of gunfire, but it seemed far away. How were they finding her?

There had to be logic in what Whitney had done. He’d brought her from the orphanage where he found her, and experimented on her, but unlike some of the other girls he’d kept, he’d adopted her out to a loving family. But that was still an experiment. He had wanted to see how she would develop and function in comparison with someone he’d kept. What exactly did one need for an experiment? Briony sat up straighter, her heart beginning to pound, knowing she was on the verge of an important discovery. Her temples throbbed and her stomach twisted. Too many times in her life she’d felt the same stabbing pains, the terrible churning in her stomach, and she’d stopped trying to remember her past. Who did Whitney control and who was he comparing her to? Whitney needed his experiments the way others needed to breathe. There would be someone-another child he’d kept behind, raised without a family, raised in a stark, difficult environment-one he kept.

“Oh God.” Horrified at her own thoughts, she began to rock back and forth, pressing her hands over her stomach. One of the other girls? What would that show Whitney? Only that she reacted differently under duress? Under pain? No-Whitney would need more than that. Why was she chosen to be adopted out? What was special about her that he sent her out when he kept so many others?

She tried to remember, forcing her thoughts back to her childhood before her adopted family. She’d been five-old enough to have memories. Her skull pounded. Blood trickled out of her nose in warning, but shadows moved, eluded her, small wisps. A childish voice. Crying. Begging. Was that her voice? Were there two voices crying? Hard hands tearing her away when she clung… when they clung together.

She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, suddenly chilled to the bone. There were two voices. Pain shot through her head, stabbing deep into her brain, but she wouldn’t let go when she was so close. Blood dripped steadily from her nose and began to leak from her ear. She pressed her palms to her head. It felt like someone was squeezing a vise there, but she pushed through the barrier, the pain-and saw…