Mind Game (GhostWalkers #2)(85)
Author: Christine Feehan

“Fall back,” Nicolas ordered. His gut was churning. He was taking his men into the line of fire armed only with nonlethal ammunition. They didn’t want to take a chance on harming a civilian, and being GhostWalkers, they were certain they could get in and out of the house unseen. But the house wasn’t empty, and the men inside were combat trained.

“Negative, sir, the room’s empty.”

“Fall the hell back now, soldier,” Nicolas hissed, his voice implacable. “He’s in there waiting for you. Secure that position and let’s contain him.”

“Yes sir,” Gator responded. “Securing position.” Nicolas felt carefully along the inside of the windowsill for the trip wire to a bell or the switch for a strobe he was certain would be there. The others would be more alert now that they knew there were alarms inside.

“In,” Kaden announced. “Downstairs, dining room. Don’t like the feel, Nico. There’s power here, and someone’s using it. Shotgun strapped to the tabletop. Ninja stars in the silverware drawer. Dining room’s clear.”

“Intercept,” Nicolas ordered immediately. Kaden was a strong telepath. He could hunt down another without breaking a sweat.

Nicolas held the bell still with his mind while he made his entry. “In. Left bedroom. I feel a surge here as well. They’ve been warned. Be ready.”

He felt the first assault to his brain, a jab, much like a punch coming at him, but mental rather than physical. He blocked it before it could incapacitate him. The GhostWalkers had practiced such attacks as well as fending them off, but they had never used them or had to defend against them, and Nicolas found he was slower at it than he would have liked. “Game seven. They’re using our game seven to attack,” he announced. Each of the mental attacks had been choreographed much like a chess game. Whitney had done the choreographing. He sent his own move crashing back before they could follow up, a blaring punch much like shards of glass jabbed into the skull. He wanted them to know they weren’t the only GhostWalkers in town.

He felt the instant withdrawal. The shock. Much like the shock Jesse Calhoun had exhibited when they’d first touched mental paths.

“In,” Ian’s whisper was in his ear. “Through garage into kitchen. Two booby traps, one fairly lethal. Found interesting food in the freezer. A Beretta. Isn’t that your weapon of choice? Kitchen’s clear.”

“Their communication path is shut down,” Kaden said with evident satisfaction.

“In office, ground floor,” Ian said. “Checking for IDs and any incriminating evidence. Keep them the hell off my back.”

“Kaden, stay on Ian,” Nicolas ordered.

“Naughty, naughty, handgun taped under desk,” Ian added.

Nicolas stayed to the shadows of the room, checking the ceiling, the closet, and the corners for an occupant. There was no sound. No breathing. But someone was close. He could feel him. Smell him. Knew him by his finely honed instincts. He waited in silence—a heartbeat, a second. Survival instincts took over, and he upended the bed, rapid firing his weapon, the rubber bullets spraying in a tight arc across the floor where the bed had been. In the small confines of the room, the shots were thunderous, hurting his ears. He saw the flash of fire as the agent snapped off live rounds simultaneously. Upending the bed knocked the aim off and the bullets thunked into the wall somewhere behind him. Nicolas heard the impact as the rubber bullets struck flesh. Something metal clattered to the floor. He rushed forward, kicked the gun away from the downed agent and hastily checked him, knowing the agent felt as if he’d been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer.

He was alive, but he was fighting mad, yet unable to move from the powerful kick of the rubber bullets knocking him against the wall. Nicolas searched him for weapons, found two knives and a clip. He taped the man’s hands, feet, and mouth and left him to search for the second agent.

“They have live rounds,” he reminded his men.

“I’ve got one trapped in the bedroom, right side, corner,” Gator said. “He’s armed.”

“Stay out of the line of fire, but keep him contained,” Nicolas ordered. “Tucker, you in?”

“I’m tearing apart the bedroom. Lots of weapons in the closet. C-4 and plastic. A couple of detonator caps. I think my boy likes to play with bombs. Bedroom clear on ground floor.”

“Anything fancy? We’re not looking at money here,” Nicolas said.

“Nothing down here,” Ian said. “Looks clean, damn it.”

“Dart board with a nice set of throwing knives,” Nicolas reported as he reentered the bedroom where the downed agent was tied up. “My friend looks a little pissed, but I can’t say as I blame him.” He tossed the room hastily, searching quickly for anything that might identify a traitor. Too much money. Too many luxuries. A book of matches or a pen with the name of the company Dahlia had been sent in to recover the data from. Even a university sweater or jacket from the campus where the three professors had been murdered. He went to the man, crouched down beside him. “You okay?”

The man watched him through wary, ice-cold eyes. He nodded his head.

“I’m looking for a traitor. Someone who would sell your friend Jesse Calhoun down the river. You have any ideas?”

The agent frowned, shook his head. Nicolas felt the push at his brain, but his barriers were strong and impenetrable. Just to stay in practice, he pushed back until the agent glared at him and subsided. Nicolas reached out and ripped the tape from the man’s mouth. The agent swore like a sailor.

“You have something to say worth hearing?”

“I don’t know anything about a traitor,” the agent said, “but if you know something about Jesse, I want to hear it. You owe me that much.”

“You shot at me.”

“You broke into my house.”

“You’ve got some illegal weapons here,” Nicolas pointed out mildly.

“Is he alive? What the hell’s going on? Jesse Calhoun is a friend of mine. No one will tell us anything other than he’s in a hospital, somewhere we’re not allowed to know about.”

“And so you protected yourselves here, didn’t you?” Nicolas said thoughtfully. “You decided whoever went after your friend, could very well come after you.”

“It’s logical.”

“What’s your name?”

“Neil Campbell.”