Night Game (GhostWalkers #3)(55)
Author: Christine Feehan

Raoul didn’t believe Whitney was alive. He certainly didn’t believe he’d somehow found a way to make them addicted to one another. But she knew what the doctor was capable of doing.

She stared at the passing landscapes. The bayou was a beautiful place. She didn’t even mind the humidity so much. She loved the wildlife and the way it sat there, right out among the midst of civilization as all around it the city built up. Normally she didn’t care to be in cities, people crowding in where she couldn’t stop the continual assault of noise, but she liked New Orleans and the French Quarter. She thought the aboveground cemeteries looked like miniature cities, beautiful and different and perfect for New Orleans. Mostly, she liked the people with their smiling faces and their various accents and ready laughter. She didn’t want to leave any of it, and she especially didn’t want to leave Raoul.

As if reading her mind, Gator’s fingers brushed her arm, slid down to tangle with hers until he was holding her hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You had all this. How could you think whatever Whitney did was worth the trade?” She nearly choked on the question. She wanted his life. His grandmother and brothers and his wonderful home.

“At the time, I didn’t think I was trading it away. I had some psychic talent and a huge sense of responsibility. I thought by getting more training I could save more lives. I’d already had so much special training in so many areas, Flame, it just felt like one more. Then it all went to hell.” He shrugged his broad shoulders, his gaze watching the waterway.

With his foot standing on the gas and one hand on the stick controlling the rudder he had to be alert. The trail was narrow and the plants slick as they skimmed the surface of the marsh. He didn’t dare let up on the gas going over the mud because he didn’t want to get stuck. When navigating an airboat, he looked out for everything from other boats, to alligators and the knees of cypress trees, anything that could damage the bottom of the boat. The airboats were top heavy and could flip rather easily and he was very aware Flame was riding with him. He didn’t want anything to happen to her.

Gator kept his fingers tangled tightly with Flame’s as they raced over the waterway and marsh to reach the small island Burrell had loved so much.

“Do you regret your decision?”

He glanced at her. “Not anymore. No.”

Flame sucked in her breath. He just accepted what was between them. He didn’t care if Whitney manipulated them or not. He had no idea how protective he could look, how possessive and how intense the desire that shadowed his eyes was when he looked at her. She detested Peter Whitney and everything he stood for. Whitney believed the end justified the means and that humans were small sacrifices to make for the greater good of knowledge. She had seen so much pain inflicted on the other girls he’d bought from the orphanages as well as experienced it herself.

Throwaways he’d called them. She still flinched inwardly every time she thought of it, every time she recalled the contempt in his tone. Joy Chiasson was not a throwaway. Neither was Burrell. Flame could stand up for the ones like her, the ones no one else would stand up for. Whitney with his billions might get away with his monstrous experiments, but she would bring down the ones she could.

“Flame.”

She shook her head. “Don’t, Raoul. I have to think about this. Give me time to think things through. Something is going on here and I have to figure it out.”

“Why? What does it matter if he manipulated us sexually or emotionally or whether we’re just attracted because we know each other like no one else could? We have a chance at something few people ever have.”

“What? Great sex? He’ll put us in a cage and watch us.”

His fingers tightened around hers. He’d been in a cage, waiting to be murdered. “I’m not going to let that happen. We’re worth millions of dollars to the military. I go out on missions when they send me and I come back and report and take my leave. That’s my life. It has nothing to do with Whitney. No one is going to lock us up when they need to use us. What would be the point of that?”

“You keep telling yourself that.”

They were nearing the island and Gator throttled down, taking the airboat right up onto the island into dense reeds. “This is where we get off. You’re going to get muddy.”

“I have to buy new clothes anyway.” Flame jumped onto a small patch of what looked like solid ground, but sank up to her ankles. “Ugh. Why is it every single time we recon, it’s always in the mud or in water?”

“It’s going to rain too.”

“I didn’t need you to tell me that.” She worked her way carefully through the sludge until she was on more solid ground, then began to make her way across the island toward the small basin where Burrell had always kept his houseboat.

There was little left of it, mostly the smell of burnt wood and the blackened remains of one part of the deck. She could see Burrell’s favorite chair partially burnt lying in the reeds near land. She stumbled, pressing her hand to her mouth.

“I can do this, Flame,” Gator offered. “There’s no need for both of us to be here. We don’t even know if anyone’s going to show up.”

She lifted her chin. “Burrell was mine. I didn’t have him very long, but he was mine. He didn’t deserve to get chased out into the swamp, shot, and thrown to the alligators. I’ll take these people down, and if I’m a little uncomfortable so be it.”

Gator kept his face completely expressionless. She did things to him, to both his body and mind when she talked like a warrior. He respected her, wanted her, admired her courage. Her leg had to hurt like hell, but she was barely limping. He had the sinking notion he was be ginning to fall in love. Judging by the look on her face, she wouldn’t welcome the admission so he simply stayed silent.

Wanting a clean sweep of the surrounding area, Gator chose the high ground. They didn’t have long to wait. A car slowly made its way along the narrow ribbon of road leading to Burrell’s island. The driver parked in the small widened area where Burrell’s old truck still remained. Three men pushed the doors open, all the time looking around them warily.

Flame’s fingers closed around Gator’s wrist. “I’ve seen the man in the plaid shirt before. He works security for Saunders.” Could Saunders have had Burrell killed? He couldn’t have known she’d taken his money. There was nothing to trace the robbery back to her. What had Burrell said that morning? He was meeting Saunders later in the afternoon to pay him with a bank draft rather than cash.