Night Game (21 page)

Her face remained a stiff mask. She didn’t even wince at his harsh question. She’d seen the massive amount of blood. She knew Burrell was dead. It was the thought of Burrell being fed to the alligator that made her crazy enough to try to get his body out of the basin. An acrid scent drifted to them through the trees.

Flame used a low-hanging branch to pull herself onto the shore. She felt sick to her stomach. “Can you find him? Can you get him out of there? Use a branch and see if you can feel him.”

“Who were they, Flame?”

“Do you smell smoke?” She turned suddenly toward the canal. “Damn them. They’re burning his houseboat.” She took off running, more to get away from the reality of Burrell’s body in the water with the alligator than to save Burrell’s home. There was no way to save anything. Once again the bad guys triumphed and a good man lay dead.

She heard Raoul shout, but his voice was far away, competing with a strange roaring in her head. Her lungs burned for air and her stomach gave a sickening lurch. She stumbled, her vision blurring as the roaring in her head grew to a long wailing scream. For a moment, she thought she’d actually screamed out loud, but the sound only reverberated over and over in her head, so much sorrow, so much rage wanting to get out.

Flame fought it back, held it in, all too aware of Raoul’s close proximity. She could inadvertently hurt him—kill him. She fought for control, the effort making her head pound and her stomach chum.

She emerged from the trees to stare in horror at the black smoke and orange and red flames leaping into the air. The houseboat was completely engulfed by the fire. Birds rose, shrieking alarm, fleeing the area. In spite of the roar of the conflagration and the noise of the retreating wildlife, she caught the sound of a Jeep and, above that, a triumphant yell.

“Wait, Flame!” Gator commanded.

She glanced back and saw him pulling at his boot where he had stepped through the thin layer of earth and sunk into the mud. Celebratory laughter blended with the noise of the vehicle drawing her attention. She caught a glimpse of an open Jeep, four men bouncing on the seats as they tore down the road.

Without hesitation, Flame switched directions, using every ounce of speed she possessed, hurtling her body through vegetation, splashing through muck and water recklessly. Branches slapped at her, needles caught at her clothing, but she felt nothing as she sprinted back to the parking lot where her motorcycle waited. It fired up immediately, roaring to life as she kicked it over and spun, racing down the road after the killers.

Gator swore as he extracted his boot. Damn the woman. Damn the situation. There was no way he could catch her in his Jeep. And she’d definitely catch the murderers with her rocket of a motorcycle. He stood in silence, listening to the sound of the engine until he was certain of the direction. They weren’t heading for the highway; they were going across country, not wanting to be seen, taking one of the old hunting trails. He could hear the whining of the engine and the whooping of the men as they raced inland right into the preserve.

He dragged his satellite phone from his belt and punched in a number. “I’ve got trouble here, Ian. I’ll need a clean-up crew fast so make the call. This one is going to be bad. No time to explain, but track me. Get here like yesterday and bring Wyatt.” He slammed the phone back into his belt and took off running through the swamp, heading for the interior. He had to get back on the frontage road, off the island and head across the canal to cut them off inland. He knew exactly what Flame was going to do because he would do the same thing.

He cursed as he ran, setting a punishing pace that was double what a normal man could do. He didn’t care if he was spotted, he had to intercept and the only chance he had was racing through swampland cross-country. In any case the only people likely to spot him were hunters and fishermen, people of the bayou who would mind their own business. He was Raoul Fontenot, one of their own and they would never volunteer information about him.

He was well aware of the dangers, the snakes and poisonous plants not to mention the sinkholes, but this was no time to be careful, he couldn’t afford the delay. The best he could do was to try to stay on animal trails whenever possible. Moss, branches, vines, and leaves hit him in the face. Brambles tore at his clothing, raked his arms and face until he could feel blood dripping as he ran. Startled birds flew up, raising a ruckus. He didn’t bother to try to control them, not wanting to waste his energy.

He barely avoided a snapping turtle sunning itself and had to virtually leap over a small alligator as he skirted the edge of a waterway before heading inland again through bald cypress and tupelo gum trees. As he ran, leaves and petals and twigs settled in his hair and clothing and fell down his back. Sweat coated his body and drew insects to him.

Nothing mattered but that he get to her. The faint animal trail intersected with the Jeep trail at one point and he had to make it to that spot before, or at least at the same time, as the murderers and Flame. They had no chance of making it past that point without her catching them. His pounding footsteps began to slap a harder surface, carrying him deeper into the interior away from the faint whine of the engines. He hadn’t realized he’d been unconsciously keeping track of the two separate sounds until he was running alone in the interior of the preserve.

He focused his mind on the beat of his feet. His heart and lungs easily handled the punishment of his increased speed and the long leaps over debris. There was no question of enhancement. No normal human could maintain a sustained run at his current pace, and he was barely winded. He became aware of a heavy weight on his mind. Grief beat at him. Guilt and horror ate at the edges of his thoughts. His connection to Flame was growing and he could feel her ferocious struggle to maintain control when she wanted—even needed—to rage at the universe.

Flame muted the sound of the motorcycle as she trailed the Jeep over the dirt road at breakneck speed. She was closing in on them; following in the wake of the clouds of dust rising behind them. They were so drunk on the success of their mission, not even the driver checked the rearview mirror once they had turned onto the dirt road leading through the preserve. She could hear them whooping it up and laughing as they retold the story of Burrell’s death over and over, making fun of him trying to run from them. One of them even went so far as recreating the drama of shooting him.

They were coming up on a small junction where the road widened considerably. The trail through the preserve was one of the many escape routes she’d planned before she’d moved in with Burrell in case she had to leave the area fast. She’d made this particular run three times, liking it the best. It had the least number of people and offered the most cover. As she raced along the dirt track, she tried to recall the exact details of the junction. She needed enough room to maneuver.

She pulled out her throwing knife and slipped it between her teeth as she came up alongside the driver just as the Jeep approached the junction. The driver glanced at her as she appeared out of the dirt, his eyes widening in shock. One of the men in the back lifted his gun but she’d seen the movement out of the corner of her eye. Flame threw the knife hard, burying it to the hilt in his throat. He went over backward with a ghastly gurgling sound, landing in the dirt and muck to lie still.

With the motorcycle parallel to the driver, Flame balanced for a split second before kicking the man in the head as hard as she was able. Her boot connected with a sickening crack, but the force drove her off the bike and into the soft dirt. She landed hard, the breath knocked out of her lungs, every bone feeling as if it had shattered in the fall. She kept rolling away from the sound of the Jeep, coming up on her knees, pulling the knife from her boot.

The Jeep careered off a rotted log, scattering bark and wood in all directions as it mowed down a patch of saw-weed before slamming into a large cypress and coming to an abrupt halt, spilling passengers in all directions. The tires continued spinning, throwing more dirt into the air, obscuring all vision. Simultaneously the motorcycle veered the opposite way, away from the trees into the muddy bog where it fell over onto its side into the mud.

Flame caught a glimpse of movement in the cloud of dust, saw the flash of a muzzle and threw herself forward into the dirt. She scooted back toward the trees, staying on her stomach, using her elbows to move fast into the deeper cover of the vegetation. She stayed still, listening for the sounds of the others to tell her where they were. One man groaned over by the Jeep. That had to be the driver. Her right leg and ankle throbbed painfully. She hoped the driver’s head hurt as badly.

A second man rattled bushes to her left. He wiggled backward into a nettle bush and yelped. The third man was totally silent and that told her everything she needed to know about him. Flame began to work her way through the foliage toward the driver. His groans were loud and long. He interspersed the noise with inventive curses and pleas for help that were more growling and spitting than actual words.

“Shut up, Don,” the man to Flame’s left burst out. “I can’t see anything and you’re making so much noise I can’t hear anything either.”

The driver spat out more curses before managing to get a couple of distinct phrases out. “My jaw. She broke my jaw.”

“Who the hell is she?”

“Don’ know,” Don returned, the words slurred and accompanied by more groaning.

Flame shifted position again, worming her way through sedge and marsh grasses. Water soaked into her clothes as she eased through the marshy land, and carefully muted the sound of her movements as she displaced the water.

The driver of the Jeep crawled to the nearest tree, an ancient oak with wide sweeping branches. He sat with his back propped against it, holding his jaw and rocking back and forth. He nearly went right over the top of Flame, his hands and knees inches from her body as she slithered toward him. He began to move and she froze, lying prone in the muck, holding her breath as he shuffled past her. She remained motionless while he jerked out a knife and began stabbing at the dirt and tree roots around him.

For a moment she feared he saw her lying among the reeds and grass, and her hand tightened on the hilt of her knife. The driver continued to stab at the same ground over and over making strange animal noises as he hacked up the plants and sent mud into the air.

Flame eased her body over the plants and muck to get within a few feet of Burrell’s killer. The branches of the oak tree hung low to the ground, moss and ivy weighing them down. Catching movement, the driver tuned his head to stare at a snake hanging eye level to him. The long thick body curled along the limb of the tree. The snake was olive-brown, close to five feet in length with a tapering tail and a broad head much wider than the neck. There were no dark cross bands on the stout body, but there was a distinctive band extending from the eye to the rear of the jaw. The snake had a drooping mouth and protective eve shields making it look particularly glowering.

Mesmerized, the man stared at the snake, going suddenly silent as it drew its body into a loose coil, tilted its head upward and opened its mouth wide to reveal the whitish interior lining. His scream reverberated through the bayou as he threw himself sideways in an effort to get away from the snake. The driver’s cries stopped abruptly as his legs jerked and kicked, his body thrashing in the reeds before going still.

Silence settled over the swamp. Flame lay stretched out, the top of her head nearly brushing that of the driver, her gloved hands tight on the garrote around his neck. She breathed slowly and evenly, making certain not a ripple of grass betrayed her presence to the other two men who had guns trained on the exact spot. She waited, listening to her heartbeat, listening to the hum of insects. After a time, above her head, the snake slowly retracted its head to settle once more on the branch.

“Don? You snakebit?” The hoarse whisper came from several yards away. “Rudy? You think the snake bit him?” A slight shifting of the foliage straight ahead of Flame accompanied the voice.

Rudy didn’t reply. Flame waited. Rudy was the dangerous one, obviously highly trained and skilled in combat situations. He knew better than to give away his position and he obviously had been using Don as bait. He would have done better to spray the entire area around the driver with bullets and then move quickly to a new position. Flame would have taken the chance, but Rudy was more concerned with his safety. Most likely trying to puzzle out who was attacking them, he was lying low, waiting a clear shot while he let the third man, the talker, become the unwitting bait.

With her ear pressed to the ground and her hearing acute, Flame became aware of Gator’s approach. He was coming in from the east, through the interior of the preserve and fast approaching the marsh, sprinting at top speed. She couldn’t let him run into the waiting Rudy.

Flame slowly relaxed her grip on the thin piece of wire wrapped so tightly around Don’s neck. Keeping every movement snail slow and deliberate, so as not to disturb the vegetation around her, she used her elbows to push herself backward away from the body and into deeper cover.

Once she was screened by the root systems and twisted, knobby knees of several larger cypress trees, she emitted a sound pitched just above the level humans could hear. Using directional sound, she sent Gator as much information as possible, confident that he would hear her warning. She’d never used directional sound with a partner before, certainly not under such extreme conditions, but she had every confidence he, and he alone, would hear her. She waited, crouched in the small circle of trees, lying in the heavy cover of reeds and grasses.

She could no longer feel or hear the faint vibrations through the earth, signaling Gator was stationary or had, like her, begun a stealthy approach to the enemy. The third man, the talker, lit a cigarette, the smell drifting upward. The scratch of the match gave his position away. Flame skirted around a rotting log, making a face as several species of beetles and stink bugs scurried close to her. A snapping turtle was sunning himself on the log and she was especially careful not to disturb him. Concentrating her attention on him, she wiggled at right angles to the log. Immediately several Peeps lifted into the air.