Night Game (31 page)

He worked his way back toward the other side of the island where the hunters had been, stopping several times to listen. Sometimes it was the lack of sound that could betray presence. The rain fell steadily, small animals scurried, and the leaves rustled. He couldn’t hear a heartbeat, not even Flame’s and that meant she was shielding the sound.

Dropping into the brush, he used deference tones, projecting the murmur of voices coming from the opposite side of the water. The sound was muted as if the slight wind had picked up whispers. Instantly a hail of bullets from several semiautomatic weapons burst out over the water toward the sound. He listened carefully, trying to sort out the various sounds and which direction each came from.

Gator pulsed high-power, very low-frequency sounds straight toward the shooters, keeping the field narrowed toward the locations he thought each of the men were most likely to be. The sound waves could easily produce blunt force trauma or death to anything in its path. He’d seen the results after he’d lost control once and it had sickened him. He’d promised himself he’d never go for a kill using sound again, unless he had no other choice. He’d never gotten over the nightmares and now he’d be sweating the full force of night terrors after using the weapon again.

He heard the sound of repeated retching, even as bullets slammed into trees all around him. More vomiting. Coughing. Another spray of bullets. The hunters were shooting blind, but their instincts were good. Several bullets splintered tree branches around his head. Fragments of wood embedded in his skin. Gator dropped to his belly and began to worm his way through the weeds and brush toward the area where the most firing was coming from. He thought maybe there were three men, not more than four and at least two of them had stayed close together.

Sound ceased again. The hunters were back in control of themselves and one of them was shielding, masking the heartbeats of his team members in the way Kadan did for the GhostWalkers. The game of cat and mouse had begun in earnest. They all knew it was life or death for them. There could be no mistakes. Gator moved with infinite patience and care, uncertain what he was facing in the way of enhancements.

Peter Whitney had bought orphans from various countries and enhanced them first. No one thought he had tried his experiment again until a few years earlier when he was backed by the military—but they found they weren’t the only ones. There had been a second military team. There had to be a third. Had Whitney created his own private army? It was beginning to look that way. And if Peter Whitney was dead, who was in command and what was the agenda?

Gator sent another blast of sound, along with a silent prayer Flame had stayed where he’d left her and wasn’t in the target zone. He had to keep the hunters off balance, sick, and on the move. He didn’t want to give them a chance to surround him and he wanted to push them toward the marsh, out of the interior of the island. The outer edges of the island were far spongier and more treacherous. His familiarity with the bayou gave him a huge advantage over his enemies.

He pulsed sound through the thin layer of ground covering, looking for what he needed. Setting a trap for psychically enhanced soldiers had to be done with precision timing; the slightest shift in the wind could tip them off, anything could. When he found the spot he was looking for, where the ground was thin and just barely covering the high water table, he worked his way out about ten feet and deliberately twisted a leaf and snapped the tip from a weed. He left a very small drag track, no more than his heel sliding in the mud and a splatter of muck on a rock. He found a hollow reed and cut the ends off right before sending out another pulsing call, this time directing it to the water and shore in search of alligators.

Gator lay in the mud, his body stretched out in the muck waiting. The rain fell steadily adding to the already high water table. Within minutes he heard the brush of clothes against plants. The shield was coming apart as the two men hurried back toward the center of the island. Grunts and bellows began almost at once. The pad of reptilian feet hitting the spongy ground. Snapping jaws. A curse. The protection was gone. He’d gotten lucky. One of the men was the shielder and he was distracted.

Gator sent out another pulsing wave, directed at the alligators in the area. The sound traveled through water and over land herding several of the reptiles right at two of his enemies. Once he was certain he had the reptiles on the move, he sent wave after wave of low-frequency sound to keep the hunters sick and disoriented. The men moved inland, their attention divided between the powerful jaws of the alligators and the continual assault on their nervous systems.

The first man wore desert camouflage clothing and stuck out easily in all the greenery. That told Gator they hadn’t been expecting trouble; that it had been a recon mission and nothing more until he and Flame had been spotted. The man moved in standard two-man pattern, covering and signaling his partner forward. The second man was in regular camouflage, greens and browns, and much more difficult to spot. Gator was certain he was the shielder. It was difficult to see him through the down-pour and several times Gator had to fight back the impulse to wipe at his eyes and clear his vision.

A small alligator shot past, scooting out of the way of his much larger brethren. Without Gator driving them, the reptiles seemed as disoriented as the hunters, stopping and grunting, looking around for a slide back into the water. A long tail covered in thick scales swept around, nearly knocking into the man in green and brown. He jumped forward and let out a startled yell as he fell through the thin crust of earth separating him from the high water table. The ground around him sank, pouring into the hole and water bubbled up as he disappeared completely.

‘Ed!” The first man in the desert camouflage raced forward. Before he could reach the hole, the large alligator suddenly rushed in front of him, intent on getting back into the water. He flipped into the hole headfirst. At once muffled gunfire erupted and the water turned red. The second man peered down the hole, trying to see to help his buddy, afraid of firing and hitting him.

Gator came up out of the mud, only a scant couple of feet from him, knife in his fist. The man spun around, swinging his rifle hard in Gator’s direction to drive him back so he could bring the weapon up to get off a shot. Gator caught the rifle before it could hit him, his palm slapping the barrel hard. He jerked and the hunter went sailing over his head. Gator followed him, kicking the rifle out of his hands as the man somersaulted back onto his feet and faced him in a fighter’s crouch.

The man looked familiar. Gator sucked in his breath. “I know you. You took the psych test the same time I took it. Rick Fielding, right? Why the hell would you come after me?”

“Because you’re a dumb shit and you’re fucking every thing up,” Rick snarled.

“Good reason, Ricks’,” Gator said, stepping to his left, careful to place his weight where he knew the surface was spongy but stable. Moving forced Fielding to step also. “I hope you think it’s all worth it because your sorry ass belongs to me.”

“I don’t think so. You and your little slut are the only ones here. You’re going to be very dead and she’s going to be entertaining tonight.”

Gator laughed, the sound soft and taunting. “That woman would entertain you, Ricky boy, but not the way you think.” He feinted with the knife, crowding close, forcing Fielding back another step. “You’d be wearing a happy smile right around your throat, you mess with her.” He moved left, pressuring the soldier with another slight maneuver of the knife.

Rick’s gaze dropped, following the action of the knife, and he took another step to the side. The thin ground gave way under his weight and one leg dropped into a hole. Rick sank to his crotch. Frantically he dug at the collapsing mud, clutching at the ground, trying to keep from slipping beneath the surface. Fear superseded the anger in his eyes as more of the ground gave way and mud began to pour into the hole with him. His other leg slipped in.

It was the sudden widening of Rick’s eyes, hope flared for a brief instance that had Gator spinning around, hands up to defend himself. It was the only thing that saved his life. Ed stood behind him, soaked, covered in mud, a knife in his fist as he shoved it toward Gator’s kidneys. Gator deflected the blade, stumbled in an effort to keep away from the thin layer of ground and was forced jump over Rick to avoid the thinner crust.

Rick sank up to his chin as mud continued to pour into the hole around him, effectively burying him. “Ed.” He coughed, tried to wiggle free but the mud held him prisoner, pinning his arms so he was helpless as he continued to sink into the sludge.

Gator pulsed sound directly at the shielder, driving him back. It would have knocked another man unconscious, or even killed him, but the shielder only dropped o his knee, face contorted, one hand up in an effort to deflect the blast of low-frequency sound coming at him. He vomited twice, and fought to regain his feet. His glance shifted once to his partner, but it was too late to save Rick; he had disappeared beneath the mud, his air cut off.

Ed backed off another step, this time paying attention o where he was stepping. Gator was certain Ed had panicked when the large alligator had plunged down on top him. The alligator had just wanted to get back in the water, he hadn’t been attacking, but Ed had fired and the wounded alligator had most likely thrashed around, knocking the rifle from the shielder’s hands.

“Why did you come after us?” Gator asked, hoping for better answer than Rick had given him.

The shielder threw the knife with blurring speed, suggesting genetic enhancement. Gator twisted his body in an effort to avoid the blade, feeling it slice through hi torn shirt and shave off skin along his left bicep. He answered with another pulsing wave of sound, this time stronger than the last. Mostly he listened to the sound of running footsteps, still a distance away, but coming fast.

The shielder turned his head as the wave hit and Gator jumped, slamming both booted feet hard into the thin crust of earth separating the ground from the water. He went in fast, the water closing over his head, the down pour of rain driving mud in after him. He managed to get the hollow reed to his mouth and the tip to the surface, allowing him to breathe under the water and muck.

Beneath the surface, he felt the vibration of heavy footsteps. Gator waited for them to come close, to edge out onto the thinner crust. One pulse of sound could break it down and send the entire group into the water, but the shielder must have warned them off. The vibrations ceased just steps from the thinner layer of earth, then they retreated, heading inland away from the marshy region.

Gator was certain two men had approached and three walked away. Using his hands, he broke through the layer of mud plugging the hole so he could push his head up. The rain and air never felt so good. He turned his open mouth up to allow the rain water in. Rinsing and spitting several times, he began the slow work of fighting the pull of the thick mud.

A bird called and another one answered. Gator sifted through the noises of the bayou and heard multiple heartbeats. Ian. Tucker. Maybe Wyatt or Kadan, although Kadan could mask the sound. The hunt had turned even deadlier. He fought his way out of the hole, taking care to distribute his weight evenly so as not to break through any more of the surface. It took time to drag himself out of the thick mud around the surface. Dirt and mud fell into the water widening the break through point, but he worked patiently to extract himself until he lay flat, arms and legs spread wide while he took in great gulps of fresh air.

Gator. Give me a signal to lock on to.

I took out one of them. There’s at least three more. The shielder is injured and they’re looking to run.
He could sense the GhostWalkers dose now. They moved with stealth, but Kadan didn’t shield them, wanting Gator to know they were coming to him. He knew Kadan had locked on to him the moment he’d spoken telepathically. Relief swept through him. Not that long of time had passed since he’d left Flame, but it felt like a lifetime. He wanted to get her to a hospital immediately. With the other GhostWalkers there, they could sweep the area with quick efficiency and then get Flame medical attention.

They’ll be coming at you north, northwest.

We’re coming to you.
Kadan’s voice was confident.

Gator rolled over and stared up at the pounding rain, allowing it to wash most of the sludge from his face. He lay for a short while to get control of the raging headache that always accompanied the use of psychic talent, before turning back onto his belly and scooting forward much like a lizard. He used small stops and starts, keeping his weight evenly distributed at all times until he gained solid ground.

Gator leapt to his feet and began his pursuit of the other soldiers. No one had answered his question, but they were enhanced and Rick Fielding had definitely been in the same room with him while he took the test to determine psychic talent. Gator had assumed, obviously erroneously, that Fielding hadn’t made the cut.

The GhostWalkers drifted out of the trees, pacing alongside of Gator, checking his condition out. Ian MacGillicuddy. Tucker Addison. Kadan Montague. They were in full combat gear and tossed him a rifle and several clips of ammunition.

“You okay?” Kadan asked. “I brought a medic kit.”

“Flame needs it. Alligator attack. It broke her arm, but she fought it off. We’ve got three men left here. One’s a definite shielder. I’m using low-frequency sound waves to keep them sick and disoriented so they don’t have a lot of fight in them. They just want to get the hell out, We need someone alive so we can follow them back to who ever is running them.”

They kept on the move, covering ground as fast as possible. “You’re certain these men aren’t part of Jack Norton’s team?”

Gator shook his head. “Jack’s team works mainly NCIS when they aren’t running ops. These men are more like mercenaries. I’d met one of them. His name was Rick Fielding. He took the test in the same group I did. I don’t know who they work for, but they aren’t very pleasant. And the dead one threatened Flame.”