Ghostwalker 02 - Mind Game

propped up on the pillow before he had thrown it aside. He bent to pick it up. A bullet thunked into the wall where his head had been.

    Nicolas hit the floor and rolled, using the bed for cover, coming up on one knee and firing, laying down a shield of bullets while he located his enemy. He caught a brief glimpse of a man running down the hall. And then he saw the cluster of explosives, obviously C-4, a plastic explosive that would obviously destroy not only the evidence of murder, but the very building itself. He sucked air into his lungs, forcing calm. He had no idea how long he had before the sanitarium went up, but he doubted if it was more than a couple of minutes. Catching up the pillowcase, he shoved it in his waterproof pack as he ran, following behind the man who had tried to ambush him.

    As Nicolas approached the door to the room where Calhoun had been shot, he caught a glimpse of movement and threw himself to one side, firing from the hip, rolling across the floor in a somersault and coming up smoothly onto his feet only a scant distance from his assailant. He saw his assailant’s eyes widen in desperation, but the man was already falling backward, his gun spraying the ceiling with bullets. Nicolas murmured his chant as he raced toward the door, a silent bid to the gods of his grandparents to lend wings to his feet.

    “JUST a few more minutes,” Dahlia consoled herself aloud. It didn’t matter how many deep breaths she took, she was on serious overload and shards of glass seemed to be stabbing through her head. Her tired eyes could barely make out the dangerous terrain.
    One misstep and she would sink into the bogs of the swamp. The ground beneath her feet was spongy, matted with thick grasses. The foul stench of stagnant water permeated the air.

    There was no more than a sliver of moon to spill light across the swamp. In the darkness, the cypress trees looked macabre, as if they stretched long stick arms instead of branches.
    Grayish moss hanging like streamers looked like tattered clothes fluttering occasionally above the blackened water. The breeze barely stirred, so that the muggy air seemed barely breathable.

    Dahlia pressed her fingers to her temple and paused, her body swaying, rocking back and forth to console herself. Stars exploded in front of her eyes. Her stomach lurched. She lifted her head, suddenly wary. She should be feeling better, not worse, out in the swamp, far from the human emotions breaching the walls of her unprotected brain. She went still, a shadow in the darkness, blurring her image further to keep prying eyes from spotting her.

    There was something or someone stalking her, waiting for her to come into its web. Her heart accelerated with fear for those she called family. Her nurses, or guards, she had never really defined them, but they were all she’d known most of her life. Milly and Bernadette. They were mother and sister and friend and nurse to her, women who insisted she learn to do things she always pretended to dislike. She often teased them that crocheting and knitting were for old women, that the sewing they did made them squint.

    No one knew about her or her home. She was human, yet not normal, so different she could never be accepted in the world. Nor could she ever fit in and live comfortably. She had a vague idea of her childhood, but mostly she remembered pain. It lived and breathed in her body as if alive. The only way to turn it off was to go to her sanctuary, her home.
    And someone hunted her, using her home as a trap.

    The knowledge blossomed, nearly consuming her brain, a stark reality she couldn’t avoid. Her mission had had unexpected complications, but she’d made it out and knew no one followed her. Had they found another way to find her home? Everything that could go wrong had certainly gone wrong, but she knew absolutely she hadn’t been followed.
    Jesse Calhoun, her handler, was certain to be waiting for her. He was lethal and fast when he needed to be. Jesse interested her because he was the only other human being she knew of with capabilities close to hers. And he was also telepathic, so why wasn’t he warning her of the danger?

    Dahlia knew how to be patient. She pushed the pain aside and waited there in the swamp, inhaling to try to catch a scent. Listening for a sound. There was only the occasional plop of a snake dropping from overhead branches into the murky waters. Still, she waited, knowing movement drew the eye. The faint