Ghostwalker 02 - Mind Game

trouble and he was responsible. It was the one problem the GhostWalkers faced and would continue to face. They were living in untried territory.
    The backlash of using psychic talents was enormous, and they often had no idea what could happen until the aftermath of the results reared up to bite them.

    Dahlia was a GhostWalker with all the extraordinary gifts and, unfortunately, the terrible penalties that often occurred with the use of those gifts. She was dangerous, perhaps even more so than any of them had considered, but not by her nature. The danger came from the energy that raced to her and crammed inside of her as if her body were an empty vessel waiting to be filled. The leftover energy she couldn’t take inside of her surrounded her so that she had no peace. It was no wonder she lived as solitary a life as possible.

    Nicolas steered them first toward the interior, staying to the west and higher ground as she’d indicated, but eventually began to work toward the outer edge of the island. They had to get off. They could play hide-and-seek for a short while, but if they remained on the island, they would be found. He was certain the perimeters would be more heavily guarded, but the team had to be spread thin and they’d lost a few men.

    “Dahlia, can you hang on until we’re off the island?” he asked, more to get her to stay focused on him than for any other reason.

    She stopped running abruptly, going down on one knee to be violently sick. Her skin beaded with sweat that had nothing to do with the heat. She looked up at him and nodded as she wiped her mouth. “I can make it.”

    He had an insane desire to pull her close and wrap her safely in his arms. She was gutsy and he was certain he could count on her in the water. “Stay close. Hopefully if I’m close to you, it will help keep the energy at bay.”

    Dahlia winced at the sound of grenade fire, ducking as he pushed her toward the ground.
    She took a cautious look around. “It seems like the entire world is on fire. Do you really think we can get out of this?” Her vision was blurred and her head pounded until she wanted to scream, but she was determined to keep going until she couldn’t walk any longer. The closer she stayed to Nicolas the easier it was to bear the burden of the energy rushing at her from the grenades.

    Nicolas handed her his canteen, urging her to drink the water. “We’ll get out,” he assured. “This island is crawling with men though.” He took the canteen back and dragged a shirt from his pack. “Put this on. The sleeves will cover your arms and you’ll blend better. I want to darken your face as well. It’s going to take a little skill to get past them.”

    Dahlia sank down into the marsh. The island was mostly spongy surface. Even hunters and trappers knew to avoid it. The center had been raised by bringing in soil to build up an area for the sanitarium. Dahlia had never questioned why, but she’d heard Milly and Bernadette talking about the flooding during heavy rains and how ridiculous it was to build on the island when there was enough money to go anywhere and worse, not using stilts. One of the biggest dangers was falling through the thin layer of ground to the waters below. Sinkholes were abundant on the island and the only truly safe places were the narrow path leading to and the actual grounds surrounding her home. She realized that it had been built that way for a specific purpose.

    “Did they plan all along on killing me?” She was soaked, but she put his shirt on over her own clothes. It was far too big and she tied the tails around her hips.

    “My guess is yes, once you were discovered or you’d outlived your usefulness to them,”
    he replied honestly. He wasn’t looking at her, but out into the night, his rifle rock steady in his hands.

    “It occurred to me a couple of years ago when I started asking Jesse too many questions, and he didn’t want to answer or didn’t know the answers, that maybe I was in trouble.”
    She tried to hold still and not wince away from Nicolas as he blackened her face with some tube he carried in his pack. She looked up at him with solemn eyes. “Who are they?
    Why do they want me dead?”

    “These men are military-trained, but I think they’re mercenaries. No combat unit would do this. Which agency do you work for?”

    Before she could answer, he clapped his hand over her mouth, pressing her body into the trunk of a tree and crouching lower to