Ghostwalker 03 - Night Game

or why.

    The problem was—she liked him. She made up her mind fast about people. She was adept at reading them, and despite knowing she shouldn’t fall for his Cajun charm, and in spite of the bleak and dark and lethal shadows in his eyes—she liked him. She was honest enough to admit she probably was a little drawn to him because he was enhanced and he felt the same rush of power and same terror of making mistakes that she did. He had to suffer the same physical drawbacks and feel the same isolation.

    It both amused and annoyed her that she couldn’t quite shake the pack mentality. She was solitary, yet she still wanted friendships and family and people around her, even though her particular brand of genetically engineered talent made it impossible for her.
    She was too sensitive to sounds. Filtering noises all the time was a difficult and wearing process. Flame required a lot of downtime when she could retreat into the haven of silence. She imagined Gator did as well. When she became intrigued by something she had a tendency to become obsessive-compulsive about it until she’d satisfied her curiosity—another one of her many failings. She was definitely intrigued by Gator.

    The guards had fanned out and were covering the park, paying particular attention to the area where she’d parked her motorcycle. None of them thought to look up, but all of them were nervous. And it had nothing to do with being afraid of finding the thief. They talked in low voices when they came together and all of them were afraid of their boss. He wanted his briefcases back and he wanted them immediately.

    Flame smirked. Let Saunders know how it felt. How many people in the bayou had he robbed? She listened carefully to the whispers, hoping to hear something about Joy Chiasson’s disappearance, but no one mentioned her. The smirk disappeared to be replaced by a frown. The authorities refused to believe that something had happened to the girl, but Flame was certain they didn’t want to know. Just as anyone in authority over Whitney hadn’t wanted to know how his valuable research had been done. As long as they got results, that was all that mattered.

    She had hacked into Whitney’s files and learned about gene doping and genetic enhancement. He had used a virus to deliver the genes into her cells, and her immune system had tolerated it. She could run twice as fast for twice as long as most humans as well as do a host of other things, enough to know he had delivered the genes throughout her entire body.

    She had a quick mind and she’d read everything she could find on gene therapy and knew Whitney was ahead of the game with his experiments. Of course, he’d used humans—not rats. She didn’t think he wanted the perfect soldier, or even the perfect child; he wanted his own creation. It was the end product that mattered, the idea that his brain had conceived and developed something superior. And if there were problems, it was the fault of the defective human—not his work.

    As a child she had developed a very rare type of cancer, a blood disorder that Whitney had treated successfully enough to put in remission, not cure. And now, when bruises didn’t heal or she felt exhausted, she knew it was there, lying in wait to destroy her. The knowledge didn’t stop her from living her life or finding scumbags like Saunders to bring a little justice to. She might never have a chance at Whitney, but she could even the odds with others like him.

    Saunders sold property to the older people in the bayou, the ones who didn’t believe in banks. He took their payments and when it came time for a balloon payment, just before they handed the money over, they were mysteriously robbed. Tonight, maybe a little justice was done.

    The guards’ voices were beginning to fade and Flame immediately bounced sound waves through the park, using echolocation to pinpoint the position of each guard. Two patrolled on the side nearest the Saunders estate, while three others roamed through the interior of the park. Flame took the opportunity to leap from the tree, dropping close to the base, gloved hands up for defense, but close to her body so she presented the smallest possible target.

    Where had Gator parked his Jeep? He wouldn’t park it on the street to be noticed by one of the guards, and he couldn’t have left it in the park. Where? She moved toward a cross street, down from Saunders’s estate but parallel to the park, keeping to the heavier