Ghostwalker 03 - Night Game

foliage. She relied on sound to keep her informed, concentrating on echolocation, but keeping a visual as well.

    The Jeep was parked in a driveway a block up and over from Saunders and just down from the park. The vehicle had the top up, but no doors on. Flame wrinkled her nose. She knew they were in for a shower and she was bound to get wet. On her motorcycle, it was perfectly fine, part of the entire experience, but in Gator’s Jeep, when she was already annoyed, the rain was going to be one more reason for revenge.

    She waited until the guards were concentrated at the far end of the park before hot-wiring the Jeep and taking off. She didn’t use the headlights until she turned the corner and was out of harm’s way. She didn’t have the kind of patience needed for an encounter with Saunders’s men when she was angry and damn it, she was definitely angry that Whitney’s hunter had taken her beloved motorcycle.

    She drove through New Orleans until she found a quiet street where she could pull over and, using a pen light, search the glove compartment for an address. The necessary insurance document and vehicle registration was neatly stuck in a plastic case. “Thank you, Mr. Fontenot,” she said aloud.

    He lived along the river, just north of the canal, in the same parish she was staying in, although she often used a boat to get to her current residence and Wyatt Fontenot had a much more convenient drive. On her motorcycle . The bastard. Rat bastard.

    Flame pulled back on the street and drove with care, not wanting to bring attention to herself as she located the address. The last thing she needed was for a cop to stop her, In any case, she wanted Gator to feel very pleased with himself. She wanted him lured into a false sense of security and settled nice and comfortably into his own bed. If her motorcycle had been looked after properly, she might just be a nice girl and not drive his Jeep into the Mississippi, which is what he deserved.

    All the while she drove, she thought of each item in her saddlebags. Had she left anything that might be a trail leading back to her? The address on her insurance and registration was from long ago. What else did she have? She often traveled with emergency belongings in the off chance she had to run. She had money stashed in the bike, but most likely, Gator would never find it, not unless he took the bike apart, and nothing would help him if he did that. Nothing. No one.

    Flame crossed the bridge and worked her way through a ribbon of narrow streets surrounded by water until she found the long drive that circled back toward the river and the Fontenot home. When she was certain she had the right property, she parked the Jeep beneath a canopy of trees and curled up on the seat to go to sleep.

    All the girls in Whitney’s school of torture had been trained to set and use internal clocks. She slept for two hours, giving Gator Fontenot plenty of time to feel safe and secure. Stretching to get the kinks out, Flame left the Jeep at the end of the road and took off on foot, not chancing alerting him to her presence. She walked slowly, taking her time, orienting herself to the place. She wanted the quickest escape routes possible. The property had iron gates and few people in the parish had them. These were high and closed to seal the property off from the road.

    She could jump over the gates, of course, but why would Fontenot have his home fenced in? She noted an old flatbed with the wheels off one side and a broken-down pickup, just inside the fence, but nothing else. Certainly nothing to warrant a fence. Unless… She reached out with her mind and found the dogs. Hunting dogs if she wasn’t mistaken, already becoming aware of her presence. Before they could send out a chorus of warnings, she stopped them.

    Of course he’d have dogs. Careless mistake. “And all because I lost my temper. See, Flame. That’s what happens when you get all bent out of shape. It’s not personal. Don’t take it personally.” Like hell it wasn’t personal. It didn’t get any more personal than someone stealing her motorcycle. Her fingers itched to wring his neck. She went over the fence, landing lightly, waiting to make certain the dogs stayed quiet and no sound gave her presence away.

    There were two large buildings. The main house was dark and silent. The dogs moved restlessly in a nearby kennel. The second building, obviously the garage, was set slightly back from the house and had