Ghostwalker 03 - Night Game

enough to try to get his body out of the basin. An acrid scent drifted to them through the trees.

    Flame used a low-hanging branch to pull herself onto the shore. She felt sick to her stomach. “Can you find him? Can you get him out of there? Use a branch and see if you can feel him.”

    “Who were they, Flame?”

    “Do you smell smoke?” She turned suddenly toward the canal. “Damn them. They’re burning his houseboat.” She took off running, more to get away from the reality of Burrell’s body in the water with the alligator than to save Burrell’s home. There was no way to save anything. Once again the bad guys triumphed and a good man lay dead.

    She heard Raoul shout, but his voice was far away, competing with a strange roaring in her head. Her lungs burned for air and her stomach gave a sickening lurch. She stumbled, her vision blurring as the roaring in her head grew to a long wailing scream. For a moment, she thought she’d actually screamed out loud, but the sound only reverberated over and over in her head, so much sorrow, so much rage wanting to get out.

    Flame fought it back, held it in, all too aware of Raoul’s close proximity. She could inadvertently hurt him—kill him. She fought for control, the effort making her head pound and her stomach chum.

    She emerged from the trees to stare in horror at the black smoke and orange and red flames leaping into the air. The houseboat was completely engulfed by the fire. Birds rose, shrieking alarm, fleeing the area. In spite of the roar of the conflagration and the noise of the retreating wildlife, she caught the sound of a Jeep and, above that, a triumphant yell.

    “Wait, Flame!” Gator commanded.

    She glanced back and saw him pulling at his boot where he had stepped through the thin layer of earth and sunk into the mud. Celebratory laughter blended with the noise of the vehicle drawing her attention. She caught a glimpse of an open Jeep, four men bouncing on the seats as they tore down the road.

    Without hesitation, Flame switched directions, using every ounce of speed she possessed, hurtling her body through vegetation, splashing through muck and water recklessly. Branches slapped at her, needles caught at her clothing, but she felt nothing as she sprinted back to the parking lot where her motorcycle waited. It fired up immediately, roaring to life as she kicked it over and spun, racing down the road after the killers.

    Gator swore as he extracted his boot. Damn the woman. Damn the situation. There was no way he could catch her in his Jeep. And she’d definitely catch the murderers with her rocket of a motorcycle. He stood in silence, listening to the sound of the engine until he was certain of the direction. They weren’t heading for the highway; they were going across country, not wanting to be seen, taking one of the old hunting trails. He could hear the whining of the engine and the whooping of the men as they raced inland right into the preserve.

    He dragged his satellite phone from his belt and punched in a number. “I’ve got trouble here, Ian. I’ll need a clean-up crew fast so make the call. This one is going to be bad. No time to explain, but track me. Get here like yesterday and bring Wyatt.” He slammed the phone back into his belt and took off running through the swamp, heading for the interior.
    He had to get back on the frontage road, off the island and head across the canal to cut them off inland. He knew exactly what Flame was going to do because he would do the same thing.

    He cursed as he ran, setting a punishing pace that was double what a normal man could do. He didn’t care if he was spotted, he had to intercept and the only chance he had was racing through swampland cross-country. In any case the only people likely to spot him were hunters and fishermen, people of the bayou who would mind their own business. He was Raoul Fontenot, one of their own and they would never volunteer information about him.

    He was well aware of the dangers, the snakes and poisonous plants not to mention the sinkholes, but this was no time to be careful, he couldn’t afford the delay. The best he could do was to try to stay on animal trails whenever possible. Moss, branches, vines, and leaves hit him in the face. Brambles tore at his clothing, raked his arms and face until he could feel blood dripping as he ran. Startled birds flew up, raising a ruckus. He didn’t bother to try to control them, not wanting to waste his