Ghostwalker 03 - Night Game

jumped in his chest and something squeezed hard on his lungs. He didn’t know how he knew the killer was trying to spook her into movement, but he was absolutely certain. And while he didn’t think that Flame’s training had included sniper school, Gator would have bet his cabin that the killer’s had.

    As if! I never panic.

    He hoped that was true. Playing cat and mouse with a professional killer took nerves of steel. Flame knew the killer had a scope on the spot where she went down. If he managed to get a good shot off, she was dead. It took a lot of guts to lie still when a high-powered rifle was pointed right at you. Snipers didn’t miss. He knew the odds. Where many soldiers fired off hundreds of rounds in a battle, a sniper used one to three shots per kill.

    The rain poured from the skies, through the canopy of trees, so heavy it obscured vision.

    The water would help obliterate the tracks when it came to clean up, but it also provided a conductor for sound. He muted noise and sent out sonar, using echolocation in an attempt to pinpoint the location of the sniper. The man had to be concealed in the network of tree roots. Gator willed Flame to remain still as he crawled through the reeds and muck toward the last known spot where his adversary had been.

    He scooted through a water-filled depression before realizing it was a man-made trench, narrow with just enough space for a man to lie in. He froze. He had to be almost on top of the sniper. Carefully, only allowing his eyes to move, he searched the area around him, quartering every section of ground. He barely allowed his breath to escape, waiting for something, anything at all to give the sniper’s position away.

    Time crept by. The rain poured down. Gator felt the rhythm of the marsh now, the teeming of insect life and the whisper of movement as frogs and lizards darted out from cover to grab a quick meal. His watchful gaze poured over the terrain again and again.
    The log to his left had split apart, rotted with age and was home to various life forms. A small green lizard skittered toward the log in small stops and starts, dashed forward and abruptly stopped before going up and over a slight mound.

    Gator’s breath caught in his throat. That mound, no more than ten feet from him, was the sniper. He hadn’t moved, lying so completely still, covered in reeds and mud, he appeared part of the landscape. If he turned his head and looked, he would be able to spot Gator as only Gator’s head and shirt were camouflaged. His jeans were muddy, but no way, at such a close range, would he escape detection. He didn’t have a gun, which meant he would have to use a knife—and that meant working his way without detection until he was within striking range.

    What’s wrong?

    He heard the anxiety in Flame’s voice clearly.

    Nothing. Stay down.

    Your heart rate just went through the ceiling. Don’t give me nothing. Fill me in. I’m not some pansy ass that can’t take bad news.

    No, she wasn’t that. She’d coped with bad news most of her life. No, you’re a hothead and you might get yourself killed.

    I knew that weasel Whitney wanted me alive. Give it to me straight, Raoul. I need to know what’s going on.

    He weighed his options. He’d only have one chance at the sniper. She had to know the danger. He’s a few feet away. If he turns his head, he’ll see me. Don’t move, Flame. This guy knows what he’s doing. He hasn’t moved a muscle and he’s had his eye to the scope the entire time.

    There was a small silence. He found himself holding his breath. Raoul. I’ll be really angry at you if you blow this and get killed.

    Now cher , make up your mind. I thought you wanted me dead.

    You haven’t had time to take out an insurance policy for the baby and me.

    Nothing’s goin’ to be happening to me.

    Flame was silent again. I could kill him using sound. It’s risky, but better that, than taking a chance…

    No! He forced calm into his voice. She was shrewd. He’d just given away too much to her, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to chance it. He wouldn’t let her chance it. No.
    We’ll do it the old-fashioned way.

    Count off. On every fifth second I’ll use sound to move the reeds off to my right.

    Was there relief in her voice? He couldn’t tell. Damn it, no.

    Damn it, yes. Just enough to make him worried I might be on the move. He’ll be concentrating on me and it will give you a chance. I’m not stupid enough to