Ghostwalker 04 - Conspiracy Game

hadn’t put there. His fingers itched to shake her for taking such a chance.
    I’m fine. Those shots are going to be heard by someone. They’ve got friends.
    Get the hell out of here. Back to your room. Take a shower and get rid of those clothes.
    Ditch the gun in the forest. If anyone does any searches, you were asleep the entire time.
    Jack rested his head on his rifle for a moment and then put his eye back to the scope. The lens blurred. He was weak and running out of time. In another few minutes he wouldn’t be able to protect her—and that made him feel the edge of desperation.
    Briony stood for a long while in the tree, too shaken to move. She’d always had incredible night vision, and now, staring into the area where the sniper had been, she spotted the broad leaves of a philodendron plant swaying slightly. The spotter was making his way toward Jack.
    Do you see him?
    There was no response—not even awareness. Briony’s breath left her lungs in a rush.
    Jack was unconscious, or nearly so, and the enemy was creeping up on him. Before she had time to think, she leapt down to a tree branch that swept the ground. The forest floor was thickly carpeted with vegetation and cushioned her footsteps as she stealthily made her way through the underbrush back toward Jack. She had no real idea of what she was going to do, but she couldn’t let him die.
    She didn’t examine too closely the need to keep Jack alive. There was no time for introspection, only to know she couldn’t leave him. She shoved her way through the tangle of vines and bushes, dropping flat to crawl along a narrow animal trail. She pushed through a particularly thick mass of ferns into damp earth. A noise to her left had her dropping flat.
    She lay still for a moment, her heart pounding.
    Briony inhaled. She had an amazing sense of smell and she could tell exactly where Jack was, and how close the spotter was to him. Jack lay on his belly, the rifle cradled in his arms, but his head was down. She willed him to move.
    Jack! Wake up. He’s almost on top of you. You’ve got to defend yourself.
    Jack heard the urgent command, the fear and anxiety in Briony’s voice. It drove him to find the strength to focus, to scent the spotter. The man was already on top of him. Jack turned to face him, knowing in that split second, that heartbeat of time, that he was too late
    —that he was a dead man. Get out of here. It was the only warning he could give Briony.
    He didn’t have the strength to bring up his rifle, let alone the time.
    The spotter stepped out of the brush and lifted his gun. Four shots rang out in rapid succession. Jack waited for the bullets to strike his body, but the spotter jerked and half spun to face away from him. His knees buckled and he went down hard, face into the ground. Jack forced his head up. Briony stood a few feet away, the gun in her hand, tears running down her face. She was shaking, her arm still outstretched, her gaze locked on the dead man.
    Jack reached inside himself for one last burst of strength, struggled to his feet, and staggered over to her, his hand over hers. “Give me the gun, Briony.”
    She didn’t release it—didn’t look at him. She was shaking so much he was afraid she might accidentally pull the trigger again. He clamped his fingers over hers and, with his other hand, caught her face and forced her head to turn away from the body as he searched for a gentle tone. “Just let go, baby. I’ve got it now. Look at me. Only at me.”
    Her gaze met his, eyes swimming with tears. “I killed him.” She turned away from him, retching, over and over.
    Jack took a step closer and saw her eyes begin to roll back in her head. Briony!
    Deliberately he filled her mind with calm strength. He knew what violence could do to a psychic, and he wasn’t about to allow her to fall. He caught her face in his hands. “Look at me. Stay with me.”
    Briony heard his voice as if from a great distance. She didn’t want to go back, there was too much pain there, but his voice refused to let her retreat. With tremendous effort, she stared into his deep gray eyes.
    “You’re okay. Everything is going to be fine,” he assured her. “I’m an anchor. Just let me do my work.” He’d been too close to passing out and he hadn’t provided barriers for her, but he focused on drawing the energy away from her.
    He’d never expected to be so moved by the sight of a woman’s tears—or by the fact that killing a man had