Ghostwalker 05 - Deadly Game

for the intel. They're not going to let you down."
    Ken knew Jack was right, but it didn't unravel the knots in his belly. "I'm checking the doctor's house. He just went in." He indicated the small bluff overlooking the cottages. "I'll work my way down to that point and go in from there. You cover me."
    "Checking the doctor's house for what?" Jack asked. "You can't just go in there and blow this for us."
    "He took pictures of her."
    "That's his job. He had to have left them in the laboratory."
    "I'm making certain. And I'm going to find out where in the laboratory he left them."
    "Damn it, Ken. You can't take a chance on tipping anyone off to the fact that we're here.
    Just stay put."
    "He's got pictures and he knows where the other pictures are. He touched her, Jack –
    when she was helpless and he was supposed to be examining her impersonally – he touched her."
    Mari had toned her emotions down, had even pulled away from him, but not before he'd caught the distaste, the feeling of utter helplessness, the mixture of sorrow, despair, and impotent rage that he knew intimately. He couldn't get Mari out of there and away to somewhere safe in that moment, but he sure as hell could pay the doctor a little visit. He might never be able to give Mari all the things she deserved – like a stable, easygoing partner – but he could hand the pictures – and her dignity – back to her.
    Jack rubbed his mouth to keep from protesting. Nothing was going to stop Ken and Jack couldn't blame him. If it was Briony, the man would already be dead. For the first time in his life, Jack feared for his brother's sanity. Mari was an unknown, but she was his wife's twin sister and his brother's chosen woman and that made her both important and a threat to his family's well-being.
    Ken was, and always had been, a dangerous man. He was, by turns, controlled and deliberate, cold and efficient, and always capable of swift and brutal violence if the situation called for it. Where Jack was easy for those around him to read, Ken appeared easygoing and affable. The men in their unit found him much more approachable. Jack had always known on some level that Ken had forced himself to be the "front" man in an effort to protect his twin. He hadn't realized, until now, how foreign that behavior had been to Ken's nature.

    Ken had the same hidden demons – the same nightmares and fears – and he had an even stronger dose of their father's legacy – the dark jealousies and need for swift and violent retribution. Ken had worn a mask all those years, hiding – even from his twin – the rage seething just below the surface. Between the trauma of his recent capture and torture and meeting Mari, Ken's way of life had been turned upside down. The smooth, easygoing façade was gone.
    Jack sighed and glanced at his watch. "Don't get caught. I'd hate to have to kill anyone before we even get started."
    Ken reached out to tap his brother's knuckles with his own in their familiar silent ritual.
    He scooted back into the foliage, careful to keep the thin branches from swaying as he passed through. Moving at a snail's pace, Ken inched his way down the hillside until he was within a few yards of the cottage he was fairly certain was the doctor's. The small house was set just a little apart from the other houses, and security was tighter. The guards walked the perimeter every ten minutes, two of them, switching their routine continually. The doctor had something to hide.
    Ken slipped into the scraggly hedges surrounding the small community of houses just as a guard came around the side of the house and stopped, the heels of his boots within a foot of Ken's elbow. Ken's breath caught in his lungs – he stayed absolutely still, allowing ants and beetles to crawl over him. A lizard tickled his arm as it raced up it in little starts and stops, until it perched on his shoulder, pumping up and down, scenting the air.
    The guard took three steps forward and halted again, turning fast as if he was trying to spot something – or someone. Ken's brows drew together. Had he made a sound? The whisper of clothes along the ground? He took care that his skin reflected the foliage around him. His specially designed clothes reflected the colors of his surroundings.
    What had tipped off the guard? Ken slid his hand inch by inch along his jacket until he reached the knife strapped to the front. His fingers wrapped around the hilt, but he left it in the scabbard. He could draw and