Ghostwalker 05 - Deadly Game

Senator Freeman, and the techs on that floor sign contracts for six-month rotations. They never go below that level. We train on the fourth level and are airlifted to various outdoor sites, always under the eye of Whitney's guards.
    The fourth level has all kinds of workout rooms and training modules and simulators."
    He listened for what she didn't say, the information between the lines – the stark, cold existence of being raised by a man who thought of using a child only for experimentation. It was no wonder she was so close to the other women. They had only had one another as they grew up.
    "And Sean? Where does he fit in?" Because he felt the affection in her mind when she thought of the man, and it made him a little crazy.
    "In the last couple of years we trained with several men. Sean is one of them. They're enhanced both psychically and physically. It was the first time Whitney ever allowed us to be around anyone else for prolonged periods of time. He even rotated our instructors so we wouldn't get attached to anyone. At least, at first, that's what I thought."
    "But now?"
    She slid down beneath the sheet, unable to sit up straight any longer. "I think he was afraid someone would get attached to us and they'd tell us what was going on or try to help us leave. At the time he brought in the men for us to work with, he also brought in his own guards. They're pretty aggressive and revved up all the time." Her fingers plucked at the sheet, the only sign of nervousness she gave.
    Ken reached out and covered her hand with his. "And Sean isn't one of his guards?"
    She frowned. "He wasn't. He was part of our team. We worked well together and went on several assignments. He and a man named Rob Tate were the nicest, as well as being the best at what they did. Brett worked with us for a while."
    The mention of Brett made her wince inwardly. She hid it well, her face never changing expression, but he was touching her and her mind was open to his. She despised Brett.
    "He's the man responsible for those marks on your back." Ken kept his face entirely expressionless, his tone neutral, but beneath his calm mask, adrenaline surged and ice-cold rage settled in the pit of his stomach.
    "Everything changed when Whitney announced his breeding program. We were pulled from any assignments that took us outside the compound, and put in locked rooms. After that, life became unbearable."
    Her simple statement hung in the air between them. The walls rippled, and beneath them the floor shifted. Mari gasped and tugged at her hand. Ken glanced down. He was strangling her hand, crushing the fine bones as he made a tight fist. Instantly he loosened his hold and bent to examine the damage.
    "I'm sorry, Mari." He brushed little kisses over the back of her hand. "I don't know what the hell is wrong with me. I usually keep my psychic and physical abilities under wraps."
    She rested her hand on the back of his neck, feeling the scars there, the beginnings of ridges that weren't so precise as the smaller cuts crisscrossing his body. He rested his head in her lap, and she stroked soothing caresses along the nape of his neck and up into his jet-black hair. "Except for the hand-crushing bit, it's nice to have someone angry on my behalf." She flashed him a small, teasing smile.
    No one had ever cared enough to be angry – not even the women until Whitney had started his breeding program. Their lives had been all they knew – some of it good, some of it bad, but they didn't question how they lived or had been brought up. What was the use?
    She didn't know how it felt to have someone concerned about her , but it gave her a warm glow inside she couldn't describe.
    "Ken, what happened to your back?"
    There was a small silence. He started to shift out from under her hand, but she exerted pressure, holding him to her.
    "Just tell me," she prodded gently.

    He didn't want to tell her. The truth of it was, he couldn't think about it, think about the wrenching agony that never seemed to end. He didn't want to feel like those deer, swaying skinned on meat hooks at the senator's hunting cabin. He didn't want to hear the drone of flies, or the steady dripping of blood, or feel the hundreds of bites of insects that should have been nothing more than a nuisance in the middle of such an extreme torture, but at night, when he was alone, he remembered every vivid detail.
    Her fingers tunneled in his hair and gripped as if gathering courage. "I don't cooperate with