Ghostwalker 05 - Deadly Game

don't change things at this late date. Briony wouldn't want that and neither do I.
    Whatever you're thinking, Ken, forget about it. If there's a chance to pull Briony's sister out clean, we'll do it. If we can't recover her, then we have no choice here and we'll accept that."
    "Briony won't."
    "She's stronger than you think she is. She doesn't want Whitney to get his hands on our children any more than I do. I'm not leaving, so drop it."
    Ken kept his gaze on the helicopter as it dropped into the clearing. Nico was in the doorway, hands steady, eye to the scope to cover them as they ran.

Chapter 2
    Marigold Smith seemed to be floating in a sea of pain. It wasn't entirely unusual to wake up that way, but this time her heart was pounding in utter and total fear. She'd botched her mission. She hadn't managed to speak to the senator and plead their case. She hadn't protected him, and when she was captured, she hadn't managed to end her own life. She had no idea if the senator was safe, or if he'd been murdered. It wouldn't be so easy for anyone to get through Violet to him, but then Marigold hadn't considered that she herself be unsuccessful either. Briefly she let that failure shake her confidence in herself. She wanted to keep her eyes closed tight and just wallow in misery. She had been taken prisoner by the enemy, and it was too late to end her life and save the others. That left her one option – she had to escape.
    Her leg, her back, her chest, and even her hand throbbed and burned. Worst of all, she didn't have an anchor to keep the psychic overload from frying her brain. She was wide open to assault, and that was more frightening than all the physical wounds in the world.
    She felt rather than heard movement near her and kept her eyes closed, her breathing even.
    There was no sound of footsteps, but she had the impression of someone large and very powerful leaning over her.
    She wanted to hold her breath, self-preservation rising sharply, but then he would know she was awake. She drew in her breath and took him into her lungs. He smelled of death and blood and spice and outdoors. He smelled dangerous and like everything she didn't want – everything she feared. But her heart accelerated and her womb clenched and her stomach did a frightening little flip. Her eyes flew open, in spite of all her resolve. In spite of the danger. In spite of her years of training and discipline. Her gaze collided with his.
    His eyes were the most frightening she'd ever seen. Cold steel. A glacier, so frozen she felt as if the cold burned her skin everywhere his gaze touched. There was no mercy. No compassion. A killer's eyes. Hard and watchful and utterly without emotion. They appeared gray, but were light enough to be silver. His lashes were jet black like his hair. His face should have been beautiful – it was constructed with care and attention to detail and bone structure – but several shiny, rigid scars crisscrossed his skin, running from under both eyes to his jaw and across his cheeks and up into his forehead. One scar dissected his lips, nearly cutting them in half. The scars ran down his neck and disappeared into his shirt, creating an unrelenting mask, a Frankenstein effect. The cuts were precise and cold and had obviously been inflicted with great care.
    "Have you looked your fill, or do you need a little more time?"

    His voice made her toes want to curl. Her reaction to him was disturbing and not at all that of a soldier – she was reacting entirely as a woman, and she hadn't even known that was possible. She couldn't tear her gaze from his, and before she could stop herself, the pads of her fingers traced one rigid scar down the length of his cheek. She braced herself for the psychic backlash – the onslaught of his thoughts and emotions, the shards of glass tearing into her skull that always accompanied touch, or even close proximity to others –
    but she could only feel the heat of his skin and the hard ridges that had been sliced into it.
    He caught her wrist, the sound of flesh slapping flesh loud. His grip was vise-like, but for all that, surprisingly gentle. "What are you doing?"
    She swallowed the lump in her throat threatening to choke her. What was she doing?
    This man was her enemy. More importantly, he was a man, and she detested men and everything they stood for. She could respect and admire soldiers, but not relate to them at all when they were off duty. Men were brutes without loyalty, in spite of