Ghostwalker 09 - Ruthless Game

everything humanity stood for. He had an extensive family, and Kane doubted that they were al dead.
    He was evil, pure and simple, and Rose couldn’t see beyond a dying old man. Leopards didn’t change their spots, and snakes were snakes.
    He took a careful look around, using night vision. The night seemed stil , but what had been a place of refuge suddenly felt hostile.
    “I know what you’re thinking, but I took care of him until he died. He gave me the location and the keys. He knew I needed a place to lay low until after the baby was born.”
    She gestured toward the dirt- and grass-covered roofline. He could see the low rectangular stone structure was situated between the two sloping hil s.
    The way the house had been built, it would catch natural light and crosswinds. From the front the structure looked like a half-buried ruin, which, he was certain, was the entire idea. The shrubs on the roof had been planted and careful y cultivated to look part of the natural surroundings. The dirt looked as if the wind had blown it there, again al natural. Kane walked up the slope to inspect the roof. He had to real y look to find the portals that al owed light into the subterranean rooms below. The entire structure looked more like an ancient bridge built between the two slopes, now buried in soil and shrubbery and tal grass stalks.
    They walked down the sloping ground to the front door. The wal s showing were quite thick.
    “The glass in the windows is bul etproof,” Rose said as she unlocked the door.
    He caught her shoulder and shoved her none too gently behind him. She didn’t protest, but he heard her sigh overly loud. It didn’t matter. He knew she didn’t—couldn’t—see Jimenez as evil, but he knew better. He didn’t trust rebels, not even eighty-year-old dying rebels. It was just too generous a gesture to hand over the keys to the desert retreat. Something was going on here, something he didn’t trust or understand, but she wasn’t just walking into that house without him clearing every inch of it first.
    He handed her back her gun and stepped inside. The interior of the house was cool without being cold. He moved easily in the dark, staying along the wal as he moved through the wide entryway that spil ed into a large living room. The furniture was sparse, a couch and two chairs, but they appeared wel made and in good condition. A low coffee table was cleared of any magazines or objects. The room held no ashtrays, and the air seemed clean.
    He noted two separate arched doorways leading to other rooms and made his way to the nearest one in silence. The floors were hardwood with handwoven, very expensive rugs thrown artistical y in front of the couch and chair. The room he entered was a single bedroom. A large double bed with a carved wooden frame came out from the center wal with a large, low chest at the end of it. Bookshelves surrounded the headboard, forming a bridge up around the wal . He could see beneath the bed that no one hid there. A closet drew his attention, and he slipped inside the room and moved to the side of the door. In one move he turned the knob and pul ed it open. The space was empty of everything, even clothes.
    Rose wouldn’t get the significance of that. Or of the fact that no paintings hung on the wal , and that there were no objects on shelves, no books. She had been raised in a military compound, a stark life that didn’t encourage owning art and beautiful things. This had been Diego Jimenez’s hideaway, supposedly his last line of retreat. This would be where he would keep his most prized possessions, and yet the entire residence was empty of everything but the starkest furniture, as if it had been prepared for Rose—or someone. This situation had al the warning signs of a trap.
    He cleared the bathroom, a much more spacious room than he would have thought the underground living quarters would have, and moved on to the kitchen. Again, the room was large. A dining table and chairs for six sat beneath an ornate chandelier. That bothered him even more. If the chandelier was real, and it certainly looked like a work of art, this “rebel,” who should have been poor and on the run, was incredibly wealthy. This was no hovel, dug out in the middle of the desert. An architect had designed the home, taking into consideration light, space, and crosswinds. That took money.

    A man on the run would have a secure room, a place he could go to hide if the law was closing in as wel