GhostWalkers 10 - Samurai Game

he’ll be very upset.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I guess it isn’t as if Sam Johnson is his
real
son.”
    “No, he was just some punk kid the general rescued from the streets and gave a life he didn’t even deserve,” Sheila added to the argument.
    Melanie sighed. “Well, Whitney made these soldiers. I guess he has the right to sacrifice one or two if it helps our country to be stronger. Nobody gives a damn about thembecause they don’t know about them. And honestly”—she leaned in close—“if people did know, they’d be creeped out. Seriously, they aren’t really human anymore. Peter once told me, they’re like animals and it’s up to their keepers to watch over them and decide when to euthanize them.”
    Sheila laughed. “Mel, you’re so terrible.”
    “Not really, just practical. I’m all about our soldiers, you know that. The GhostWalkers are weapons created to aid our country and human soldiers in any way possible. If the destruction of one of them is necessary . . .” She trailed off shrugging as the waiter came over with a slight bow and a sexy, flirtatious smile to take their order.
    Sheila took another look around the room, assuring herself everyone was in place while Melanie flirted. She spotted two more of Whitney’s men. Directly across from her table was a small Asian woman, obviously a very high priced call girl with a man who was clearly one of Whitney’s soldiers stuffed uncomfortably into a suit. The call girl wore a clingy dress that covered her too large breasts and clung to her tiny waist. Her hair was in a short, sexy bob, and she gave her companion her full attention, staring into his eyes.
    Two tables over a man with graying hair sat between two larger men. Satisfaction helped take the edge from her tension. Everyone was in place, like the pieces on a chessboard. Whitney was a master player and a master manipulator. If anyone was targeting Melanie and had followed her, they would soon know.
    Sheila breathed a sigh of relief and took another drink of her wine, settling back in her chair. Of course Whitney had everything well in hand. She’d argued with him when Melanie had indicated she wanted a meeting, terrified of putting her friend in danger, but she should have trusted him. They’d rented out the restaurant, and just about everyone dining there was connected to Whitney. No substitutes had been made in waiters, bartenders, or kitchen staff. She’d made certain of that herself. And Whitney had provided amuch better target than Melanie. He protected his assets and without a doubt, Melanie Freesha was one of his best.
    A zami smiled up at the man who had hired an escort for the evening. Twice his hand had slid up her thigh, making her stomach lurch. The tiny receiver in her ear allowed her to pick up the conversation at Sheila Benet’s table. She’d managed to plant the microphone when her “date” led her to their table. It was just good luck that he was assigned as a frontline guard to the two women and had chosen the table closest to theirs and even better luck that she’d gotten that tiny dot in place as Melanie was being seated, so she wasn’t noticed near the table.
    Her date obviously thought he would get very lucky after their dinner, his hands straying often and his gaze drifting to the bulging front of her dress. It never failed to surprise her how men could barely see beyond breasts. Her poor date, Frankie, he’d said, would be shocked to know the things he was drooling over weren’t real. She giggled in all the right places and batted eyelashes, keeping his attention on her by touching him occasionally when he appeared to be looking around the room.
    She had trained for this, but it wasn’t a role she relished. She used broken English and a Japanese accent, playing her part, but it was annoying. She turned her head and everything in her went absolutely still. The breath rushed from her lungs.
Whitney.
He was seated a few tables away, back in the shadows, with two obvious bodyguards on either side of him. For a moment she was totally paralyzed. She couldn’t even lower her gaze, she could only stare in shock and a kind of horror.
    She’d been eight when he’d thrown her away, but she wouldn’t forget that face. How could she? He’d stood over her trembling body a million times, a scalpel in his hand and annoyance on his face. Her body actually hurt. Shewanted to press her hand over her heart, but she forced air into her lungs and