GhostWalkers 10 - Samurai Game

change. His gaze didn’t shift. He could have been lying in the grass studying the open sky. She knew his heart rate hadn’t changed at all because she felt each beat. His breathing was slow and steady. The man should have ice water in his veins, but even that wasn’t true—she felt the heat of his body.
    Thorn couldn’t prevent the rising admiration for this man. He was truly dangerous and she wanted to uncover his every secret. That file had meant nothing but data to her. This was a man Dr. Whitney deemed useless to him and yet he could teleport and he had another unseen weapon she was determined to ferret out. Had Whitney miscalculated Sam’s psychic abilities as he’d done hers? She knew Sam had been altered genetically, his DNA manipulated, but there was little information on Sam beyond his ties to General Ranier.
    The soldiers spoke in hushed tones. She translated in her mind, unsure if Sam knew the language or not.
    “Something bit me. A snake perhaps. My leg’s on fire and my heart’s beating too fast.”
    Great drops of sweat ran down the soldier’s body, covering his clothes with damp, dark splotches. Thorn smelled fear. In the distance, the sound of a helicopter moving toward them grew in volume.
    Again she interpreted the soldier’s conversation in Farsi. “We have to go now. Get back to the clearing.”
    “I can’t walk.”
    “We’ll help you. We have to hurry.” The answer was gruff, as if the soldiers had turned their heads away from their fallen comrade, toward the ominous sound of the helicopter.
    She felt the muscles ripple ever so slightly in Sam’s arm, the most gentle of flexes. His arm moved with that same infinite slowness, brushing so lightly that she heard the whisper against the material of the soldier’s fatigues, justalong his calf. Again, his arm moved back with that same unhurried motion to the ground. So, he understood Farsi as well. And he was about to strike at the soldiers.
    His eyes glowed with a fiery red bursting like angry starlight through a dark sky. His face never changed expression. He seemed … relaxed. She was trained in warfare, skilled in so many arts, and yet tension coiled in her so close to the enemy in preparation for battle. They were virtually hiding in plain sight a scant foot from the soldiers and Sam was clearly attacking them, yet his body was without anxiety or stress of any kind. He was—
magnificent
. Dr. Whitney was a fool to call this man expendable.
    She felt that brush, so exquisitely delivered, that same unhurried featherlight bite of … what? Death? Poison? If so, how did he administer it? Did he carry a syringe? She was adept at passing an enemy and dispensing of them with no more than the small stinging bite of an insect, yet this was different. The soldier gripped his fallen companion and with the aid of his friend, the two set out at a fast pace toward the clearing where transport waited impatiently.
    The second soldier stumbled. This man had taken at least three running steps, perhaps four, before he felt the fire of the attack. He grunted, dropped the now incapacitated soldier, and sat abruptly clutching his calf. “I was bitten too. I felt it. I feel it. Like fire creeping up my leg.”
    The third soldier looked warily around the ground, his semiautomatic pushed forward, finger on the trigger, his eyes scanning sharply. Thorn realized Sam had known all along it was a possibility the one he couldn’t reach might get trigger happy and spray the ground. He had virtually covered her body with his, tucking beneath the added safety of the tree trunk. Still, he remained perfectly relaxed, his eyes smiling down into hers. The soldier backed away from the two fallen men slowly.
    “Send Martinez for these two. They can’t make it back,” he ordered in Farsi into his radio.
    He turned and sprinted away from the two fallen soldiers,racing through the trees to reach the helicopter. Sam rolled away from her.
    Now you’ve got a few minutes to interrogate them. Make it quick. They won’t live long
.
    He was up fast, moving with his blurring speed to kick away the guns. The only way she could tell that he was weak was the slight tremor of his hand as he wiped it over his face. In spite of the application of the topical form of Zenith, promoting fast healing, the blood loss, coupled with the tremendous drain on him from using teleportation, had sapped his energy. In spite of it, he was a soldier through and through, refusing to give