GhostWalkers 10 - Samurai Game

their psychic abilities, just the training alone is worth so much to our government. Do you have any idea how many operations these men have run, just this team alone? To give one up to the enemy, that just doesn’t sit right.”
    “Of course no one wants it that way, Art,” Sheila said, leaning forward to touch his hand with her fingertips. “Dr. Whitney
agonized
over this decision. The mission
has
to take place. If we don’t sacrifice a knight, then many goodmen will die.” She took a small package from her purse and, with one finger, pushed it across the table at him. “Dr. Whitney really needs your help on this. Make certain Johnson is on that team when the orders come through.”
    The major loved this part. Negotiation—his forte. He frowned. Drew a hand over his face and shook his head. “Ekabela will torture that GhostWalker the way they did Jack and Ken Norton. Ken is covered in scars,” Patterson said. “Sam Johnson has served this country time and time again, going above the call of duty.”
    Sheila withdrew another packet and placed it carefully on top of the other one.
    Patterson studied her face. Should he push? Sheila bit her lip when he remained silent. Laughter bubbled up. He had her. He sank back in his chair and shook his head. “Not this time. I’ve read what Ekabela does to people he doesn’t like. If you told him Johnson killed his brother, he’ll fuck him up so bad the man will beg for death and I doubt if Ekabela will give it to him—not for a very long time.”
    She took out a third packet and placed it beside the other two. Her lips compressed tight. Patterson swept up the money. “You’d better have a sniper in place, Sheila,” he warned, knowing full well Whitney wouldn’t risk blowing the deal by killing Ekabela’s prize. “I’ll see what I can do, but Whitney blew it when he had me talk to the general. I don’t hold a trusted position anymore. He plays his cards close to his chest. He and that aide of his go way back.”
    “Nevertheless, see to it that the orders change before they get to the general.”
    Patterson stood up, sliding the packs of money inside his coat in the pocket specially tailored for just such lucrative transactions, satisfaction welling up. He turned from the table to walk out.
    Sheila hastily plugged in her earpiece. “He’s on the move. Watch him closely. If anything happens to him, we’re all in trouble.” She had a team in place this time—Whitney’s own men, his private army of GhostWalkers on his payroll,men not quite as perfect as the elite soldiers on the teams, but enhanced nonetheless. She’d noticed those men—mercenaries—rarely lasted long. The effects of the enhancements seemed to take a toll on them, making them belligerent and always ready to fight.
    Several people in the café had gotten up to pay, cutting across Patterson’s path, slowing him down. A tall, slender man in a business suit picked up his briefcase and stood, nearly running into the major. He stepped back with an apology to allow the soldier to continue his line of travel. A small Asian woman turned from the cash register with a small cough, her fist going to her mouth to politely cover the soft sound.
    The major glanced back and grinned at Sheila. “See you later.” He turned and faltered in his stride, both hands going to his throat. He made a sound, much like a death rattle. He staggered, and took three more steps.
    The tall man passed him, heading for the counter, his bill in his hand. Two of Sheila’s team paced alongside Patterson but from opposite sides of the room. The major once again turned toward Sheila. She could see his face was nearly purple, his lips blue.
    “Move in. Move in,” she practically shouted.
    Patterson went down on his knees, grabbing at the Asian woman, nearly toppling her as well. She looked frightened and backed away, toward Sheila, bumping her and bouncing off. Sheila tried to get to the major, but several customers blocked her path for a minute, rushing toward the fallen man who appeared to be choking. She was bumped and pushed in the melee, delaying her. Sheila’s team reached Patterson first, surrounding him as he fell flat on his face, gasping for breath.
    “Call nine-one-one,” one of her men ordered her.
    They rolled the major over. His eyes were wide-open, sightless, bulging. His mouth was open as well, giving her the impression of a fish gasping its last breath. He was definitely dying if he wasn’t already