Mind Game (19 page)

I don’t want to kill anyone, innocent or not.
She let her breath out, opened her eyes and blinked. Nicolas was nowhere in sight. She would never find him now, even with her awareness of him. He was a chameleon, blending into his surroundings.

We prefer GhostWalkers.
There was a tinge of amusement in his voice.
The night belongs to the ghosts.

She rolled her eyes. He actually sounded arrogant. Men were strange, there was no doubt about it.
Do you want me to carry your pack and rifle off the roof? It isn’t going to be safe up here, no matter who they are.

His hand slipped lightly over her mouth and Dahlia was rolled over to lie on her back staring up at him. He was on his belly beside her, grinning as her eyes widened in shock.

You’re lucky I don’t kick you off the roof.
She took refuge in false annoyance. She couldn’t help drinking in the sight of him, nor ignore the relief that swept through her. Which, she decided, was annoying in itself. She loved being independent. It was the best part of who and what she was. He seemed to be destroying her solitary nature.

Nicolas shrugged into his pack and retrieved his rifle.
Follow me.

Dahlia bit down on her lip to keep from muttering curses. She lacked social graces, no doubt about it. Following him gave her a great view of his backside so she wasn’t going to complain . . .
this
time. The man certainly enjoyed snapping out orders at every opportunity. Her heart was still pounding from him sneaking up on her. No one had ever managed to get close to her without her knowledge, because the energy always reached her first. It was something she’d always taken for granted. She was beginning to realize she couldn’t take anything for granted around Nicolas.

She did her best rendition of a lizard, scooting across the roof to the far side. Nicolas waited by the edge, drawing a rope from his pack. She touched his arm and shook her head, pointing to an inch-thick cable running between the two buildings.
Jesse has those placed around any safe houses or buildings we might use.

His eyebrow shot up.
You think I’m going to use that to cross over?

Baby.
Dahlia took the lead, stepping with confidence onto the thin cable. She wished she weren’t wearing boots. Light-soled shoes worked best for cable-walking, but there was little wind to push her around as she made her way across.

The cable stretched between the buildings, two stories off the ground. Nicolas watched, his heart in his throat, as her slight figure covered the distance. This was no slow, arms out for balance, circus walker. She moved with complete poise and assurance. He dared not touch her thoughts, afraid of distracting her, yet he desperately wanted to know what was happening in her brain to allow her such complete control. There was no way he was walking across that thin little cable. His stomach was in knots by the time she reached the other side.

Nicolas took a breath and let it out, relieving the terrible tension that had built up in him. Nothing either of his two grandfathers had taught him had prepared him for meeting Dahlia. He was grateful for the discipline and control of both mind and body. It had, at times, been rigorous, but it was his background and his military training that allowed him to be with Dahlia.

He slung his rifle around his neck, checked to make certain he could move freely without being seen, and slipped off the edge of the roof, going hand over hand to the other side. It was a long way. He was halfway when he felt the first stirring of an awareness of danger. Immediately he stopped moving and scanned the surrounding area. His visual of the street was somewhat impaired by two tall trees. He shifted slightly, moving with more caution.

Do you feel it?
Dahlia’s voice was a mere whisper in his head. The bridge between them was shaky. He felt more of a push of energy than anything else, almost as if she’d sent it his way to share the feeling of danger within it.

Drop back where you’re safe from attack.
The second the words left his mind he wished them back. She was not a woman to be idle when there was danger. She’d spent far too much time on her own, and she’d relied heavily on her own judgment. He had to find a way to curb his overwhelming protective instincts.

Dahlia clenched her teeth and didn’t respond. In her life, very few people ever tried to give her orders. Even Whitney had given up after a few harrowing accidents. It wasn’t just other people’s emotions, it was her own she feared most. She had a fiery temper and all the Zen meditation in the world didn’t seem to help her when someone tried to boss her around.

She watched as Nicolas made his way hand over hand across the distance, breathing a sigh of relief when he swung silently onto the roof. She dropped back to give him more room. He crawled over to her.

Something is different. The energy is very violent. It feels the same as when we were in the bayou.

Dahlia didn’t look at him when she gave him the information, and he took that as a bad sign. She was definitely not happy with him assuming command.
I feel it too. My best guess is this: the team entering the house now has a military background and they’re looking for you and Jesse. I believe they’re NCIS. The team coming up behind them are the ones from the swamp and are most likely here to kill you. Do you agree?

Dahlia watched him crawl to the side of the roof where the gutter ran the two stories to the ground.
Yes. And I think the second team is aware of the NCIS men and intends to kill them.

I’d have to agree.
Nicolas took a small metal object from his pack and began tapping a rhythm on the gutter. He repeated the rhythm over and over. Long and short, dots and dashes. A warning to the men sent out by the NCIS that they were in for a firefight. Morse code wasn’t used much anymore, but many of those in the Navy had learned it. As he tapped out the warning, he sent a subtle “push” for the men to readily hear and recognize the age-old warning.

It was Dahlia who first felt the rising tension from within the house.
They know. They got your warning.
She didn’t know if it was the level of malevolent energy finding her or the continual use of telepathy, but her body was beginning to react. She tried to hide it from Nicolas. He was slithering into position, sliding his weapon forward, fitting the butt of the rifle snugly into his shoulder, and putting his eye to the lens.

Listen to me. Don’t get upset until you hear me out.
His voice whispered in her mind. Touched her insides with danger all around them. She wanted to reach out and hang onto him to keep the energy at bay, but he needed complete concentration.
I want you to leave now. We can set up a rendezvous point. I’m going to have to kill someone. I can’t leave the men in the house defenseless. Those stalking the NCIS team have mortars, and we know they aren’t afraid to use them. Your people don’t have that kind of firepower. There are civilians in the area. This could turn ugly very fast. If you go, I have only myself to worry about. I know you can make your way through their lines. If you stay, Dahlia, you’re going to be too sick to walk out on your own.

He was right, and she hated that he was right.
I’ll go, but we can’t go too far. We can backtrack these people or better yet, follow them back to Jesse. If you do have to kill them, don’t kill all of them.
She tried to sound grown-up and calm about it. In her line of work, no one died. She went in under cover of darkness and played the same games she played as a child. No one was around to see what she did and no one ever got hurt. In the last few hours she’d seen more death and violence than she ever wished to see in a lifetime.

Nicolas wanted her clear, but not so far away from him that they might get separated.
Go to the church in Jackson Square. You can get to the roof. I’ll meet you there. If something goes wrong, get to the NCIS. Don’t try to find Jesse by yourself.

Dahlia didn’t reply. She sensed the movement of the men in the darkness and began to crawl backward, away from Nicolas. The farther she got from him, the more the energy began to mass around her. She felt the familiar signs. The hair on her body standing up. The churning in the pit of her stomach. The pounding in her temples. The last thing he needed was for her to pass out, or worse, have a seizure.

Silently reciting a calming mantra, Dahlia made her way to the other side of the building and slipped over the side. She knew they would never spot her, not unless it was entirely accidental. There were advantages to being small. She lay flat against the side of the wall as she climbed down, using finger and toeholds she found in the cracks. She was always patient, making the descent in silence and without haste. Movement caught the eyes, so most stealth was done with care and in slow motion.

She felt for the ground with her toe, connected and jumped, landing softly in the dirt beside the house. She remained there, crouched down, orienting herself to her position and the light patterns cast from the streetlights and windows of the surrounding buildings. She could no longer see any of the men near the “safe” house. Jesse had been wrong. Someone knew about it. He worked for the NCIS, and yet someone who shouldn’t have had found the safe house. Who could have tipped them off? Someone from Jesse’s office, or had they tortured the information out of him? The idea made her sick. She couldn’t imagine Jesse telling anyone anything. He was always confident to the point of arrogance. And he was dedicated to his job and country. The idea of someone breaking Jesse’s code of honor was abhorrent to her.

She slipped into the shadow of the building and edged around the corner, feeling for the energy that would tip her off to the fact that she wasn’t alone. Energy was a double-edged sword. As it collected around her, she lost the ability to “feel” precisely where it was coming from. Energy poured from the house, masses of nerves and fear and the determination to live. The NCIS team inside the house had expected to find her alone and had gone in “soft,” not looking for trouble. They knew now that they were surrounded and in for a firefight from an unknown enemy.

Nicolas was determined to even the odds. He lay on the roof, his sites steady on his first target. If they were going to wipe out the NCIS team, he was going to make certain they paid for it. For the first time, he was slightly distracted, part of him wanting to touch Dahlia and know she was safe. He was certain he would know if she ran into trouble. He steadied his finger and kept his eye firmly against the scope, hoping she was far enough away when he pulled the trigger.

 
DAHLIA went to her knees as the wave of violence swamped her. She clutched her stomach, fighting off dizziness. White spots danced in front of her eyes. She could feel her airway begin to close. She pushed herself up and staggered through the narrow pathway of bushes and garbage cans, holding on to branches as she gasped for breath. She tried to control the sound of her breathing. Sound traveled in the night, and even with the music that seemed to pour from various establishments a street or two over, she knew the kind of men hunting for her would be tuned to the slightest noise.

She had to cross an open street. There was no one in sight, and the violent energy was so strong it was impossible to tell if anyone was close to her. She had to chance crossing. It was imperative to get as far from the battle-ground as possible. She glanced around, one last cautious look, and started across the street, moving as quickly as she was able to on rubbery legs. Her vision blurred. The streets were uneven, cracked and pitted in places. She stumbled and hoped if anyone saw her they would assume she’d been drinking. She was three quarters to the other side when a man stepped out of the shadows and off the sidewalk. He was carrying a gun, and it was pointed right at her.

Dahlia felt the waves of malevolence pouring off of him but she kept walking, her gait stumbling and uneven, muttering to herself as if she didn’t notice him. She doubted if anyone knew what she looked like. The French Quarter was packed most of the time, even in the early morning hours before dawn, and tourists drank all the time. She glanced up when she was only a few feet from him, feigned surprise, hoping she looked like a regular on her way home.

“Are you coming home from a costume party? Nice getup.” She slurred her words and swayed drunkenly, inching closer to him, trying to get within striking distance.

Confusion hit her, a wall of it, as he tried to assess if she was a danger to him. She wore a black sweatshirt and boots, but her hair was flowing to her waist and she obviously was without a weapon. She was too small to be a physical threat. The man visibly relaxed. “What the hell are you looking at?”

She muttered something wordless, hoping to continue her impression of a drunk.

He reached out and caught her arm, pushing her toward the wall. “What are you doing out this late?” Holding her there, his hand gripped her breast hard through the material of her sweatshirt.

Dahlia calculated the odds of fighting him off while maintaining her drunken charade. He was hurting her with his squeezing. He suddenly laughed. She realized he believed all the fighting was taking place around the corner. He was bored and a little angry that he didn’t get to participate, instead regulated to standing guard. He was tired of watching the action and had made up his mind to have a little of his own.

She waited until he lifted his head and exposed his throat. The moment he did, she hit him with the edge of her hand, putting her body weight behind it, at the same time trying to slide sideways, using the wall to help her get away from him. He was enormously strong, grunting and choking at the blow, but doggedly moved sideways with her, keeping her body pinned between his and the wall. He hit her hard in her stomach with his clenched fist, stepping back, still gagging, as she doubled over. He raised his gun, the butt end toward her face.

Dahlia knew immediately he was dead. Her mind and body went nearly numb. Inside of her head, right before the white-hot pain exploded through her body, she heard her own scream. The force of the bullet drove the man backward away from her, so that he crumbled like a rag doll and settled onto the sidewalk in a lifeless heap. His gun clattered to the walkway beside him. It seemed to happen in slow motion, her vision narrowing to the grim image of death.