Lightning Game (GhostWalkers #17) -Christine Feehan Page 0,96

paused after the first half and counted out the rest of the beats deliberately, then repeated the first half a second time. He wanted her to know it was on purpose. He might not have decoded the message yet, but he understood it came from her and he was there.

There was silence for what seemed an eternity. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath. He needed to know she was alive. That she was unhurt. That those men hadn’t touched her. Violated her. She’d been so confident in her ability to protect herself and yet they’d brought her down with a dart, knocking her out and taking her right out from under him and Diego in spite of their enhanced abilities.

There were so many of the elite soldiers. Of the ground crew. What could they possibly want with Jonquille? He was supposed to be so smart and yet he wasn’t even close to that answer. He wanted to call out to her that he was right there, that he wasn’t leaving her alone. She had to feel so alone, just as she’d been for so many years. In isolation. Abandoned.

The fiery flicks touched the outer edges of his mind gently, and this time there was a hint of a feminine touch. Just the barest hint. Relief swept through him. Triumph. He took a terrible chance and pressed his fingers to the corners of his eyes tight to relieve the pressure that had built up. Communication was possible in ways the squirrel men might never suspect.

Abruptly, Diego pulled back, breaking the bridge. You’re lying out there totally exposed, Rubin. If the enemy has eyes on that slope, you just moved.

Yeah. I get that. She’s alive. Rubin didn’t care that Diego was royally angry with him—and his brother was. As a rule—as in never—Rubin didn’t make mistakes when he was out in the field surrounded by enemies. He hadn’t realized just how much he needed to have affirmation that Jonquille was on the other end of those little lightning strikes in his mind.

I get that too, but you dying isn’t going to get her back.

Rubin had to get his head in the game, and that meant pushing his woman out. You’re right. We have to find Luther before they do and then take this crew out before the others get here.

He could just be lying low until they leave. There’re so many of them, he may have decided to just wait it out safely. Again, there was a hopeful note in Diego’s mind.

Rubin considered that for less than a second. You know the old man better than that. He would never let an army take over his property. This is his home and he would defend it from the devil with his last breath.

Rubin began a slow retreat back down the slope, employing the same method he’d used coming up it. Inch by slow inch. If the enemy had eyes on the slope, if they’d spotted the vultures, he didn’t want them spotting him.

You’re right. Where the hell is he?

He didn’t bury the dead body completely, Diego, and he would have, especially knowing there’s a larger force out there. He’d want them to wonder what happened to their sentry. He’s got to be wounded.

He didn’t want to think about the old man being hurt, but there was no other explanation. Luther Gunthrie had survived too long not to know how to fight a larger force. He would become a ghost and use a bow and arrow, employ silent weapons, stealth, never letting the enemy see him. When possible, he’d make the kills disappear completely so his enemies would never find the bodies. He would create a nightmare for his enemies. Leave no tracks. No trace. They would never imagine an old man could do the damage Luther could do.

I think he’s wounded, Diego. Where would he go if he’s hurt? We need to get to him fast. They will have sent someone to look for a sentry that hasn’t checked in. We have to find him before they do.

Rubin wanted to find him alive.

12

Diego joined Rubin for a brief conference at the very bottom of the slope in the dip that Luther had hollowed out at one time to put in a wine barrel to use as a culvert.

“The songbirds couldn’t find a trace of that old man anywhere,” Diego said.

Rubin frowned and ran his fingers through his hair in agitation. He rarely showed emotion by physical tells, but losing Luther