The three men had makeshift camps they’d used as a base to hunt and fish. They hadn’t been together, nor did they seem to have had any contact with one another when she’d traced their movements, yet all three men had died the same way.
The fisherman who’d found the bodies had called the authorities and they’d made a report. Dr. Whitney immediately had been notified that an unknown virus appearing to be hemorrhagic had killed three random people, men who made their living on the river. Unfortunately, Whitney suspected his three missing virologists had created the virus and she’d been sent in to confirm. More, Whitney was certain the three were testing the virus, or showing buyers what it could do. He feared the virus had been offered for sale to the MSS and they had used it on the unsuspecting forgotten tribe.
She’d been angry when she saw the ravaged remains of a once peaceful and thriving community. The people of Lupa Suku had been passive and had lived in accord with the forest and the animals there. They were self-sufficient and loyal to one another. They didn’t deserve to die the way they had, callously thrown away for someone’s gain. Whatever the agenda of the MSS, it shouldn’t have mattered more than those people.
She had to admit she was still angry—angry enough that she felt satisfaction when she spotted that shadow of death flowing through the village taking no prisoners. She’d followed him, very careful to make sure that he hadn’t spotted her and turned that bloodthirsty knife on her. Now she lay in the dirt and rotting vegetation, with ants and spiders crawling around her and over her, watching him. Every muscle in her body was in knots.
She had a bad feeling and wanted to shout at him to get out of there, to run away. Or dissolve in the way of ghosts. He’d taken too many lives and he didn’t seem to want to stop. The alarm had gone out and now the rest of the group would be actively looking for him, especially once they tried to rouse their commander and found him dead. That would happen at any moment.
The GhostWalker had to know he was blown. He had to. She wasn’t supposed to make her presence known. She had a job to do and she couldn’t do it if anyone knew about her. She was supposed to stay off the radar. She couldn’t be seen backing the man who had killed so many members of the MSS.
He was not going to stop. She could only watch in silence as the shadow rose up almost at the two guards’ feet. His thirsty knife slashed across one throat and then the other. It happened so fast neither man probably ever saw him. Neither had turned his head toward him before the second throat had been cut and the shadow had gone to ground.
Watching the two MSS realize they were dead, that the life was draining from them as blood poured onto the ground, was something out of a horror movie. She couldn’t look away. She was wholly mesmerized by the way they stared at each other in silent terror, and then slowly crumpled to the ground like empty gunnysacks.
Gunfire erupted, pulling her attention back to the assassin. She couldn’t see him, just the blaze of orange and blue muzzle blasts as several guards opened fire around the station where their two fallen comrades had gone down. She thought they were firing blindly, but then she saw him. He was running along a deer trail that led straight toward her—and the river.
He took her breath away. He was solid, all muscle and she could see, even with the veil of gray rain, that his muscles rippled deliciously as he ran. His tee was plastered on him, so that he might as well not have been wearing one. She could see his body moving effortlessly, even when he leapt over fallen tree trunks and smaller brush.
He didn’t carry anything with him, so if he had a war bag, he’d stashed it somewhere. Did that mean he’d come to the encampment armed with only a knife? He was heading for the river and a small army of very angry MSS soldiers chased after him. He was fast though, like that machine she’d named him before.
Shylah scooted back as he came close, but there was no way to move as he veered away from a particularly large tree trunk and headed