Pain shot through her head momentarily taking away the pain in her arm. It robbed her of breath and she bent over, dragging air into her lungs to keep from fainting. It was odd, but she always associated pain with her memories of the other girls. She tried never to think of them, not as children, not when they were with her.
Flash wiped her mind blank, pretending it was a chalkboard and she could just simply erase all thoughts. She wouldn't think of her past. She wouldn't think of Raoul and her bleak future, and she wouldn't feel the broken bones in her arm or the raw flesh where the alligator had taken hold of her. She would concentrate only on walking.
The rain seemed endless, as if the storm had stalled right over the island. She was soaked and muddy, blood running down her arm, hair plastered to her face. She stumbled again and stopped, the jarring pain making her sick. She looked around carefully, frowning as she did so, all senses going on alert.
All she really wanted to do was lie down and go to sleep. The kick came out from behind a tree, slamming into her hard, driving her back and down so that she landed on her butt, cradling her arm protectively. She actually saw white stars as she fought to keep from fainting. When she could control the pain she forced her head up to look at her assailant. A man dressed in military-issue camouflage clothes stood over her pointing his rifle at her face.
She started to laugh, the sound slightly hysterical. "You know, this hurts like a son of a bitch. You'd be doing me a favor. Go ahead and shoot."
"Get up." He glanced right and left and then reached down, grasping her good arm and yanking her to her feet.
She went boneless, turning into a helpless rag doll. The barrel of his rifle dipped low as he used his strength to drag the dead weight of her body up. Blood dripped steadily down her useless arm and hit the reeds with small splatters. She concentrated on the pattern of the drops, focusing to keep from feeling the pain pumping through her, making her sick as he jarred her broken bones. The moment her feet were under her, she lashed out, kicking the rifle from his hands with enough force to send it spinning into the water.
He swore at her, circling a safe distance from her feet. "You're losing a lot of blood. Eventually you're going to go down and then I'll just drag your ass through the swamp."
"You can't wait. They're hunting you and this time there's a pack after you. You don't stand a chance and you know it." She reached back between her shoulder blades and slid a knife out. The hilt was familiar and oddly comforting in her palm.
"I think I have more time than you do. You're going to pass out."
She drew in air, slow and even, watching him, turning in a slow circle to stay facing him, using the minimum amount of energy. "Men always underestimate women." She watched the middle of his chest, able to see arms and legs, his entire body as he continued his slow stalking circle. "You shouldn't have come after me. You can walk away from this right now. Whitney will never know. If you don't, I'll have to kill you."
He spat on the ground. "So you're a tough chick."
"Oh, you have no idea how tough."
He moved with blurring speed, kicking out at her broken arm in an attempt to quickly end the standoff.
She stepped aside, just barely, just enough to allow the booted foot to miss her by a hair's breadth. As she stepped she slashed his calf with the knife, slicing through his heavy clothes to cut deep.
"You bitch!"
"That was me being nice," she contradicted.
He rushed her, fists clenched, the promise of death in his eyes.
She stood her ground, let him come, the knife held low and close to her body. She knew he expected her to try to bring it up when he was in close, but he was far too big and she was in bad shape. She didn't dare let him get his hands on her. When he was two feet from her, she threw the blade straight and hard, using every bit of enhancement Whitney had given her. She stood unmoving when he clutched at the knife, blood bubbling around the shaft, a shocked look on his face. His legs crumpled and he went down hard, face in the muck.
"That was me being a bitch," she said. She swayed, wanting to retrieve the knife, but knowing she didn't have the strength to turn him over and pull it out of his chest.
She had to get off the island before Raoul found her gone. She couldn't go into the hospital. She'd thrown Whitney's name out to the hunter and he hadn't even flinched, hadn't questioned her. He knew Whitney and he definitely was part of the doctor's experiments. "I'm sorry, Raoul," she whispered. "But I'm never going back there. Never. Not even for you."
She began walking toward the small strip of land that connected to the frontage road. If she could find one of the bayou people, someone older, someone maybe versed in treating injuries, she'd hole up there until she could make it out of New Orleans. It was a temptation to go to her airboat. She had everything she needed on it, but if anyone was watching, or it was rigged to blow, she wouldn't have the strength--or time--to find out. She'd have to rely on the bayou courtesy to help her escape.
Most of Burrell's friends knew her and they would treat her injuries and give her a place to stay, but unfortunately Raoul was part of their community--she doubted if they would hide her presence from his grandmother or him. She would have to find a way to keep the gossip from getting out until she could leave.
Light-headed, she stumbled over several rocks and plants before finding the small narrow trail leading to the strip of land. She'd lost too much blood. Flame recognized the signs. She had to hurry to get onto the road where someone might stop for her before Raoul came out of the marshland.
She threw up twice as she made her way toward the frontage road. She just kept moving, one foot in front of the other until she was on the road. She walked toward the bridge, swaying, making a great effort to keep her feet under her and praying for a car to come by.
It wasn't a beat-up old pickup truck, or one of the older cars that passed her, but a shiny new town car complete with a chauffeur. The black car slammed on its brakes and backed up until it was beside her. The driver's door burst open simultaneously with the passenger's door. James Parsons and his driver both rushed to her side. James caught her good arm to steady her and the driver circled her waist to keep her from falling.
"Let me help you into the car," the driver said. "I'm Carl. Carl Raines, Mr. Parsons's chauffeur. You remember me. My God. What happened to you?"
Flame heard his voice as if in the distance trying to soothe her. She shook her head. She couldn't go to the hospital. There was no way she could protect herself if they took her there. She was too weak to stop the two men from putting her in the car. James Parsons slid in beside her and slammed the door closed.
Out of energy and unable to turn her head, Flame just stared at the closed door. All around her was rich leather and mahogany. She slipped farther down on the seat unable to hold herself upright. Her line of sight was below the seat. It took a moment or two before she noticed small details. Leather ties anchored to the seat. The scratches in the leather. There were three of them, one deep and two much more shallow. Her hand fell heavily to the floor between the seat and the door. Her eyes followed. There was a small distinct earring, one she was certain she'd seen before. It was a gold hoop with silver footprints on it. The same earrings Joy Chiasson wore in the picture her mother had given Flame. She'd told Flame all about giving the earrings to her daughter.
Flame managed to bring her head up, her movements slow and uncoordinated. Across the leather seat her eyes met James Parsons's. He was smiling. She became aware of the musty scent of sex. Both James and the driver wore evening clothes, as if they were returning from a party.
She smiled back, sliding deeper into the seat. Her gaze shifted around the car, taking in the neat bar and the plasma screen. The player was tiny, a mini DVD player. Beside it was a disc much like a CD but smaller. "Thanks for helping me." Her gaze drifted toward the front. A small red eye blinked back at her.
"James, get her something to drink."
The order came from the driver
and there was a distinct command to the voice. James reddened as he leaned forward to pour amber liquid over ice in a small Waterford tumbler. "I know what to do," James snapped under his breath. He thrust the glass into her hand. "Drink this."
Flame swirled the liquid over the ice. She'd bet her last dollar that the drink was doped. "I'm dripping blood all over your seat. Do you have a towel?" No matter how hard she reached for her voice, it wasn't there. She sounded thin and reedy.
James's smile stretched wider, but didn't reach his eyes. His expression remained flat and cold and empty. Flame glanced away from him to the front where the driver sat. His eyes stared back at her from the rearview mirror. Not cold. Not flat. Not even empty. There was cruelty there--worse--evil. And there was a carnal lust she'd never encountered. Not normal, not even kinky. Just raw depravity.
James leaned into her, pushing the drink toward her mouth. Still staring into her eyes, he yanked at the front of her plaid shirt, ripping it away to expose her bare breasts.
She threw the contents of the drink in his face, followed the liquid up with a hard slam of the Waterford crystal tumbler to the side of his head. "Back off you slime bucket." She tried the door, found it locked and slammed the tumbler against James's head a second time when he lunged at her. "I'm not sweet little drugged Joy, am I?"
She might not be drugged and she might not be Joy, but she was definitely going to get sick again. The bones in her arm grated together, this time taking her breath away.
"What the hell!" Carl exclaimed.
Flame glanced at him and her eyes widened as she saw the GhostWalkers materializing out of the gray rain. They stood in a line across the frontage road, semiautomatic rifles to their shoulders, muddy, wet, barely discernible in the driving rain. Behind them, a helicopter set down making it impossible to get past them. Carl slammed on the brakes instantly.
He shoved open his door. "I've got a woman hurt here. I'm trying to get her to the hospital."
Gator and Kadan split off from their group, walking up from either side of the car, the rifles rock steady. "Where is she?" Gator asked.
"In the back," the driver said. "She's bleeding all over the place."
"Did you call an ambulance to meet you?" Kadan asked. "Unlock the back door," he added when Gator stepped back as if he might drive the butt of his gun through the window.
"I just picked her up. I was calling when I saw you."
"We'll take her from here. We'll airlift her to the hospital." Kadan never once lowered the barrel of his rifle.
Gator yanked open the door and stared at Flame. She was covered in blood and mud. Her shirt was torn open, her breasts exposed. She was so pale he thought she might have already bled out. "God, baby," he whispered.
She turned her head, the movement obviously painful. "I'm okay. You ought to see the other guy."
"I did." He reached in and drew her out to him, careful of her broken arm. It was only when he was settling her against him that he realized the man in the backseat was James Parsons and his face was split open above his eye. Flame still clutched the bloodied crystal tumbler in her hand. "You son of a bitch. What did you do?"
"Nothing." James put his hands up. "I swear. She was hysterical. Her clothes were ripped, she was bleeding. We put her in the car and were taking her to the nearest hospital. I tried to get her something to drink, but she went crazy on me."
"The thing is, James," Gator said, "I know where you live." He kicked the door closed and carried Flame to the helicopter.
Kadan stayed at his back, rifle trained on the driver of the car. The other Ghost Walkers were motionless until Gator was safely in the helicopter and then they followed, one by one, rifles still trained on the black town car's occupants.
Gator covered Flame with a blanket, his throat tight, his heart squeezed hard in his chest. "I'm really pissed at you, cher. You should have stayed where I put you."
Her hand twisted weakly in his shirt. "Whitney will come after me in the hospital, Raoul. I won't be able to protect myself. Swear to me you won't let him take me. Swear it."
He looked down at her face. Her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow. Beads of sweat formed on her face under the mud. There was still strength in the hand gripping his shirt. Gator leaned close, pressed his lips against her ear. "You have my word, Flame. I swear it."
Her fist relaxed slowly and she turned her head into his chest, giving up the fight against unconsciousness.
Flame smelled the stench of the hospital first. She could hear the murmur of the nurses talking. Someone leaned over her and adjusted the IV in her arm. Fear choked her and she tried to struggle awake. She heard groaning and again there was a soft murmur, this time a man's voice soothing her. She wanted to open her eyes, but the command between her brain and her eyes didn't seem to be working.
"Flame? Can you hear me, cher? They operated on your arm, set it, and are pumping you full of antibiotics. Everything looks good." That was definitely Raoul's drawling voice. "You're in the recovery room." He leaned closer. "You were never alone. We were in the operating room with you."
"She won't remember anything you say," the nurse advised, "but it's good to talk to her. It will help bring her out from under the anesthesia."
Flame felt his hands on her and a part of her relaxed. Raoul was there with her, just as he promised. "You sure she won't remember?" he asked.
The nurse must have shaken her head because Raoul leaned closer to her and pressed a kiss against her ear. "Can you hear me?"
Flame nodded her head.
"I think I've fallen in love with you."
Flame stayed very still. She almost held her breath as his soft drawling voice went straight to her heart. It wasn't commanding, or cajoling, it was a voice filled with fear and wonder.
"You sure she won't remember anything I say?" Gator raised his voice again.
"They never do."
She waited, her heart beating hard in anticipation. She felt the warmth of his breath against her ear. His lips touched her. "You scared the hell out of me, cher. If you ever do something like this again, I'm goin' to turn you over my knee and beat your pretty little ass until you can't sit down and you beg me for mercy."
Laughter bubbled up out of nowhere. She was smiling as she succumbed to the drugs in her body.
The second time she woke she knew she was in a hospital room. There was that same choking fear, amounting almost to terror. She smelled Whitney, his drugs and his experiments. They were all around her. She wanted out. She needed to be out.
"Raoul?" She whispered his name. Her guardian angel. He'd slipped past her guard somehow and she'd let him in. When had she gone from thinking him her enemy to believing in him so strongly?
"It's all right, you're safe." That was definitely Raoul. She tried to pry her eyes open. She frowned. Nothing made sense. She could swear the male nurse was Wyatt. She seemed to be drifting so maybe she was caught in a dream.
The nurse leaned over her talking overloud. "Did you say Wyatt? Cuz you can't be whispering my name with my brother in the room."
There was no doubt in her mind that the voice was Wyatt's. She focused on him. "What are you doing dressed like a nurse?" Maybe she really was dreaming. He was in green scrubs.
He winked at her, reminding her all too much of Raoul. His dark curls fell into the middle of his forehead. "I'm undercover."
"Well you look ridiculous."
"I look fetchin'. I've got Gator all hot and bothered worrying you're goin' wake up and fall in love with me."
"You look ridiculous," she repeated.
"All my patients think I'm cute," he argued.
Gator snickered. "You don't have any other patients."
Flame kept her focus on Wyatt. Nothing made any sense. "You're giving me a headache. What exactly is your job?"
"I'm guardin' you, babe."
Flame turned away from him to find herself looking into Gator's eyes. He was sitting beside her, both hands holding hers, his thumb rubbing ba
ck and forth over her skin in a long caress. His eyes were shadowed and dark. He leaned forward and brushed a kiss on the corner of her mouth.
"You scared me."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't ever do it again." He stroked back strands of hair from her face. "I mean it, cher, never do that to me again."
"Take me out of here, Raoul. Anywhere else. The cabin. Take me out of here."
"Don' be breakin' my heart, Flame. You need more antibiotics. And they're giving you strong painkillers. Believe me, cher, you need them. The team is here and we're covering you. No one's goin' to be takin' you away from me. Go back to sleep now."
She tried to be reassured, but the idea of Whitney finding her was terrifying. "He'll know I'm here. The computers . . ."
"Have been taken care of. Go to sleep and let me handle this. You're a ghost, honey, just like the rest of us."
She dreamt of the other girls. Young girls rocking back and forth in pain. Girls laughing together, stolen moments of happiness. She dreamt of a room with no windows and no comfort and being so alone. She dreamt of betrayal--and Lily.
It was dark the next time she opened her eyes. She looked around the room. A small woman with dark hair was adjusting the IV. "I don't like the look of all the bruises, Ryland. I should be getting the blood tests back soon. She looks so worn down."
A man moved into her view, his fingers going to the nape of the other woman's neck. "She'll be okay. Gator isn't going to let anything happen to her, Lily."
Flame's breath caught in her throat. Her gaze darted around the room until she found him. He was sitting close to the bed, his legs sprawled out in front of him. He looked tired, and his five o'clock shadow was getting unruly. "I don't like you being here, Lily. You shouldn't have come."
Ryland turned at the edge in Gator's voice. "There's no need to talk like that. Lily had to come. Flame is her sister, just as Dahlia and the other girls are. Of course she had to come."
"Flame doesn't trust her."
"She has no reason not to trust her," Ryland snapped.
"Shh," Lily cautioned. "Don't wake her. And she does have reason not to trust me." She moved closer to the side of the bed to touch Flame's arm. "She was going through chemotherapy and she planned to escape. I told him. She would have died without treatment."