Lightning Game (GhostWalkers 17)

Give me a minute, Diego said. Getting a flock that big to do what I want isn’t easy. You’ll need backup, Rubin.

Like hell, he would. Catch up later.

Rubin scanned the area one last time and then jumped from the tree, landing in a crouch on the ground, his legs absorbing the shock. He stayed still, listening for sounds, letting the wind carry information to him. Just because he was making an educated guess that the elite soldiers weren’t going to waste manpower on a ground crew for grunt work didn’t mean he was right. Even if he was right, more than likely the leader of the ground crew was one of the elite. Those soldiers were every bit as good in the woods as Diego. At least some of them were.

He began to pick his way through the heavier brush to find a trail that led up toward the ridge, one that wouldn’t give movement away. This was mostly flatland. The uphill was sparse with few trees, and those were scrub pine, sugar pine and one or two straggly spruce trees rising above the thick brush. Animal tunnels abounded. Rabbits and foxes clearly made their way through the brambles of wild berries and thorns. Some of the branches were dried and could easily snap, alerting both wildlife and any sentry. If Luther was being hunted, his killers would hear.

In some places Rubin went to his belly and crawled through the tunnels, in others he stayed low using the uneven terrain to hide his forward movement. He was good at blending in, blurring his image when he needed to and using every advantage that he had. He covered the distance quickly, eating up the first mile fast, the second half mile just as quickly and then slowing significantly, circling around to come at what appeared to be something large the birds were interested in.

The vultures were still high, wings spread wide, a lazy, slow perusal, but their eyes were on a prize below them. They hadn’t settled on the ground, or in a nearby bush—they were still checking out their intended meal. That made Rubin wary, and maybe hopeful that if that was a body—Luther’s body—he was still alive. He trilled softly, a short series of low singing notes like an early morning songbird. He waited for a few minutes, hunkered down in the dirt. There was no answer. He was going to have to move closer.

Even another three feet higher, the grass would barely cover his head if he was lying flat. There were more boulders than brush until one hit the actual ridge. The wide expanse of ground cover looked like a giant layer of rocks wedged into the sparse grasses before once again turning into brush and timber. It was as if there were a band around that section of earth. The uphill was slight, not at all like the trails leading to his cabin, where the elevation was much steeper.

Rubin went into his “gecko” mode. He flattened his body as much as possible and allowed his skin coloring to change to match the background of the rocks and grass. His clothing reflected the terrain around him, blending perfectly. He stretched his senses, looking for eyes in the sky, on the rocks, on the ground, anywhere at all. He inhaled and used the hairs on his body to try to find his enemy. If there was one close, they were excellent at blending in and staying downwind.

Using his toes and fingers, he began to drag himself over the ground to a better spot where he could visually see a larger area, including the one the vultures were interested in. He didn’t hurry. There was always that one small whisper in the mind that urged one to do so when a friend might be in trouble, but getting killed wouldn’t help. He inched his way to the position he knew would be safe and backed into cover before lifting his head until only his eyes showed.

The wind touched his face and brought with it the scent of death. For a moment, his heart reacted with a lurch. There was a body. He could see part of it, one side, arm, leg and rib cage. Definitely male in combat gear. He let himself breathe a sigh of relief. That wasn’t Luther. If this man was dead, Luther had to have killed him. So where was Luther? He had no doubt that Luther had more than one dead body buried deep on his property. Why not this one? No time? Was Luther hurt? Why hadn’t he answered when Rubin had sent out a bird call?

That Luther? There was tightness in Diego’s voice.

No. One of the soldiers. I put out a call for Luther, but he didn’t answer. This one isn’t buried, and you know Luther would have buried him deep if he could have.