Lightning Game (GhostWalkers 17)

For the first time, Joe looked helpless. “This is beyond my experience, Rubin.”

“I’ll tell you what to do. Get over there.” Jonquille? He poured urgency into his voice. Listen to me, Lightning Bug. I know you think you can’t do that operation, but you have it down. Follow the map in your head. I need you here as quickly as possible. If I don’t have you, I’ll lose this patient, and I’m telling you, honey, we can’t afford to lose him. He’s too important to people we love. I need you to get that SEAL clear and then get to me. We clear?

We’re clear. No hesitation. She was a miracle, his lightning bug. He took a breath and began to unravel the mess that was the insides of Roch’s body. He was a big man, built like his brothers, a lot of muscle with that same thick black hair and strong heart. That was what had saved him. That strong heart.

He was confident Jonquille could perform the actual surgeries without repercussions to her body or mind other than being exhausted. Roch was a different story. He needed actual surgery and he also had trauma to his body. There would be an exchange, which he would never allow Jonquille to do with him, not that part, but this surgery would take hours, if—and it was a big if—he could save this man.

No one talked much about the absent Fontenot brothers. They were gone. They’d left home and they were gone. One thing Rubin was certain of—they were intelligent. You had to be if you were a Fontenot. And they were strong. Very few men would have lasted with the kind of torture Chandler had inflicted on this man.

He’d been enhanced more than once. Rubin could see evidence of a recent operation. Chandler had “practiced” on Roch. He hadn’t had an operating team to work with and he hadn’t cared because he assumed Roch would die. The man was experimenting, determined to have his own soldiers, not understanding what was going wrong with the enhancements. Chandler was a butcher, not a doctor.

Chandler had brought in two different teams of genetic doctors to operate on soldiers and then arranged accidents so they would die before they could take home what they knew about the highly secretive GhostWalker program. He hadn’t done it because he was a patriot and he was protecting his country’s assets, he’d done it because he coveted his own soldiers to use as mercenaries.

Rubin knew Major General had already gathered the information on Chandler before the GhostWalkers had been sent to terminate him and anyone else deemed a threat to the United States. Any of the men Chandler had enhanced were to be saved if at all possible.

Fortunately, all the men in Rubin’s unit were skilled doctors and gifted healers, whether they wanted to admit it or not. He had the feeling they would need every one of them. Rubin moved through Roch’s body slowly, closing himself off to his surroundings and the sense of urgency telling him he had to move fast or he’d not only lose this patient but others as well. He would have to trust the others to do their jobs. His only concern was Roch, keeping him breathing, keeping his heart and brain functioning. This man was a Fontenot. He was Nonny’s. He was Wyatt’s.

He found himself breathing in and out slowly, willing Roch to breathe with him, even though a machine was breathing for his patient. Chandler had done so much damage by trying to create a modern-day Frankenstein. He had left a list of the traits he most coveted in a soldier and then tried to splice them all into Roch, ignoring what had already been done to him.

A small computer was set up in the room, presumably to show Chandler what to do. He must have filmed the original operation and thought he could just follow along with the already complicated and errant map. Rubin was no genetics surgeon. He didn’t have a clue what he was doing in that department, nor could he undo what Whitney or anyone else had done to these men or women, as Jonquille had hoped he could. For one moment he had thought it a possibility, but looking at the mess inside Roch’s body, he knew his gift was this—putting back together those torn apart on battlefields or by ruthless scientists. Maybe someone else had a talent yet undiscovered that would help them all psychically, but he knew it wasn’t him.

Twice he found himself staggering and dizzy. Both times, Diego caught him and lowered him into a chair, wiping his face and giving him water to drink. He kept his mind firmly in Roch’s, not looking around him, not knowing who was in the room or who wasn’t. He had no idea of time passing. He only knew he wasn’t nearly done.