Phantom Game (GhostWalkers 18)

His movements, now that Jonas could actually see Tusker rather than just monitor his progress via the underground network, reminded him of a bull elephant. Jonas instantly cataloged everything he knew about the animal and the way it behaved when attacking. It was one of the most dangerous and aggressive animals in the world when riled.

Head down, eyes on his target, Tusker’s entire demeanor had changed. He looked larger and much more lethal. He was a handsome man, just as Oliver had been, but his facial features were somewhat distorted. Examining him closely, Jonas could see a thick patch of darker skin on his forehead that was worrisome because it made no sense. A similar thick patch had formed on his cheeks and along his jaws. Jonas had never seen such distortion, as if those patches were still growing and taking over Tusker’s entire body—like armor.

That pulled him up short. Was it that? Was it armor? He only had seconds for his brain to analyze and figure out exactly what was covering Tusker’s face and most likely his body under his clothes—clothes that suddenly looked entirely too snug in places, as if he were wearing a policeman’s vest.

Pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place, pieces that Jonas didn’t have time to connect, not with Tusker suddenly charging Jeff’s back as Jeff pulled at the spear in Kyle’s shoulder. Jonas leapt over Kyle and Jeff, the balls of both feet striking Tusker precisely in the eyes, driving him back and away from his intended target.

Jonas was enormously strong, and he’d put not only his body weight behind the blow but every bit of his enhanced strength. He rocked Tusker, drove him back, but Tusker didn’t go down. What he did do was trumpet a challenge, rage and pain all at the same time. Jonas had targeted the other man’s eyes because that was now the only place on Tusker’s face not protected by the thick patches of hardened, armor-like skin. Jonas was certain that armor would protect Tusker from feeling too much pain—possibly even block or deflect any bullet that hit where those patches grew thick.

Keeping his body between Tusker and his two fellow GhostWalkers, Jonas studied his opponent, searching for any area of vulnerability. Jonas had speed and he had strength. He might be more animal than man when he battled, all those predatory traits rushing to attack anyone who dared to threaten those he called family, but he also had a brain. And his father had taught him that, above all else, his brain was his greatest weapon.

Tusker rushed him, driving the heels of his boots into the ground as he ran, his eyes taking on a red glow even as they began to swell alarmingly. The man didn’t have much time before he would lose his vision.

Jonas had practiced so many times with his throwing knives, they had practically become a part of his body, like his arms, his hands, his fingers. He drew the knives easily from the loops in his belt where they lay flat against his body, and he flung each of them into the air, one after the other. The blades flew like beautiful flashing wings, taking on a life of their own. Lethal. Deadly. True.

All six blades found their targets. Both eyes. The throat. The groin. The inside of Tusker’s right thigh. His left armpit. Tusker continued forward for two more steps, plowing through the forest vegetation, and then he went to his knees, trumpeting a mournful note into the fog before going down face-first into the leaves.

Jonas wanted to roar with rage. For a moment, all he could see was banded heat, and all he could feel was that terrible self-loathing consuming him. So much senseless killing. Every death felt like murder.

For God’s sake, Tusker was Oliver’s brother. Why hadn’t Shaker intervened or tried to help Tusker? For that matter, why hadn’t he tried to help Lewis, or any of his men? More pieces of the puzzle were starting to click into place. Bile rose, and with it, that dark purple fury that threatened to consume him.

He could actually see the way the adrenaline-laced chemical rushed through his system, the neurons feeding his veins, taking the toxic neurotransmitter and spreading it through him fast. The chemical moved the opposite way it should, disturbing the cells and nerves to push the wrong way so blood flowed hot and fast, swirling in a hot, volcanic mess.

Through the dark purple, a single, bright pinkish-red vibration slipped in, the electrical pulse interrupting the way the chemical flow rushed, reversing it, soothing the bristling nerve endings until that hot, shocking rage was controllable. A part of him wanted to wrap his arms around Camellia, bury his face in her silky hair and just thank the universe for her. Another part wanted to rage to the universe that she had to experience the worst in him, see him so out of control that she needed to pull him back from a killing fury.