“It’s her, damn it,” someone snarled. “Get in the room with Calhoun. Put a knife to his throat. If she gets that far, threaten to kill him. She’ll cave.”
The house was eerily silent after the command was issued. Nicolas listened for the heavy tread of boots leading to Calhoun’s room. Two men were coming toward Nicolas, answering Gregson’s order.
He’s coming to put a knife to your throat. Don’t react. I’ll take him out. Nicolas warned Calhoun of the intent.
I’m telling you it isn’t worth it. Get the hell out while you have the chance. Calhoun’s voice was shaky, even in Nicolas’s mind.
Can you take out the one coming for you?
Too weak. Can’t even lift my arms.
Nicolas made out the men moving like shadowy wraiths down the narrow hall. It was a bad position for them and they knew it, moving into the doorways for cover, but wary of the rooms once they found their fallen comrade.
You’re a GhostWalker, Calhoun, same as I am, the same as Dahlia. Turn him away from you. Buy me some time. Nicolas made it a command. Calhoun was a Navy SEAL. No matter who he worked for, once a SEAL, always a SEAL. He knew what an order was, and he would obey it with his last breath.
It was significant to Nicolas that Calhoun didn’t question what a GhostWalker was. He’d heard the term before, and that was a piece of information worth remembering. Only a select few with high-security clearance were familiar with the term. Jesse Calhoun hadn’t been among those trained with Nicolas. Where had he come from?
The lights flickered on. Immediately it was a disadvantage for him. Ghosts walked in the dark. Nicolas concentrated on the circuit breaker, on blowing the circuits. It wasn’t easy. He didn’t have the gift as some of the other GhostWalkers did. Almost immediately lightbulbs throughout the house began to pop. Sparks and glass rained down. Wires melted, plunging the house once again into darkness. Flames licked up the walls and spread across the ceiling, casting orange shadows everywhere. Nicolas couldn’t generate that kind of heat. Dahlia was helping him, focusing energy and aiming it. As always with Dahlia, the results were far more than she’d hoped.
Nicolas waited until two men went past him before sliding silently to the floor, replacing the Beretta with this knife. He made his way along the hall, keeping behind the two men leading the way for him, his footfalls exactly matching theirs. The lead man shoved open a door on the left and instantly Nicolas smelled blood. The scent was overpowering, sickly sweet. Worse was the smell of infection. Like the ghost he was, he moved up directly behind the man closest to him and caught him around the neck with a thick arm, the knife slicing deep.
Nicolas felt the surge of power as Jesse Calhoun tried to keep the first guard’s attention as he came toward the bed. Nicolas lowered the body to the floor and stalked after the lead guard. The man already had his knife out as he approached the wounded NCIS agent. Nicolas was on him before he could reach Jesse, dropping him to the floor without caring too much about the noise.
“Nicolas Trevane,” he greeted, watching Calhoun closely for signs of awareness. The GhostWalker program had been small.
“I know who you are,” Calhoun responded. His voice was a thread of sound. The very act of speaking seemed too much for him. “Get Dahlia clear. They can’t get their hands on her.”
Nicolas waved him to silence. He could feel Dahlia’s presence, although he’d told her to stay as far from the house as she could so that any violence taking place would be dispersed naturally before he ever called her in. He waited in the darkness, afraid for her, wondering if she was ill, while only a few feet from him Jesse Calhoun lay dying. He heard Gregson call out to his men just as a hail of bullets cut through the wall. He threw himself onto the floor and reached up to drag Calhoun off the bed.
The NCIS agent was a dead weight, already unconscious when he hit the floor. Nicolas pulled the mattress down to provide a little more cover for the wounded man as the bullets tore great gouges out of the wall behind him. He retreated to the window. The glass had been broken out by bullets, leaving behind jagged shards hanging in the frame. He broke the remaining glass out with the butt of his gun and slipped out to gain the roof. He found himself directly over Murphy’s head. The guard was leaning down, trying to get a sight into the house.