There Will Be Killing by John Hart Page A

you.”
    â€œYes, I noticed you were doing a very good job at that tonight.” Kate laughed up at the stars, laughed at the craziness of this whole preposterous set-up.
    â€œDo you think this is a joke, a game?” There was no humor in his voice.
    â€œEverything is a game to Phillip, and the rest of us are pawns to be maneuvered for either his advancement or his amusement.”
    â€œYou know him well.” JD leaned over, slid a fingertip from her cleavage to her chin. The catch of her breath was hardly a gasp of offense. “And I want to know you much better.”
    â€œI like a man who knows what he wants.”
    He plucked the Gauloises from her lips, flicked it. The red ember rotated in the air and out of the car.
    â€œI want to kiss you.”
    â€œAre you a mind reader, Agent Mikel?” Kate rolled past the leather and into his arms, undid the top button then the next of his shirt to get her hands on his chest, her nails into his skin. “How did you know that was my wish number three?”
    â€œBetter be careful what you wish for,” he told her—then turned the tables so fast her head was literally spinning as it softly landed on the front seat.
    She felt a whisper of wind hit the wet path he left up her neck, the scrape of his teeth at her jugular, then his shadowed face loomed above hers just before his mouth came down and his fingertips slid up and up. . . .
    And that’s when Kate understood how Gregg must have felt that day on the beach. She was in helpless surrender as her body convulsed into spasms against the hand responsible. As helpless to stop it as the moon’s gravitational pull of waves to shore, licking the sand like a tongue culling salt from slick, sweaty flesh. Or, a pair of French silk panties drenched in 98.6 degrees of humidity.
    They were still steaming when J.D. pulled into the mission’s circular drive. Dimly lit, he cut the engine, kissed her again. Hard and deep, her heart had never pounded so hard. But then it pounded harder, faster, with his whispered warning, “It’s not a game. Be a smart girl and get out. Before it’s too late.”
    He sank his mouth into the thrum of her pulse for an interminable moment. Then left her at the sanctuary door and disappeared into the night as she watched the Chevy’s taillights transform into red demon eyes glowing between two sweeping wings.

Everywhere there is sanctuary. Even here there were many different kinds in many places but when you needed to find some kind of peace, Camp McDermott had The Court. There were hoops and cement slabs anywhere there was a permanent base, but The Court had Rep. It was a place you could find Game. The city kind. The game here on any given night was a blend of NY and Philly and Memphis and Houston and LA. There were Indiana guys, and Seattle, and Iowa. Guys would show up from the rez in Navajo country. The players were black, white, brown, but the game was mostly all black. It was a city game. Other places there were games and players, but this court had become a place to come to Play. Guys on R&R, with anything and everything to do to get crazy and doped and fucked and stoned on these sacred blessed days of in-country R&R, where they knew they were maybe going back out to die, would take time to come play.
That was a part of it, they played like they knew they might die and they gave the game that kind of respect, and if you played like that, you earned that kind of respect. Any less, any kind of bullshit, grabass fuckoff stuff that you might find on other courts, was not tolerated here.
For most, the game was played in jungle boots but sometimes some guys would give another guy “shoes.” Converse. No way of even describing changing from your boots to a pair of “shoes.” You got Wings. For someone going home to leave you their shoes was a priceless gift. The game was a priceless gift. Outside the light of the courts the night was a