Night Game by Christine Feehan

And you have connections, people who might get involved. There was a better chance that she could be found if you came home.”
    “You pick up any information at the clubs?”
    “Not really. Not of any use. I thought you might hear things I can’t.” It was the first time Wyatt had ever acknowledged he knew his older brother was different. When Gator continued to stare at him he finally nodded. “I watch you. I’m not nearly as dumb as I look.”
    Gator unfolded his legs and stretched, toeing Ian’s cowboy boots. “You’re really going to stand out there, Irishman.”
    “I stand out everywhere,” Ian replied with pride. He chugged another beer. “Hotter than hell here. Kind of makes me wish for the cool of Ireland. All emerald carpets and rain.”
    “We have emerald.” Wyatt pointed his pole toward several plants. “And it rains every other hour. Just wait and we’ll get a shower soon enough.”
    “Aw, laddie, that’s not what I mean by the cool of Ireland,” Ian protested.
    “Don’t let him fool you, Wyatt,” Gator said. “He’s never been to Ireland in his life. He thinks the ladies will like him with that brogue he affects.”
    “Pathetic,” Wyatt stated. “Everyone knows ladies love Cajuns. It’s in our blood, and our language is the language of romance.”
    “Your language is the language of bullshit,” Ian corrected. “You’re a couple of good ole boys with pretty faces. Women just ought to know better. They should be looking for a real man.”
    “You have red hair, Ian,” Wyatt said with feigned sadness, his hand over his heart. “It’s never going to happen for you.”
    “There’s always dye,” Gator pointed out, eyeing Ian’s wild hair judiciously. “We could dye it black and help him learn to speak without that funny little accent.”
    Ian reached for him, shockingly fast for a big man, whipping his arm around Gator’s throat and rubbing the top of his head with his knuckles. “I’ll show you a funny accent,” he threatened. “It’s a brogue . And a good Irish brogue at that.”
    The pirogue tilted dangerously and the ice chest skittered toward Wyatt, who dropped the pole in the bottom of the boat and made a grab for the all-important beer. “Save the fightin’ for inside, you’ll need it,” he cautioned.
    Ian grinned at him. “No one fights like an Irishman.”
    Wyatt tied up to the dock and stepped out onto the pier, holding the boat steady while the GhostWalker leapt from the pirogue. Gator climbed out and stretched, rolling his shoulders and eyeing the club. The Huracan was one of the wildest and most popular clubs in the bayou. Accessible only by the waterway, mostly only the locals frequented the place. Once in a while some of the more astute music lovers in the business district discovered it, but for the most part, the Huracan belonged to those living in the bayou and they danced and drank and played hard there.
    Music blasted out the windows and through the thin walls. The crowd sounded like thunder as individual conversations rose over the music. Ian leaned in close to Gator. “Are you going to be able to hear what you need to hear in that place?”
    Gator nodded. “I can hear conversations through walls, Ian. It’s just a matter of sorting them out. If someone is talking about Joy, I’ll hear them.”
    “It hurts though, doesn’t it?” Ian’s voice was pitched even lower to prevent Wyatt from hearing. “I’ve seen your face when you’re working with sound and it hurts like hell.”
    “It’s difficult to filter everything out. I can hear a great distance, but I have to concentrate on separating and identifying all the sounds. It’s a lot of work and you know, when we open ourselves up for assault, we get slammed pretty hard.” He drew in a breath as he looked at the club. “I’ve trained for this. Lily’s exercises really helped. I noticed a difference right away, but I’ll come away with a whopper of a headache.”
    “Lily’s