Читать книгу: «Code Name: Bikini»

Code Name: Bikini
Christina Skye

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

Northern Afghanistan

Winter

DARKNESS.

Wind and death.

Trace O’Halloran didn’t move. Cold dug under his Kevlar vest as he watched the rugged road below him.

Something moved over the snow-dusted ground near his feet. Another rat.

Red eyes glowed in the faint green light of his night-vision goggles. Only rats could survive in this godforsaken mountain pass in winter.

It was Christmas Eve. Back in the States, families sang hymns and parents assembled dollhouses to surprise wide-eyed children while snow fell in the soft hush.

But here on a rugged plateau in Afghanistan, the cold was merciless and wind cut with icy fingers. Frostbite was unavoidable if he didn’t find shelter soon. But the mission came first.

Trace leveled his gaze on the road three hundred feet below his hiding spot. He didn’t think about the fresh wounds across his left wrist or the blood that darkened his forearm, courtesy of a difficult high altitude, low opening—HALO—jump.

Abruptly he felt movements in the night. Leaning forward, he read a change in energy patterns. A three-truck convoy crawled through the darkness. Their Korean-made trucks were guarded by soldiers wielding Soviet RPG-7 shoulder-launched missiles.

An equal-opportunity war, he thought grimly.

And this was his target. The convoy carried covert German communication technology extorted from a weapons designer based in Singapore. Not surprisingly, the man had disappeared before he could reveal his blackmailer. In the hands of a trained technician, the new device could track a massive quantity of U.S. communications. Through the application of mathematical predictive models, government assets could be located and areas of vulnerability tapped within minutes. In enemy hands the system could inflict catastrophic damage, and Trace’s job was to see that the hardware never reached its destination.

Truck lights carved the darkness. The convoy stopped with a screech of brakes. Agitated voices cut through the cold, still air.

The men in the Korean trucks were ruthless and well trained. They would shoot anything suspicious on their trek to an isolated mountain stronghold sixty miles to the north. But Trace didn’t intend to be noticed until he was ready. As he glanced at his watch, his skin burned. Frostbite was setting in.

Ignoring his pain, the SEAL fingered a button on the device in his left pocket.

Something moved down on the road. The first truck pulled sideways and two soldiers jumped out. Arguing loudly, they pointed to a paper flapping in the bone-chilling wind.

Right on schedule, Trace thought. Nice to see technology working right for once. His maneuver had lured them exactly where he wanted them.

Dark fur brushed his arm. Ears raised alertly, a black Labrador retriever held his down position behind a rock, awaiting Trace’s next order. The big dog had trained with Trace for months to prepare for this mission, and Trace sensed the dog’s eagerness to go to work.

Not yet, Duke.

His hand settled on the dog’s head. The Lab watched every movement, waiting for the next touch command.

As the wind keened over the rocky slope, Santa Fe and Christmas cheer were a universe away. Trace couldn’t even remember his last Christmas at home. His last two leaves had been cut short because of security alerts. As part of a top-secret government team, code-named Foxfire, Trace trained hard and kept personal attachments next to nil. That was the price of admission for special operations work, but the conditions had never bothered Trace, not when the stakes were so high.

Other people might call him a patriot. But for Trace the job boiled down to very personal terms—protecting family, friends and a way of life from enemies without honor or scruples. If doing his job meant taking a bullet, he was more than ready to pay that price with his own blood.

A silent alarm vibrated at his wrist.

Showtime.

Silently, he pulled a small box from his Kevlar vest. The dog sniffed, then gripped the box’s metal handle between his teeth. When Trace touched the Lab’s collar in a pre-arranged command, weeks of training kicked in. Duke skirted the rocks, turned and then headed for the road below.

Be safe, Trace thought. Stay low and move fast. He didn’t have to project the commands. Duke would do exactly as trained.

Trace leveled his scoped assault rifle and measured his target. A third hostile soldier jumped down, shouting at his teammates. Trace took out the nearest truck’s tires and front windshield with a four-second burst.

The insurgents scattered. Gunfire hammered the air above Trace’s head. His next volley drilled the middle truck’s gas tank. Under the explosive flare of an orangered fireball, he jumped a boulder and dropped into a narrow wash that snaked toward the road.

Hidden by walls of sand, he followed the curve of the wash, a shadow swallowed by the greater darkness of the night. One short tap on a small transmitter alerted his backup team that the encounter had begun. Now he had only minutes to complete his objective and head for the extraction point.

He sprinted to the bottom of the wash and found the big package exactly where he’d left it a day earlier, buried beneath a foot of sand. In seconds Trace had opened the canvas to reveal a blood-spattered body dead for barely ten hours. He rechecked the uniform pockets, then hefted the dead weight over his shoulders.

Hidden by the mayhem of the explosion, he carried the body closer to the road, placed it in the sand and then raced along a second trail barely visible in the light from the burning truck.

It was time to draw fire and alert the convoy to the body. If all went as planned, the insurgents would find the communications gear and codes planted on the body and begin using them. Everything they picked up from U.S. sources would be carefully constructed disinformation.

Trace wasn’t crazy about using human remains for a mission, but their local allies had provided unidentifiable bodies of insurgents killed in a violent skirmish earlier that day. Now they were dressed and outfitted as American soldiers.

Automatic weapons fire punched the air to his left, and a tracer round whined over his head. For every round he could see, Trace knew there were three others invisible in the darkness. The SEAL followed the rocky slope away from his service dog, who bounded toward a nearby overhang. Once Trace was certain the body had been discovered, he turned into the open and made a clumsy run toward the highest ridge, his movements calculated to draw maximum fire.

The maneuver worked. Down the hill, dark shapes raced toward him, rifles level.

Kevlar was good, but it wouldn’t stand up to repeated bursts from an AK-47. That’s where the ceramic plates in his vest took over. But a glancing blow hit him with deadly force and knocked him off his feet.

Calculating the speed of his pursuers, he primed a grenade and lobbed it over his shoulder. Rocks shot up, clawing at his back and neck while gunfire burned near his face and tore through his glove. His excited pursuers clustered at the top of the slope below, shouting in delight when they saw Trace fall.

A second burst of fire drilled up his arm, but he didn’t move, feigning a fatal wound.

His heart pounded.

Sweat streaked his face.

Footsteps raced behind him. He calculated strike force, distance and probable accuracy as the wind howled over the rocks, and then his fingers closed around another grenade. He yanked the pin and lobbed the deadly metal sphere hard, generating a wall of noise that masked more enemy fire.

The blast was deafening. Sand flew into his eyes and mouth. Another round tore through his right deltoid.

Trace’s vision blurred. More shrapnel from enemy fire tore into his chest and neck. He stumbled and then plunged forward, the wind in his face as he hit the cold sand. A chopper crested the mountain, the whine from its engines blessedly familiar.

Another explosion ripped through the night, and the lead truck vanished in a red fireball.

The big Lab had accomplished his mission, planting his C-4 charge under the last truck while the insurgents were distracted by Trace’s clumsy run.

Nice job, Duke.

Pain raked Trace’s chest. He stumbled as blood gushed thickly over his Kevlar vest, every muscle stiff, every movement strained. Over his head the mountains seemed to darken, blurred between cold wind and night sky.

And then he died.

CHAPTER TWO

SOMETHING WAS wrong.

The air was too clean, too calm. There was no acrid smell of cordite and no rumble of distant artillery.

White curtains danced slowly in a warm wind. The smells of bleach and floor wax filled his damaged lungs.

Wounded. Hospital?

“Nice to see you’re finally awake.” The voice was vaguely familiar. “You look pretty good for a dead guy.”

Trace cracked open one eye. Even that small movement hurt.

Hell, everything hurt, but he couldn’t remember why.

“Very funny.” Trace managed to lift his head. “You look like shit, Houston.” He smiled slightly. “Maybe life with my sister doesn’t agree with you.”

“Kit, hell. I wish I’d been home with her. Instead I flew overnight from Singapore to get here.”

Trace tried to sit up and grimaced. “Where’s here?”

His superior officer, Wolfe Houston, stared at him thoughtfully. “Military hospital. Germany. You’re in ICU, pal. Ryker has been spitting bullets waiting for you to come around.”

Ryker. The head of his top-secret government operations team. That much Trace remembered.

He didn’t move. His throat felt raw, as if he’d swallowed a convoy’s worth of gasoline fumes, which he probably had. Slowly the fragments began to return. He’d used all his grenades, and then he’d stumbled across the ridge in clear sight, drawing fire to the location of a second, cached body left where they were meant to be found. More false codes were planted on that second body.

As AK-47 bursts followed a blast from a shoulder-launched missile, Trace had gone down, knocked out cold. Duke had to have jumped the rocks, dragging him to safety while the helicopter drew fire. A second chopper would have shot in low to pick up Trace and Duke.

Otherwise the SEAL wouldn’t be here in one piece.

As the rest of his memories returned, his head began to pound. When he sat up, his left arm felt too heavy. “How’s Duke?”

“Your dog is A-Okay. He just ate two steaks and ran a mile before breakfast. I wish I could say the same for you.” Houston’s expression sobered. “You were in cardiac arrest, completely flatlined when our people got you aboard. It took almost two minutes to revive you. Duke didn’t leave your side once.”

Trace managed a lopsided grin. “Duke did good. He saved my butt after that last volley. I remember he dragged me to the extraction point, not much after that. But…something’s different.”

“You were dead, O’Halloran. Of course you don’t remember much.”

No, something else was wrong. Trace shook his head. “My reflexes are off. I can’t pick up any energy trails. Everything is quiet.”

“Your chips are all disabled. Precautionary measure, according to Ryker. He told the medical team to close down all your Foxfire technology until you’re fully recovered.”

Trace stared at the ceiling, trying to get used to the deafening silence inside his head. “I like knowing who’s behind me without having to look around. When will I be reactivated for duty?”

“Get well first.”

In war, soldiers fought with all kinds of ammunition. Recently the array of weapons had changed drastically. As part of the Foxfire team, the two men used focused energy as a tactical weapon. Thanks to mental training, physical conditioning and selective chips developed in a secret facility in New Mexico, their seven-member team had changed the definition of military combat.

Only a few people knew that the success rate of the covert Foxfire team was unmatched anywhere in special operations. Trace excelled at psi sweeps, spreading energy nets and reading changes made by anything alive in the area. The more difficult the terrain, the better.

Usually, he could have communicated telepathically with his commanding officer. Now there was only silence. Trace was stunned by the difference. With his extra senses closed down, he was locked within the narrow space of his body. The experience made him realize how much he had taken his Foxfire gifts for granted. Now he was flying blind, moving through a world that felt like perpetual twilight.

But chips took a toll on the nervous system, and even good implants could malfunction. Better that his hardware be disabled until his body recovered from the beating it had taken in Afghanistan.

As a test, Trace tried to set an energy net around the small room. Usually he would have succeeded in seconds.

But now nothing happened.

Wolfe Houston watched him intently. “Tried an energy net, didn’t you?”

Trace shrugged.

“You okay with this?”

No way. Trace felt out of balance and irritated, and he chose his words carefully. “I’m used to my skill set. Being without any energy sensation is damned unnerving. How do people live like this?”

“I’m told they manage pretty well,” Wolfe said dryly.

Trace shifted restlessly. “How bad was I hit?”

“Let’s just say you won’t make Wimbledon this year.”

“Hate tennis. Stupid ball. Stupid shorts.” Trace hid a grimace as pain knifed down into his shoulder. “Now how about you cut the crap? How bad, Houston? When do I get back on my feet, and when will my chips be reactivated?”

Silence.

He stared at Wolfe Houston’s impassive face. No point in trying to read any answers there.

“You’re here for a patch job, which you’ve received. Air evac will transport you to a specialized hospital stateside within the hour. If you do everything right, you’ll be back in action inside six weeks.”

Trace made a silent vow to halve that prediction. “What about the bodies? Did they take the bait?”

“Swallowed it whole. They’re already using the communications unit you secured inside the uniform. That hardware will generate permanent system deviation in the parent programs. Hello, major static.”

Trace smiled slowly. “Goodbye, security problems.”

“Ryker is thrilled. You’ve earned yourself some solid R&R. So what will it be, Vegas or San Diego?”

“Forget the R&R. Get a rehab doc in here. I need to start building up my arm.” Trace tried to sit up, but instantly something tore deep in his shoulder. He closed his eyes, nearly blacking out from the pain.

A shrill whine filled the room—or was it just in his head?

“Idiot. What happened?”

“I’m just—just a little dizzy, sir.” Trace blinked hard at the ceiling. Pale green swirled into bright orange. Did they paint hospital ceilings orange?

“…you hear me?”

The orange darkened, forming bars of crimson.

“Trace…hear me now?”

The room was spinning. Trace had felt the same sensation back in Afghanistan before Duke had roused him, licking his face furiously.

His vision blurred. He tried to stand up, biting back a curse as the whine grew. Chip malfunction? Can’t be. They’re all disabled.

Have to stand up. Have to find out what’s wrong.

The room spun faster. Trace didn’t see a medical team crowd around the bed, equipment in hand.

He was back in Afghanistan, fighting brutal cold and a hail of tracer rounds.

“DOES HE KNOW?”

“Not yet.”

Two men stood at the end of the deserted hospital corridor, their faces grim. In front of them a fresh X-ray was clipped to a light box.

Trace’s surgeon frowned. “He’s still groggy from the last surgery.” The tall Johns Hopkins grad tapped the black-and-white image. “Torn ligaments. Bone fragments—here, here, here. We cleaned up everything we found. After rehab he should recover full use of his elbow and wrist, which is a near miracle. You saw him on arrival. I’ve seen a lot of trauma cases, but nothing like that. What did you people do, shoot him out of a tank?” He didn’t wait for an answer, rubbing his neck worriedly. “If he’d lost much more blood, he wouldn’t have made it out of surgery.”

The other man took a slow breath. His dark, sculpted features bore a resemblance to Denzel Washington’s, except his eyes were colder, making him look older than his age. “Tell me about his shoulder, Doctor. I don’t like the bone damage here….” Ishmael Teague traced the gray lines radiating across the X-ray. “Will he regain full mobility in his right shoulder?”

“We don’t read crystal balls, Teague. With your medical training, you know how risky predictions can be. All I can say is that this man was in excellent shape before this happened, and we’ll give him the best support for his recovery. The rest is up to him—and to far higher powers than mine.”

Izzy Teague didn’t move, studying the network of lines spidering through the X-ray. “I want hourly updates on his condition and round-the-clock monitoring by your best people. Notify me at any sign of change.”

“All things considered, he’s recovering well. Give me a week, and he’ll be starting phase one rehab.”

Something crossed Izzy’s face. “You’ve got twenty-four hours, Doctor.”

“That’s impossible. This man needs rest, close observation and at least two more surgeries. Maybe after that…”

“You have twenty-four hours.” Izzy’s voice was cold with command. “I have a plane inbound. We’ll prep him for travel.”

“You won’t find a better medical facility anywhere in the country.” The surgeon scowled. “Don’t play politics with me, Teague. He could end up with a ruined joint if you move him now.”

“Not now. Twenty-four hours, Doctor.” Izzy pulled the X-ray down from the light box. “Orders are orders.” His voice was flat.

“You know this is wrong. Fight it. Pull rank.”

Izzy looked at the closed door down the hall. “My clout doesn’t stretch as far as you think. There are other…factors.”

The surgeon glanced at the unnumbered door, which was guarded by uniformed soldiers. The rest of the hospital floor had been emptied. Only this one room was occupied. “I knew something was up when you moved all my patients, but I won’t play along. By all rights this man should be dead, considering how much blood he lost. In spite of that he’s recuperating in minutes, rather than hours. I don’t suppose you’re going to explain how that’s possible.”

Both men knew it was a rhetorical question.

The surgeon made a sharp, irritated gesture. “You won’t let me in on your secrets, and you want me to risk a patient because of a whim.”

Teague’s handsome features were unreadable. “Orders, Doctor. Not whims. We’ll be sure he’s stable before he’s moved. At that point he’ll be out of your hands.” He rolled up the film and slid it carefully inside his briefcase. “And for the record, John Smith was never here. You never saw him, Doctor. You didn’t see me, either.”

“Is that an order?”

“Damned right it is.”

The grizzled military surgeon pulled a cigar from the pocket of his white coat and sniffed it lovingly. “Had to give the damned things up last year. I’ve got a desk full of these beauties, and this is the closest I can get. Life’s a real bitch sometimes.” He stroked the fine Cuban cigar between his fingers and then tucked it carefully back into his pocket. “Do what you have to do. I never saw either of you.” His voice fell. “And just for the record, Vladivostok is the capital of Michigan.”

“You never know. World politics are turning damned unpredictable these days.” Izzy looked down as his pager vibrated. “Hold on.” He pushed a button and scrolled through a data file, his eyes growing colder by the second.

“Is there a problem with John Smith?” the doctor asked.

Izzy slid the pager back into its clip. “Do you remember Marshall Wyckoff?”

“Senator Wyckoff’s daughter? Sure, we saw her—what, two years ago? I heard that she’d recovered from her kidnapping. She was an honor student, head of her debate team.”

“Was, Doctor. They just found her body floating under the third arch of Arlington Memorial Bridge. Three witnesses say she jumped.”

“Suicide?” The surgeon looked back to the guarded room down the hall. “Trace was the one who brought her out. What are you going to tell him?”

“The truth. It’s what we do.”

“Tough bunch, aren’t you? Never take the easy way.”

Izzy squared his shoulders. “Easy doesn’t get the job done.”

Neither man noticed the glimmer of light in the quiet corridor outside Trace O’Halloran’s door. When the scent of lavender touched the air, they were halfway down the hall, arguing about bone reinforcement techniques.

Neither guard looked up as a faint, spectral shimmer gathered near the door and then faded into the still air.

TRACE DRIFTED SOMEPLACE cold, halfway between sleep and waking, his pain kept at bay by a careful mix of medicines too new to appear in any medical reference books or on pharmacy shelves.

But his mind kept wandering, and none of his thoughts held. He was back in the frigid night again, waiting for an armed convoy to draw close. Distant gunfire cut through the air, and he felt the energy change even before he saw the first glow of illumination rounds.

Three trucks. Ten men. They had no clue anyone was watching them.

Trace strengthened the net, feeling the sounds and invisible movements in the night, his specially adapted senses humming on full alert.

Time to come out of the shadows.

Move fast. Head low, course uneven.

Present no stable target.

In sleep his body was tense, his breath labored. Eyes closed, he ran up an exposed ridge, drawing enemy fire beneath an orange-red fireball. His legs moved, carrying him into a world drawn straight out of nightmares.

CHAPTER THREE

THEY WERE coming.

Gina Ryan heard tense voices echo in the hall. She scanned the big wall clock above her commercial double oven. Twenty minutes early?

Unbelievable.

She took a deep breath and rubbed the ache at her forehead, checking her last row of desserts. What was the point of having a schedule if you ignored it? Didn’t people realize that a wedding reception with formal seating required split-second timing and no distractions?

Silver trays laid with white linen napkins?

Done.

Spun-sugar flowers arranged at each seat?

Done.

Mini rum cheesecakes plated?

Ditto.

Three-tier chocolate ganache wedding cake decorated with edible flowers?

Perfect.

Gina straightened the marzipan figures of two Olympic speed skaters, which the bride and groom happened to be. Through a porthole she saw clouds skirt a gleaming row of waves. Another glorious day at sea on a top-rated cruise ship, but she’d be too busy to enjoy it.

Laughter spilled into the room. A door opened and the bride appeared, radiant in a chiffon halter gown with vintage lace that clung at her hips and neck. At her side, the groom stood tall in an elegant black tuxedo. A smile stretched over his happy, sunburned face.

This was it, Gina thought. This was love, exactly the way it should be.

Exuberant and gracious. Taking risks. Staying vulnerable. Not jealous and demanding, calculating selfish returns. And didn’t Gina know all there was to know about that kind of love?

She pushed the thought deep, buried with all her other sad memories. A wedding was no time to dredge up the past. Besides, the champagne was chilled, waiting to be poured into Waterford crystal beneath a display of Orange Beauty tulips.

Her staff was flawlessly efficient, the menu a perfect mix of classic and trendy for the young, excited bride and groom.

She felt a knot form at her forehead. This was her second wedding that day. On a big cruise ship, weddings were the top guest request, and Gina was known for creating the best wedding cakes on any cruise line.

The bride and groom held hands, flushing as eighty-five guests offered cheers and catcalls. At her nod, Gina’s skilled staff poured the first chilled champagne and circulated with tempting desserts.

Music filled the room. Slow and soft, the notes tugged at Gina’s heart as she watched the bride and groom exchange lingering kisses.

The dancing began and the regular waitstaff took over. Her team was done.

As she straightened a silver urn of flowers, Gina had a quick impression of wary eyes, short cinnamon hair and a stubborn chin.

Her eyes, her chin. A face too angular for beauty, and eyes whose strength made most men uneasy. Right now pain circled behind her forehead, vicious and swift.

She was getting worse.

The thought filled her with panic. She needed more time.

“Hey, Chief, you okay?” One of her staff, a slender ex-kindergarten teacher from San Diego, studied her anxiously. “You’ve got that look again. It’s like last week when someone smashed your thumb with their heaviest marble rolling pin.”

Gina forced a smile. “Hey, it’s called resting, enjoying the sight of a job well done.” She hid her embarrassment with casual dismissal. “Anything wrong with my taking a rest?”

“Not a thing. But you never rest. And for someone trying to enjoy her success, you looked too worried.”

Gina made a noncommittal sound and cleared the last serving tray. What was the point of dwelling on what you couldn’t change?

Her vision was going. End of story.

It wouldn’t happen in a day or a week. Maybe not even in a year. But the deterioration was noticeably increasing. Despite the newest medicines, her vascular problems were eating away at her vision neuron by neuron, robbing her of the career and future she’d planned with such care.

Put it away.

Shrugging, she headed to the kitchen door. “I’m not distracted now, so let’s move. We’ve got another event in four hours.”

She took one last look at the bride and groom, who had joined hands to cut the first wedge of her exquisitely iced white chocolate cake with trailing sugar roses. The pair didn’t look back, oblivious to the world as they fell into another slow kiss.

Gina wasn’t really jealous. In a world of bad luck somebody deserved to be happy.

She’d believed in love, dreamed of it, felt certain the right man would appear. When he did, she’d know him instantly.

Nice dream. Stupid dream.

When the man had appeared, she’d chosen wrong. He’d robbed her of many things, the most important among them her innocence and trust. He’d taken her job and her reputation. Now she had no dreams left.

One more line item to cross off your day planner, she thought wryly. No Rose Garden wedding with a formal arch of swords. For some reason she’d seen that vision ever since she was twelve.

She blew out an irritated breath and gathered her equipment. At least she’d made a lot of people happy. With every new event she worked harder, pushing her skills. On the days when her headaches and dizziness were too intense, she’d pull out the bottle of pills hidden inside an empty package of Kona coffee and swallow two.

The pills were working for the moment. But they weren’t a cure. Worse yet, they created side effects.

Without a word her brawny Brazilian sous chef slid the tray from her hands. No one said a word, but Gina felt the eyes of her staff. They knew. They had noticed her unguarded moments of pain.

Funny, she’d been so sure she had fooled them. Maybe you didn’t fool anyone but yourself.

As she felt their silent concern, tears burned at her eyes. Tall, studious Andreas from Brazil touched her arm. Then the others closed ranks around her, two in front and three walking behind.

Emotion engulfed Gina at the unspoken signs of trust and protection. She’d lost her father years before; she hadn’t seen her mother in months. This was her real family, the people she had cursed and laughed, sweated and trained with.

The only real advice her mother had ever given her was that falling in love was a curse. Nice advice for a teenager. But over time Gina had come to believe it. Lucky for her, she was too busy for relationships to have a place in her life.

She squared her shoulders. “Andreas, Reggie, did you finish tempering that white chocolate for the tea cakes?”

“All done, boss. But I need some help with the spun sugar.” Andreas rubbed his jaw. “It keeps cracking at the edge of the petals.”

“Did you double-check the temperature and humidity?”

Gently the conversation turned to safer waters. In the sharp argument over the merits of Colombian vs. Mexican chocolate, Gina forgot about her fear and the bouts of occasional pain. She forgot the headaches and the sudden dizziness.

Who needed love or sex when you could make a killer crème brûlée?

CHAPTER FOUR

Foxfire training facility

Northern New Mexico

One month later

TWENTY.

Twenty-one.

Twenty-two.

Sweat beaded his shoulders and chest, and exhaustion hammered at his concentration. Trace ignored everything until only the heat and pull of his muscles remained, strength returning in slow, almost cruel increments. As the weights rose, he focused on his arm, battling against his own weakness. He had work to do, missions to run. Foxfire men were constantly prepped and ready to deploy at the ring of a pager. Each man had unique skills, and Trace knew his absence made everyone’s work harder.

Thirty-three.

Thirty-four.

More sweat.

More pain. Muscles screamed, their boundaries reached and then crossed until Trace was lost in a haze of pure muscle memory and hints of his old, preambush strength.

His commanding officer appeared in the doorway. “Nice to see you have a good work ethic. Just the same, you should take it easy.”

Trace grinned. “I’ll take it easy the same day you do, sir.”

Wolfe Houston smiled faintly. “Point taken.”

All of the team had been by to see Trace in the past few weeks, offering dry humor and information about current personnel deployment or upcoming missions. Trace had reveled in the details of the job that was his life, the focus of his whole passion for nearly eight years.

It was a job he could discuss with few others, not even his brave, tough sister, Kit, who managed an isolated ranch northwest of Santa Fe, where she trained the finest military service dogs Trace had ever seen.

It was his sister Trace worried about now. But he kept his tone casual as he finished his last set of curls. “Have you seen Kit and the dogs? Is everything okay at the ranch? No sign of any more cougars, I hope.”

His commanding officer eased his long legs down, settling into a nearby chair. “Kit’s fine. So are the dogs. Damned if those four don’t get smarter every day. Last week we were running a bomb-detection scenario and the team figured out where I’d hidden the dummy device even before I’d let them off their training leashes. It’s a sad day in Red Rock when four puppies make a trained professional look bad.” But there was pride in the officer’s voice.

Wolfe Houston had good reason to know the state of the ranch. He had just returned from two weeks of canine assessment exercises—and a passionate homecoming with his soon-to-be wife. Although Kit never asked for details about where the dogs had come from, she had enough experience to know that they were special.

Of course Wolfe could never reveal the nature of the secret program that had produced such unusual animals.

Trace was relieved that things were fine at his family’s ranch. The unmistakable happiness in Wolfe’s face meant that things were fine with Kit, too. It was strange to think of his stubbornly independent sister getting married. But if she had to pick anyone, this man was the right one.

Trace put down his weights and dried his face with a towel. “So they’re as good as everyone hoped?”

Wolfe stretched his arms behind his head and chuckled. “Is the Pope Catholic? I’ve put in a recommendation to Ryker that the four dogs never be split up once they’re sent on military assignment.” A shadow crossed his face. “Kit is worrying about them already.”

“She’ll tough it out. By the way, has Ryker finally okayed your request to set a formal date? I’d like to be there to give away my sister, you know.”

Lloyd Ryker was a long-time government power broker at the highest levels; he kept his cards close to his chest and ruled the Foxfire facility like a medieval potentate. Because he got results, his foibles were overlooked.

Wolfe frowned. “One day it’s yes, the next day it’s maybe. When I pressed Ryker, he told me I’d have an answer this week. It might even be true,” the SEAL said dryly. “He’s not going to be happy when he finds out that I got the marriage license anyway, and our blood tests are already submitted.” His eyes narrowed. “Or what will pass for a specimen of my blood.” Rules were rules. Any scientific details relating to Foxfire were top secret and that included all team members’ medical reports.

“Give him hell,” Trace said wryly. “My sister deserves to be happy, and for some crazy reason she’s set her sights on you.” His shoulder had begun to ache with a low, dull throb.

Ordinarily he’d agree that marriages involving Foxfire team members wouldn’t work, but Kit knew the score. His sister could handle whatever fate—and the U.S. government—threw at her.

So Trace hoped.

It was Wolfe’s career choice that gave Trace some bad nights. Who knew better than a fellow SEAL how often work would intrude? Trace knew just how much uncertainty his sister would have to live with. He hoped she could learn to accept the unknown, because virtually every aspect of the Foxfire program required absolute secrecy.

He and Wolfe and the rest of the team had volunteered, and they knew the rules. But could Kit or any other woman—no matter how remarkable—live with the tight constraints that program security imposed?

Trace didn’t have an answer for that.

Ryker, the civilian head of Foxfire, had a rule against personal involvement, and for good reason, in Trace’s opinion. But Wolfe and a second Foxfire member had gotten involved up to their eyeballs. Now they were part of deep, stable relationships that had to be faced, not swept under the carpet. If Ryker couldn’t accept that fact, he would lose two of his best men, including Wolfe, their team leader.

Trace realized that Wolfe was staring at him. “Something wrong?”

“If you keep overdoing your workouts, I’ll put someone here to watch you.” Wolfe met Trace’s glare. “Take this one by the book, hotshot. Your body has been through hell and back. Give it time to recover.” He studied Trace through narrowed eyes. “Are you going to do another set to keep your mind off it?” he said quietly.

Trace didn’t move.

“We both know Marshall’s death is bothering you.”

Trace started to answer, then looked down at his hands. He didn’t want to talk about Marshall. Hell, he didn’t want to think about the death of the teenager he’d rescued from particularly nasty South American kidnappers two years earlier. Her death was ruled a suicide, but Trace was having a hard time believing it. Marshall was a fighter and a survivor. Lost and confused, she still had shown the courage of a soldier during her captivity.

It didn’t make sense that she’d overcome so much just to give up in the home stretch.

He was fighting to accept her death, fighting to acknowledge his grief. If he’d kept in better touch with her afterward, things might have gone differently. If there were problems, she might have confided in him.

But beating himself up now wouldn’t help anyone. It was too damn late to do what friends do—supporting each other, watching each other’s back.

And he wasn’t going to spill his guts to Wolfe. This was his own problem to work through. “The rehab is taking too long. My shoulder’s much stronger now. I keep thinking if I can work a little harder or a little longer—”

“All you’ll do is blow out your shoulder.” Wolfe faced him squarely. “Do me a favor and get well before you report for duty. Otherwise, you endanger all of us in the field.”

Trace knew Wolfe was dead right. Every man relied on his team for life-or-death backup during a mission. If Trace screwed up on an assignment, he could get other people killed. “Roger that, sir. I’ll gut it out.”

Even though I’m going to shoot someone if I don’t get out of rehab and back to work soon. He wanted his chips functional, too.

He was getting to like the Superman experience.

“Glad you’re being reasonable. And in the spirit of being reasonable, Ryker told me to give you this.” Wolfe’s lips twisted as he slapped a thick envelope on the table beside Trace. “You’re shipping out in forty-eight hours.”

“Mission orders?” Trace grabbed the envelope and tore open the seal eagerly. “Urban or jungle target?”

“Neither.” Wolfe crossed his arms. “You’ll be at sea.” He cleared his throat. “On a cruise ship to Mexico.”

Because he was concentrating on reading the papers, Trace almost didn’t hear the assignment. “Puerto Vallarta and Mazatlán? I don’t understand. This says—” His head snapped up. “This is a pleasure vessel? A cruise ship?” he said, ice in his voice. “I’ll be damned if Ryker is going to send me off for ten days on a ship full of Desperate Housewives at sea.”

“He’s dead serious about this. This mission is important.”

“On a cruise ship?” The words dripped with distaste. “Why not a Navy support vessel? Hell, even a tramp steamer would be preferable.”

Wolfe’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t have all the details, only that you’re to guard a package being conveyed outside normal channels. This is highly sensitive material and you’ll be working with a civilian.”

A civilian? Trace hated the assignment already. “Anything else I need to know?”

“A Navy SEAL will be aboard with his family. Izzy knows them well. Use him if things get sticky.”

“Identity?” Trace asked. He wondered if Ryker had bothered to cue the guy about the chance that he would be tapped for duty during a family vacation.

Doubtful, he decided. Ryker didn’t bother with niceties. If a SEAL was stupid enough to get married and have a family, Ryker would figure the man deserved to live with interrupted vacations.

“His name is Ford McKay. The man is tough and smart. His wife, Carly, has been involved in producing several Navy training films. You may have seen her pictures in Time and Newsweek.”

Trace gave a low whistle. “I’m impressed.”

“You should be. She’s way above your pay grade, pal.”

“Exactly what is the nature of the package and the possible threat?” Something cold stirred in Trace’s mind. “Not Cruz?” That had to be impossible. Their old enemy and rogue operative was dead, according to all intelligence.

Trace had seen him die.

“No, not Cruz. He went down in the chopper crash in the Pacific.” Once the leader of the Foxfire team, Enrique Cruz had been a superb officer and fearless operative, but he had snapped a year earlier, betraying his team and his country with a vengeance. Everyone in the secret project had breathed a sigh of relief when the man had finally been cornered and killed on a deserted island in the Pacific.

“No one could have escaped from that burning chopper.” Trace frowned. “Right?”

“Nothing suggests that Cruz escaped. Ryker has a full-time team monitoring the crash region, and they’ve found zilch.”

Some of Trace’s uneasiness faded. “What’s the threat?”

“Izzy will give you more details before you embark.” Wolfe shook his head. “You know how Ryker loves drama.”

Irritated, Trace riffled through the papers, pulling out a set of travel documents. “Vacations make me crazy.”

“I seem to recall hearing something about that from your sister. Kit says your record visit at the ranch is three days and four hours—and that was only because you were testing some new ammunition for Ryker.”

Trace gave a sheepish laugh. “At least Kit understands how I feel.” His smile wavered. “She wasn’t upset that I haven’t visited for a while, right? She loves the ranch and she’s great at raising her service dogs, but—”

“Stop worrying. Kit knows the ranch isn’t your thing. She’s fine with that. On the other hand she told me to make sure that you don’t get cut to ribbons someplace with an unpronounceable name. I promised to try my best.”

The words were casual, but the strength behind them was unyielding as forged steel. Foxfire men were tighter than family. Guarding each other’s back was both a practiced skill and a task of bone-deep loyalty.

“Always glad to have you watching my six.” Trace held up an arm brace made of moldable high-tech foam. “This new contraption is pretty amazing, but I’d like to know when I’ll be done with the training wheels.”

“Ask Teague. He’s the go-to guy for tech and rehab.”

The door swung open. “Someone call my name?” Izzy appeared with a sleek laptop under one arm.

“Speak of the devil,” Trace muttered.

“I’m a hell of a lot more handsome. Better with computers, too. So what’s your problem, O’Halloran?”

Trace dangled the tube of molded foam. “I’m ready to roll. And not on some half-baked duty aboard a cruise ship. I want my chips operational.”

“Not possible until the medical team finishes a complete assessment. Some anomalies have turned up following your hospitalization.”

Trace made an impatient sound. “I’m fit, Teague.”

“You’re strong and your reflexes max the chart. That’s why you were chosen for Foxfire in the first place. The chips enhance, but they don’t define your abilities, O’Halloran. They just make you a little stronger and faster than you already are. And throwing energy nets can wait until the assessment is done.”

Trace wasn’t close to being convinced. He hadn’t endured his grueling Foxfire training to be stuck on a half-baked assignment that a civilian could handle blindfolded. “This is kindergarten. Tell Ryker I’m ready for real action.”

“Tell him yourself. He’s out in the hall finishing a call to the head of the NSA.”

The men in the room stiffened. Lloyd Ryker’s presence usually had that effect on people.

“I went over your rehab reports,” Izzy continued. “I’d say you’re good to go. I’ve already conveyed that information to Ryker.”

“Appreciated.” Trace drummed his fingers on the pile of travel documents. “But I want a real assignment.”

“Better than pacing the floors of the medical wing and scaring all the nurses.”

“What nurses? Ryker pulled everyone but Foxfire staff as soon as my last surgery was done.”

“He’s just being cautious.” Wolfe looked around as the door opened again. Lloyd Ryker was shoving an encrypted cell phone into the pocket of his understated Italian suit while an aide zipped papers into an alligator portfolio.

He studied the SEALs. All were standing now, eyes forward. Ryker noted the disciplined response and nodded slightly at Wolfe. “You still say O’Halloran is ready to leave rehab?”

“Yes, sir. Ishmael Teague concurs.”

“I saw the reports. I want a guarantee your assessment is correct.”

“You have it.” Izzy crossed his arms, meeting Ryker’s sharp gaze. “The surgery went even better than planned.”

“Good. I’ll be holding you two responsible for any problems.” The civilian head of the Foxfire Unit made several quick marks on a form held out by his aide, then turned to study Trace. “Nice work in Afghanistan, O’Halloran. They found our hardware and were testing it within hours, congratulating themselves on a major success. For two weeks now we’ve been feeding them ‘secret’ updates. After our planted information is complete, their stolen equipment will start malfunctioning. The operation is a success.”

“Glad to hear it, sir.” Trace remained at stiff attention, certain that Ryker had more to say.

Ryker glanced around the room, then frowned. “I’m not convinced you’re ready for duty. I can’t have anyone on the team operating below full capacity, O’Halloran. You flatlined after that last round hit you and when you died—even briefly—your chips went haywire.” Ryker’s eyes narrowed. “You’re carrying expensive technology. As far as I can see, my only option is to shut everything down until you’re completely recovered and I have all the tests to prove it.”

Trace shoved his anger deep. Ryker was baiting him, probing for signs of weakness or anger, but Trace wouldn’t give any excuse to sideline him.

“Permission to speak, sir?” Trace kept his eyes forward.

“I’m listening.”

“I don’t like going out unarmed. I am trained and fully field capable, sir.”

“Speculation. While the medical team is still running tests, I can’t risk a foul-up. The chips are turned off.” Ryker’s eyes narrowed. “Anything to add, O’Halloran?”

“No, sir.” Nothing that wouldn’t get him into deep trouble.

Ryker glanced at his watch and then motioned his aide out of the room. “You’ll be working this mission with the help of the ship’s security director, who has been briefed on your arrival. In the event of problems, he will take orders from you.”

Trace kept his eyes forward. The day he’d joined the Navy, he had accepted the fact that working for the government meant twenty-four-hour days and no privacy. It also meant taking orders from SOBs like Lloyd Ryker, who made mental manipulation an art form.

No whining. Do the job or pack your bags.

“Are you clear on your orders?”

“Yes, sir…except for the exact nature of the threat and the contents of the items in transit.” In other words, everything important, Trace thought wryly.

His comment caught Ryker midstride.

As the head of Foxfire turned slowly, his cell phone beeped. He glanced at Trace and grimaced. “I’m expected in D.C. in four hours, so I’ll make this short. Foxfire has an off-site scientist down in Mexico working on a highly specialized project. I have a man on board the cruise ship who carries sensitive material back and forth for me when necessary. The procedure has always worked well in the past. Who in the hell would expect someone on a cruise ship to be a government courier?”

Ryker shoved his cell phone in his pocket. “But last week someone tried to penetrate security at the Mexican compound. Then we detected an attempt to bypass our scientist’s computer security.” Ryker picked up Trace’s discarded foam cast and stared at it for long moments.

When he looked up, his eyes were very cold. “I’m taking no chances with this transfer. If it was simply a question of data, we could send everything digitally, but there are tissue specimens involved, and their temperature stability is crucial. Your job will be to oversee security and provide backup.”

“May I have the name of my shipboard contact?” Trace asked. Leave it to Ryker to milk the intrigue for all it was worth.

“Izzy will pass that info in a briefing packet at the appropriate time.” Ryker crossed the room and opened the door. “Before you sail, you have one more assignment. Tomorrow a senator from California is hosting a cocktail party in your honor—4:00 p.m. at the Carlton Hotel. That means spit-shined and polished, Lieutenant. Wear all your medals.”

Trace hated social events where he was the cocktail centerpiece. Ryker used the events for friendly politicians seeking reelection. A crisp uniform and a chest full of medals never failed to impress prospective campaign contributors.

“I’ll be there, sir.” Hating every freaking second, but I’ll be there. Trace kept the irritation from his face. If the senator kept money flowing for Foxfire’s expensive research, who was Trace to complain?

I hope some lobbyist’s bored wife doesn’t fondle my ass, like that last gig in Georgetown.

The woman had suggested Trace join her in the garden for some down-and-dirty sex between cocktails. She’d been plenty miffed when Wolfe had shown up and spoiled her plans.

“A problem, Lieutenant?” Ryker turned, eyes narrowed. “You dislike attending the social events I arrange?”

“No, sir.” Hell, yes. Every one of Ryker’s team shunned social displays like the plague. But now was not the time for honesty.

“Let me remind you these parties provide the funds to keep our facilities viable. You may forget how expensive this project is, but I am reminded of that fact daily. I don’t want to hear a hint of a complaint.” Ryker shot a cold look at Wolfe. “Is that understood?”

“Absolutely, sir. May I offer to join Trace, sir? Sometimes two uniforms are better than one.”

Ryker’s eyes narrowed. “Excellent suggestion. You’ll have travel documents ready in an hour. Be sure to give the senator and his wife my regards.”

He gestured at his aide and strode out. The door slid shut behind him.

Silence filled the room. Then Wolfe Houston rubbed his neck and sighed. “Me and my big mouth. I swear, if another woman tries to grope my ass—”

“You’ll grin and bear it, sir. You are always the height of courtesy.” Trace grinned, glad that another one of the team was in the same boat. “That’s one reason you’re so popular with all the Beltway wives.”

Wolfe muttered a graphic phrase. “Don’t tell your sister that.” The SEAL’s expression turned serious. “Kit’s the one. As far as I’m concerned, no other woman exists. I hope she knows that.”

“You can do no wrong in my sister’s eyes.” The emotional force that bound the two was overpowering. For some reason Trace felt a little jealous when he saw how happy his sister and his friend looked when they were together.

A flicker of movement made him turn, staring at the door behind Izzy Teague. More like a shimmer than anything concrete, the phenomenon was damned strange. He caught a sweet scent…something almost familiar.

Trace moved swiftly, snapping open the door to the hall. He still couldn’t peg the elusive scent.

An alert security officer stared back at him. “Problem, sir?”

“No. None.” Except that I’m hearing, seeing and smelling things that aren’t there. Had the change in his chip status triggered a wave of sensory distortions?

Who the hell knew?

Trace closed the door carefully. Through the window he watched a black helicopter cut through the azure New Mexico sky.

Nothing moved in the quiet room.

“We’ll have to double-time it if we’re going to catch that chopper.” Wolfe picked up his equipment bag.

Trace grabbed his towel and sweatshirt. “I’m ready.” He ignored a dull pain at his shoulder. Rehab was over. That was all that mattered.