Code Name: Blondie

by Christina Skye

  “He’ll be out for at least six more hours. I gave him two shots of your special Thorazine cocktail.”

  “That’ll do it,” Izzy said dryly. “Anything useful in his pack?”

  “Compass, water purification tablets and two more knives. A nice preban silenced AK-47, too,” Max added grimly. “Everything for your well-equipped, garden-variety terrorist. All well maintained and packed in waterproof bags. Our friend was loaded for bear.”

  “Would you expect anything less? Cruz doesn’t fool around. We know he makes very few mistakes.”

  “Ryker was a good teacher.”

  “Any feedback from those motion-activated sensors you buried along the beach?”

  “Nothing yet. None of my energy sweeps have revealed any definite signs of Cruz, either.”

  “The coordinates we picked up might have been a chip malfunction. Either that or he’s managed some new set of tricks. We know his skills are growing.”

  It wasn’t what Max wanted to hear, but he never let his emotions cloud his field planning. You surveyed your terrain, targeted the enemy and set up a defensive net in accordance with the facts, not what you wanted to be true. Good intel and detailed preparation had kept Max alive too often to count, while emotions interfered with capability and tactical response. He had been trained to keep his emotions locked up tight, where they couldn’t cloud his judgment.

  All that had changed thanks to one shadowed moment in a cool tunnel with a woman whose body was hot silk. She shot through his control the way no woman ever had, driving him right to the edge. Responsive and hungry, she had stolen right out of his darkest fantasies.

  Only now it was over. It had to be over.

  Do the job.

  Forget the rest.

  “Anything on those thermal images I uploaded?” Irritated, Max checked his supplies and tested the blade on his knife.

  “No significant anomalies. Nothing to suggest where they could be storing the guidance system. To protect the electronics, they’ll need a top-notch cooling system, but I’ve seen no hint of that. I’ve still got sixty or so images to check. The camera I gave you is almost too sensitive, and I have to rule out thermal bleed from adjacent rocks and solar pooling. Even with my new processors it’s like crawling through wet cement. Once all of this is over, I’ll program a better system, but that’s no help now.”

  Max crossed to the porthole and scanned the water, but there was no sign of a boat anywhere. “What about that storm you mentioned?”

  “Rolling in, right on schedule. It’s going to be nasty.”

  That could be useful, Max thought. Anything that slowed his search would also conceal his presence on the island. “Tonight I’ll check the third quadrant. Map coordinates 9.21 to 11.02.”

  “The woman?”

  “She’ll stay underground.” Somehow he’d have to convince her it was necessary.

  “How can you be sure of that?”

  “We’ve reached an…understanding,” he said coolly.

  “What about Truman?”

  “He’ll be right beside me.”

  “Be damned sure that he is. You’re good, but Truman can hear a cricket drop at rush hour.”

  Max knew from firsthand experience how good the dog was. “Copy that, Izzy.”

  “What’s that noise?”

  “I’m going through her camera case. I brought it out here my last trip but I haven’t had time for a closer look.” Max pulled out two new Nikon digital cameras in plastic bags that had torn open on impact from the crash. “I doubt any of this stuff will ever work again. Nikon body. Lenses, filters. The usual.”

  “Anything to make an ID?”

  “Wallet’s gone. She had a bottle of perfume, but I disposed of it after it disabled Truman.” Max rummaged deeper in the bag. “Beef jerky sticks. Nail file. Mascara. Something lacy.”

  Something short and sheer and lacy. Tiny white straps slid through Max’s fingers, making his throat go dry. The top would slip low and tease unmercifully, leaving a man crazy to remove it.

  “Max? I asked if there was anything else?”

  “Just some clothes.” Opening a plastic bag, Max pulled out a pink lace thong with pink satin bows. As the narrow lace band pooled through his fingers, he pictured Miki inside it. Then he imagined taking it off her slowly and savoring her flushed skin.

  Focus, fool.

  He dug deeper in the bag. “Wait, there’s something else.” He pulled out two smooth wooden sticks with points at both ends. Beneath them was a ball of damp yarn. “False alarm. It’s just her knitting needles and some yarn. There are notes here, as if she was working on some kind of top.”

  A skimpy top, Max thought. A narrow string around the neck was the only thing holding it up. He would have given a million dollars to see her wearing that and nothing else.

  He felt a bead of sweat on his brow. Stifling a curse, he stuffed the pink thong, the notes and the knitting gear back in the camera case. “Nothing helpful here, Izzy. Knitting is a hobby, photography is a passion and she’s pretty good with dogs. Even Truman took a shine to her. She told me that her best friend Kit is convinced dogs are smarter than most people.”

  “Come again.” A chair creaked sharply. “Say that last thing again.”

  “I said that Truman likes her.”

  “No, the other part. Tell me about her friend.”

  “Her name is Kit. Miki said she raises dogs.”

  “Right. That part.” Izzy sounded tense. “Kit who raises dogs.” He whispered the words as papers ruffled, and then silence fell. “This can’t be happening.” A book snapped shut. “What’s her friend’s last name?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “Stay where you are.”

  The line went silent. Against his better judgment, Max pulled out the lace top again. Though it was crazy, he slipped off one glove and ran his fingers over the sheer edge.

  She’d worn it recently. He picked up traces of sweat and caffeine. Hormones, stress, excitement and high energy bled into his sensitive hand to create a picture of a restless, vibrant woman who threw her soul into work that she loved. He imagined the sexy sway of her breasts beneath the lace and the tight fit of the thong, snuggled against warm skin.

  Hell. This was torture he didn’t need.

  With a curse, Max dropped the soft lace back in its bag, but the images were harder to escape. He could almost taste the faint layer of sweat that clung to her breasts and he knew exactly how she’d feel when he pushed her against the wall and filled her, fast and deep, while they both lost their minds in the kind of sex that didn’t happen often. After their experience in the tunnel, Max had no doubt that taking her would be unforgettable.

  But that was never going to happen. He couldn’t afford distractions and meltdowns. The job always came first.

  He tried to get her out of his mind. She was mouthy and stubborn, but she’d stood up to a man probably twice her strength wielding a knife. She wouldn’t be easy to ignore.

  The thought irritated him as he tugged his gloves back on. Women weren’t long-term. Not in his life. Not ever.

  Izzy came back on the line. “I don’t believe this. You’re sure she said her friend’s name was Kit?”

  “Not a doubt. She clammed up after that.”

  “Describe her to me again.”

  Max ran through the basic facts, then frowned. “Her eyes are the color of the sky. Sort of like after it rains in the mountains.”

  “You mean they’re blue?” Izzy said dryly.

  “No, they’re more on the gray side. But there’s a hint of blue. Maybe even some green. Something cool and soft.” Max cleared his throat. “Gray-blue with green, call it.”

  The chair squeaked again. “I’m looking at a receipt for two Nikon digitals and the models match the numbers you gave me. These babies aren’t cheap and they don’t get sold by the thousands in a mall camera store.” Izzy sounded resigned.

  “So?”

  Computer keys tapped lik
e gunfire, and Izzy made a disgusted sound. “Your mystery woman is no hostile. I even met her after that mess we had in Santa Fe, but I didn’t connect her with the crash. Hell, I should have thought of her sooner, but who would have figured the odds?”

  “Who is she, Teague?”

  “Her friend’s last name is O’Halloran.”

  “You mean she knows Trace O’Halloran’s baby sister?”

  “That’s right.”

  Max rubbed his neck, stunned. So Miki wasn’t working with Cruz. She had nothing at all to do with this mission, other than blind bad luck. His instinct to trust her finally made sense.

  “Here it is, Best Beaches of the World. It’s already presold half a million copies, according to the file I just hacked into. Apparently the production staff was lax about posting their local flight plans. The office manager in L.A. took off to Catalina for a four-day vacation and just now realized the plane hadn’t returned.”

  So Miki was family—or nearly as good as family. In Foxfire the boundaries tended to get blurred. Her friend Kit O’Halloran was engaged to marry Wolfe Houston, the SEAL who had become Foxfire’s new leader.

  Hell.

  “Trust me, Houston’s going to be seriously pissed off if anything happens to his fiancée’s best friend.”

  “I’ll see to it that doesn’t happen.” Max zipped up his vest. “Anything else?”

  “Just one question. If she’s truly out of all this, why did Truman alert for Cruz so clearly?”

  That same question had been bothering Max. “Maybe there’s something we don’t know about Miki. Someone she’s met, something she’s bought or someplace she’s been. It could be that her shoes or even one of her cameras have a scent trail to Cruz or someone very close to him.”

  “You think Cruz’s people passed her something without her knowledge?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “How in hell can I trace something like that? We’re all connected, if we go back five steps, at least that’s what the sociology wonks keep saying.” Izzy sounded irritated.

  “Sorry, can’t help you there. You’re the techno go-to guy.” Max glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. “I’d better move. Two cliff scans to finish as soon as it’s dark.”

  “Keep your ammo dry.”

  As Max stared out through the uncertain light, he saw something cut through the choppy water to the south.

  “Shit,” he snapped. “We’ve got company.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  MIKI YAWNED. Her watch was ruined from seawater and she couldn’t be certain of the time. Five o’clock. Maybe six?

  She looked over at Dutch. For about ten minutes he had struggled for breath, tossing restlessly, but now he was snoring quietly again.

  Miki stretched out on the floor, pillowed Max’s sweatshirt under her head and tried to sleep, too, but she kept seeing the stone-cold eyes of the man who had tried to kill her.

  Muttering, she rolled over and pulled the worn sweatshirt over her head. Worrying was pointless. If she hoped to have any energy left, she needed to sleep. She definitely wasn’t going to think about having sex with Max. She wasn’t used to that kind of raw physical intimacy and her wild response frightened her. She knew that stress broke down barriers, but stress alone didn’t explain her reaction. The thought of his hands and expert mouth still made her heart lurch.

  No, she wouldn’t go there. It was just sex. By the time he came back, the whole encounter would be forgotten. With that thought firmly in mind, she tried to relax, wriggling on the cold ground. But the instant her eyes closed, she found herself thinking of Max again.

  Wondering where he was. Wondering what he was doing. Hoping he was safe.

  Even Max had been shocked by their instant sensory bond. His blunt questions had left no doubt that the intensity was unusual for him and he wasn’t used to women going off like roman candles in his arms. Miki couldn’t figure out if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

  New heat brushed her face as memories crowded into her mind. There was no avoiding the truth. Some dark, physical bond had been forged between them. First both of them had been hit with unusual nosebleeds, and Miki wondered if that was one more symptom of whatever was affecting both of them so strangely.

  Not that she was complaining about the whole physical thing that was happening. Only a fool would have a problem with a gorgeous man who appeared to be fascinated by every detail of her body. For a crazy moment, she had almost thought he had been reading her mind.

  Irritated, Miki rolled over, forgetting she was on the floor. She knocked her forehead against the wall of the bunker and winced.

  Some adventure.

  Closing her eyes, she focused on relaxing, breath by breath. What she needed now was a distraction. Something to calm her down.

  She could think of one kind of distraction, but she’d already done that with Max and it had made matters worse.

  Miki opened her eyes and sat up. Photography was her passion and lifeblood, but when she was keyed up and needed to recharge her creativity there was only one answer.

  Her eyes narrowed. She picked up Max’s tool kit and the pile of dried branches near the door and went to work.

  ONLY A KNITTER UNDERSTOOD the addictive solace of a pair of smooth needles with buttery yarn that slid over your fingers, making big problems shrink and small problems vanish. Something to do with repetitive motions and brain chemistry, Miki had read somewhere. Since the science was unimportant, she hadn’t paid much attention. The effect spoke louder than any set of dry explanations.

  She’d begun to knit the summer her mother had been hospitalized and her world fell apart. One of the intensive care nurses, a restful woman with intelligent eyes and gentle hands had given Miki her first pair of needles. They were cheap plastic, an ugly orange.

  She had never loved anything more.

  Her first few attempts had reduced her to sputtering, furious idiocy, but somewhere around day five muscle memory kicked in and she stopped thinking. First it happened for only a moment here or there, but soon her thoughts quieted, her fears and worries cast aside for as long as her hands moved. Within days she had given her mother a set of needles in a reflection of the same gift that had been made to her.

  But Miki had chosen smooth, fine-grained rosewood for her mother, and soon the two women were knitting in quiet companionship, sharing a sentence here and there, comparing yarns or stitch definitions.

  But one day her mother was too weak to hold circular needles and bulky yarn. A month later she was too weak to knit at all.

  Two days after that, she was dead.

  Knitting had been Miki’s solace during the long illness, and became her focus on the long journey back from loss. It wasn’t something she discussed with people, and years later she was still uncomfortable knitting in public—KIP, as knitters called it.

  Now she looked down at the two decent needles she had managed to carve with one of Max’s surgical scalpels. She had sanded them on a grainy piece of limestone. For yarn, she had found a package with a smooth and surprisingly light fiber that looked like cotton but felt like silk. Intrigued, Miki ran the fiber through her fingers and wondered why she had never seen anything like it before. The stitches grew beneath her fingers in smooth, even rows that were dreamlike and almost effortless against her needles, which made her swear to locate the manufacturer just as soon as she got back to the States.

  She tested the fiber, made a few more sample stitches, and then smiled. The pattern jumped into her head without any planning. Leaning back against the wall, yarn in her lap, she began to knit.

  She had barely finished two rows when a sound echoed near the concealed entrance to the bunker. Shooting to her feet, she clutched the knitting needles in one hand and a scalpel in the other, but it was Truman who came bounding through the shadows toward her.

  The dog raced past her and sniffed Dutch’s hand, then returned and bumped Miki’s leg in excitement.

  “What is it, ho
ney? What do you want?”

  The dog turned in a tight circle and bumped her leg again.

  “I’m having a little communication problem here, so help me out. Do you need something? Food or water? Or maybe you want something from Max’s bag.” Miki stroked the Lab’s head. “Did he send you for something, big guy?”

  Truman sniffed Miki’s arm and then cocked his head, ears raised. This time Miki heard it, too.

  A motor throbbed out beyond the breakers. But instead of feeling joy at the possibility of being rescued, she sat frozen. This could be a fishing boat or innocent tourists. On the other hand, it might be one of the hostiles Max had warned her about. She wasn’t about to risk being wrong.

  She gripped her needles tighter, listening to the rising drone of the motors. Truman pressed against her leg and licked her face, then turned back toward the entrance, his hackles rising.

  “Truman, what is it?”

  Before Miki knew it, he was gone.

  Brushing aside a stab of panic, she raced after the dog, up the stone steps and back through the bushes that concealed the entrance. In the slanting afternoon sunlight she saw Truman stop again, head raised.

  A gunshot cracked like thunder. Miki felt the force of it tighten her chest. Gunfire was a bad sign and she wanted nothing to do with it.

  “Truman,” she called softly. “Come back here with me.”

  The big dog didn’t move, his head pointed toward the breakers where a sleek white speedboat with two decks was tossing up white foam in its race ashore. Miki noticed something about its main deck looked odd and asymmetrical.

  Her throat went dry when she realized the thing she was looking at was a mounted machine gun. A man in a bright blue shirt was holding the gun, aiming at a man kneeling on the deck. She couldn’t hear their voices, but the sense of threat was harsh and unmistakable.

  “Truman,” she rasped. “Come here.” The dog didn’t turn back or register her command in any way, and as the big yacht came closer, the dog’s tension grew.