Code Name: Blondie

by Christina Skye

  Another burst of gunfire cracked the silence. The kneeling man fell.

  Miki put her hand against a rock to steady herself as she watched a second man dragged out onto the deck. Now she was close enough to hear his wild, pleading cries.

  She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. Truman was at the edge of the sand now. When the yacht came closer, the dog would be clearly visible from the beach, bound to attract curiosity.

  “Truman.”

  When the dog didn’t respond, Miki shot through the bushes and crouched behind the Lab, one hand stroking his head reassuringly. “Honey, we have to go. This is too dangerous.”

  Miki’s hands were shaking and she couldn’t seem to hold the leather collar. After two tries, she managed to hold tight and tugged hard, trying to get the Lab’s attention. “Come back now. You can’t stay here.”

  The dog’s eyes flickered toward her for a moment, then locked on the sleek boat again. The shrill cries from the deck made Miki’s stomach churn. Suddenly there was a glint of metal and the man in the blue shirt swung around, raising binoculars from a strap around his neck.

  He looked toward the beach.

  Toward the spot where she and Truman were crouched, frozen.

  She heard a shout. The machine gun swung around slowly, dipped, then pointed across the sand directly at Truman.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  SHOUTS FILLED THE AIR. Even as Miki dropped flat on the sand behind a flowering bush, she knew it was too late. They’d been spotted.

  Excited cries echoed above the hiss and slam of the surf while Miki tried to pull Truman down beside her, but the big dog refused to leave his vantage point beside a line of rugged boulders on the beach.

  The big man in the blue shirt turned slowly, scanning the whole beach with his binoculars. His hands chopped at the air as he shouted orders Miki couldn’t hear. A loudspeaker thundered and two men ran across the deck, pointing at Truman.

  Like hell she was coming out, Miki thought. But she had to find a way to draw Truman back out of sight. Her calls didn’t work and her soft shoves were ignored.

  Time to try something different.

  Miki gave a little cry and flopped back down on the ground, her arms outstretched, her eyes closed. She heard sand crunch. Truman’s wet nose bumped her face, but she didn’t move.

  Another bump.

  Truman lapped her cheeks with his tongue, and she managed to stay still. Something nudged her jeans and the next thing she knew, Truman was dragging her across the sand, his teeth gripping her pants leg, saving her as he had been trained to do. As a precaution, Miki didn’t respond until she felt the sand give way to stone beneath her back. Then she opened her eyes and faked a long moan.

  Truman bumped her leg, sniffing her face with an intense curiosity. Ears alert, he was in full rescue mode, oblivious to the cries of the men on the approaching ship.

  Just as Miki had hoped, the Lab nudged her back toward the stairs to the underground bunker and safety. But before they were out of range, a line of bullets cut across the sand barely two feet away from Truman. Miki responded by gut instinct, her heart pounding and her throat dry as she grabbed the dog’s neck and pulled him low to the ground.

  More bullets strafed the beach and Truman went flat, covering Miki with his body while sand shot up in clumps. As the bullets cut closer, Miki wiggled free and pulled Truman toward a gardenia bush. Something hit her wrist, making her wince, but she didn’t release Truman’s collar.

  More gunfire drilled the sand, accompanied by shouted curses and Miki realized she was too late, their position blown, with no way to cross the beach in time to escape the bullets that were pounding closer from the deck-mounted machine gun.

  This is how it happens, she thought. I am going to die and it will be right here, in dirty jeans on a beach with no name. No one will even know what happened. Against the scream of bullets, panic took hold, clouding her logic.

  She hugged Truman, shaking.

  Then she raised her head and looked in the dog’s keen eyes and felt her fear slip, pulling free. She took a deep breath, finally able to think again, and saw the figures scattering over the deck of the ship, which was nearly through the surf. She and Truman would have to run for the trees above the beach. Anything was better than waiting, silent and craven, until they were shot or tortured.

  Miki pulled vainly at the Lab’s big collar, sick to her stomach, knowing she could never leave the dog behind, but Truman refused to budge.

  His head lifted. The shots from the boat came closer and closer.

  Something white drifted past the gardenia bush. Not sand. Not flower petals.

  Miki frowned. She felt Truman’s tail straighten as he stared out toward the horizon while the air began to fill with tiny flecks. Then the white flakes swirled and ran together into a pale cloud, blanketing first Miki’s corner of the sand and then the whole beach.

  Fog.

  She watched the layers drift and thicken until the world blurred and vanished completely, until all she could see was fingers of white drifting past her feet, cool on her face. Then the bullets stopped. A strained silence fell, broken only by the sound of the surf.

  Truman looked up at her and sneezed, his tail stiff. If a dog could grin, then his open mouth was set in a grin. He turned in a circle, tail wagging. Then he sat, raised one paw and stared at her.

  Like a high five, Miki realized. Dogs didn’t do that, did they?

  But they weren’t out of danger by a far cry, not with the shouts of anger and confusion that began coming from several directions through the fog.

  The fog…

  It was just like the other time, fog swirling up out of the ocean, and Miki was sure it wasn’t from a simple act of nature.

  Truman? No way. That had to be impossible. An animal couldn’t…

  The Lab sneezed, his tongue lolling. He whimpered softly and then sank against her.

  “Tru?”

  Whimpering softly, Truman blinked, his eyes un-focused. Then he sank against Miki’s chest. Hard on the heels of his collapse, a figure appeared from the fog, bare-chested and barefooted. He was missing two teeth and cradled a sawed-off rifle, whispering into a headphone that probably connected him with the yacht.

  Bad news. Way bad news.

  He spun, peered through the heavy clouds, saw Miki.

  And he smiled slowly, revealing another gap in his dirty teeth. The shotgun lowered. “You come here.”

  Miki scooted backward, clutching Truman, who barely moved. She’d forgotten Max’s revolver in the bunker. That left only one weapon available to her.

  Grimly, she palmed her hand-carved knitting needles, slipping them from her pocket into the waist-band of her jeans. Ineffectual at long range, they could still do damage up close…assuming she didn’t get blasted by the shotgun in the next three seconds.

  Stall.

  Miki released Truman, raised her hands and stood up slowly. “You want money?” she rasped. “I’ve got an iPod around here somewhere.”

  “IPod?” The man’s eyes narrowed. “Nano or Shuffle? You got Bose headset, too?”

  “Uh—sure.” Like hell. “Right up there behind that rock. I’ll show you where it—”

  “You stay.” The man’s voice was tight and uneasy. “I look.” He smiled at her and rubbed his crotch idly. “You American, sure. I love Julia Roberts. You know her?”

  Know Julia Roberts, as in personally? “Uh, I can’t say—”

  “Maybe Paris Hilton?” He kept on scratching, his eyes narrowed. “She make lots of movies. I see on Internet.”

  Miki clutched the knitting needles, her hands trembling. “Yeah, I’ve met Paris and Julia. Sure I have. Great people. Friendly, too.”

  The man with the gun sighed in pleasure. “You get iPod for me. Then you come. Leave dog.” He stared at Miki’s legs and moved closer. “Take off shirt first.”

  “Pardon me.”

  The shotgun jerked sharply. “Shirt. Put it on sand. Now.”
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  Miki swallowed and stepped away from Truman, keeping him well out the line of fire as she reached for her top button. Her hands were shaking so hard she couldn’t open the blouse, but she kept a big, silly smile on her face. “Sure. I can do that. Why not?”

  One button.

  She took another step sideways, still smiling. The fog swirled up between them and Miki calculated how far she would get before he cut her down.

  Two buttons.

  “Hurry up. You fast.”

  Three.

  “Take off all. Then you get down on sand.”

  Uh-oh. Miki fought to hold the smile, opening the last button on her shirt and letting one shoulder slide free. She’d ditched her bra because it was gritty with sand, rubbing her skin raw. With luck she’d buy a little distraction time.

  The man’s shotgun tilted. He stared avidly as her shirt parted. “Faster. The others come soon. You hurry and maybe I help you when they come here.”

  Miki fought panic and slowly lowered the other side of her blouse, with the cotton clutched to her chest. Then she let it fall.

  Her attacker’s eyes darkened. He slipped the shotgun into a holster under his arm and fumbled with his zipper. “We do it now. Maybe then I help you.”

  Oh, sure you will, Miki thought grimly. But the needles were in the waistband of her jeans and if he got any closer, she’d have a weapon.

  It would have to be the eyes, she thought. Then a blind dash through the fog. Except she couldn’t leave Truman behind.

  The man with the scarred chest shoved her onto the sand, staring at her hungrily. Miki gripped her needles in her right hand, smiling vapidly, waiting until he was close enough so that she wouldn’t miss. His hands dug at her shoulder, pinched her neck and rubbed her breasts. His breath was hot, sour like spoiled meat, making her gag.

  She pulled out the sharpened wooden needles.

  And then he made a little gurgling sound and pitched sideways onto the beach, his shotgun falling with a hiss.

  Max stood glaring down at him, his eyes dark with violence. “That should teach the shit.” He grabbed the shotgun and a knife stuck in the man’s belt, then looked at Miki. His eyes hardened as he saw the bruise on her breast. “Maybe I’ll kill him after all,” he said hoarsely.

  “Let’s g-go. Truman’s sick.”

  Max shoved her attacker over, saw that he was out cold, and smiled grimly. He picked up Miki’s shirt and slid it around her shoulders, gently closing the buttons. His body was hot, reassuring, and she fought back a shaky sob, wanting to lean against him, drawing heat and strength from those hard arms.

  Instead she took a step back and knelt beside Truman, stroking his head. “The fog came again. Truman was acting so strange. I almost think that…”

  “Tell me later,” Max said tightly. “The others won’t be far behind.” He tossed her the shotgun and lifted Truman’s motionless body, scanning the sand. “There’s a spot just beyond the beach where we can hide.”

  Always prepared, Miki thought.

  She followed him into the swirling white and noticed that it was beginning to fade. A shout came from somewhere to their left and Max grabbed her arm with his free hand, tugging her up the slope, urging her to go faster.

  It was like coming awake from a nightmare, Miki thought. Her hand shook as she felt the points of her knitting needles dig into her palm. Dimly, she felt a pain near her elbow, but she was too confused, too focused on keeping up with Max to pay much attention.

  Gunfire exploded behind them.

  Max grabbed her shoulder and pressed her to the ground, his body across hers. A hero trained to protect, just like Truman.

  Gunfire hammered over their heads and moved off to the right. Silently, Max pulled her to her feet and pointed to a wedge of ragged limestone up the slope. Only when Miki scrambled around a tree did she glimpse the shadow of another tunnel. She headed down, stopped and turned to look for Max.

  “Go on,” he whispered.

  “Give me Truman then. Help me get him onto his feet and we’ll manage from here. He’s starting to look more energetic.”

  His smile was swift and hot, knocking the breath out of Miki’s chest, heating her face and diving deep into the wary corners of her heart. His lips curved, rakish, smooth as sin itself. “You go, girl.”

  He waved her forward and then turned, vanishing into the fog.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  MIKI SAW A STREAK of blood across her arm. Hers or her attacker’s? She decided she didn’t really want to know.

  The man was probably dead. It might just as easily have been her or Truman lying on the sand, bleeding out their last seconds of life.

  Miki began to shiver. Fighting back panic, she leaned against Truman, helping the Lab down a row of steps to a shadowed space just like the other bunkers. The dog still hadn’t moved when she set him on the floor.

  How had things gotten so wrong, so far out of control? Her throat was raw as she closed her eyes, struck by a sudden, blinding need to be home in Santa Fe, wrapped in the beauty of the high desert. She thought of her friend Kit and her four wonderful dogs, smiling just a little. Then she thought about all the stupid, small, pleasant things that made up her day and how much she missed them.

  Coffee. Checking her e-mail. Watering her plants and watching the sun rise over the rugged Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

  Silence stretched out around her, magnifying the thunder of her pulse. Max was gone and the gunfire had stopped.

  Her stomach twisted and she fought down an urge to gag. She had to help Truman, and as soon as possible, they’d have to find Dutch. Responsibility and fear made her hands shake.

  Didn’t Max know she wasn’t good with planning and responsibility? Didn’t he understand she wasn’t the best person to trust with important things like saving lives and maybe even protecting her country?

  Miki remembered his stern orders about dehydration. Though she could barely swallow, she forced down several gulps of water from the canteen he’d slid under her arm, and kept her gaze away from the shadows farther back in the tunnel.

  If there were more rats hiding there, she didn’t want to know about it. But suddenly the weight of death and violence was all around her. She sank down on the stone floor, thinking about Max’s trunk and its neatly stacked clothes, rolled maps and zippered mesh pockets with papers inside.

  Government work.

  Her hands twitched.

  Looking down, she saw that the knitting needles were digging into her palm, raising beads of blood. As she fingered the rough wood, Miki turned over the few explanations that Max had made to her. Who was this man Cruz and why had Max been so interested in the scar on her arm? Mostly she wondered how the strange fog had come out of nowhere two times, both when danger was present.

  Hugging Truman close, she found the fiber she had begun to knit. Already it seemed like years had passed. When she sneezed, she gripped the last of Max’s white fiber, light, yet warm against her fingers.

  She spread it gently over Truman and then she sat in the darkness, too tired to move.

  Too tortured to sleep.

  JELLYFISH.

  Max hated the damn things. They had been everywhere when he climbed out of the crashing surf. His wetsuit had been slashed in three places when unexpected currents had tossed him against the shelf of coral. Big surprise number one.

  It was just Murphy’s Law that they had to be the really nasty kind, capable of a virulent sting. He had encountered box jellyfish twice before in the South Pacific, and both times the stings had required medical intervention. Now his shoulder and neck were swelling, and he didn’t need to see his face to know he was going to swell up again unless he got to Izzy’s miracle mix.

  But the jellyfish fix would have to wait. With fog trailing in faint wisps, he made his way from boulder to boulder until he was no more than twenty yards from the surf where the yacht rode at anchor. A man in a blue shirt shouted orders to his frightened crew in a snarl that sounded Indon
esian or maybe Cambodian.

  DAMNED MARITIME PIRATES, Max thought. The modern-day variety armed with cell phones and GPS and Swiss bank accounts. Men who would attack boats under contract and kidnap by pre-arranged e-mails.

  He would have enjoyed cutting them down in one blitz, but staying out of sight and under the radar remained his mission priority. He wondered if Cruz had picked up their presence yet. If not, it would be soon.

  While he waited behind the boulder, Max winced, feeling the burn of the jellyfish tentacles. He needed to irrigate the wound areas with Izzy’s potent surfactants and apply a tight pressure wrap to prevent the spread of the neurotoxin.

  But he didn’t move.

  At least Izzy had provided him with several doses of box jellyfish antivenin to be used in just this event.

  Max gritted his teeth against the pain and grabbed the man who dashed behind the boulder. One blow sent him to the ground.

  Two minutes later a second man appeared and Max took him out, too.

  The captain was shouting on the yacht. Machine-gun fire raked the beach, and then the motors kicked in. The yacht sputtered, then roared out to sea.

  Max glanced south, noting the outline of storm clouds that had built up in the last hour. Izzy’s predicted storm was closing in fast.

  Wincing at the burning pain at his shoulder and chest, he surveyed the rest of the beach. Two crabs scurried across the sand. A seabird fluttered its huge wings as it nested near the water. Otherwise the cove was empty.

  He glanced at the luminous dial of his watch and rubbed his neck. He had been working straight for thirty-six hours. He was going to need to a nap soon, before his reflexes began to slow.

  He looked over his shoulder, half expecting to hear Truman’s soft footfalls any second. He frowned as he crossed the beach and up to the top of the slope. As a precaution he watched the yacht until it vanished at the horizon. Then he made his way along the cliff and pulled away the rocks disguising the tunnel entrance. The rope was right where he had left it.