It felt like a bad dream. Miki’s eyes closed and the world faded to gray. So tired. So cold…
Something grabbed her, shaking her hard, and she came awake with a start, fighting the hands locked on her shoulders. When she opened her eyes, the masked face was back.
Creepy, she thought dizzily. Now he was holding a tiny waterproof light and some kind of plastic underwater writing slate. He tapped Miki’s shoulder, then wrote on the slate with what looked like a big waxy crayon.
Friends.
Okay, this was abso-freaking nuts. Shuddering, Miki looked around her, ringed by big bodies and high-tech black wetsuits. She tried to work out the details, but she wasn’t having much luck.
The man wrote on the slate again. Only one word this time. Max?
Miki realized he was holding the wax pen out and waiting for an answer. With shaking hands, she gripped the slate and wrote quickly.
Went to island. Looking for something important. Said hidden near palm tree on cliff.
The man whose breathing gear she was using nodded and then passed the slate around to the others. Miki wished she could see their faces clearly, but even through the murky water she sensed their intense focus and intelligence. One of the other men passed the leader his own breathing unit, and Miki gave a mental head slap. She made a move to pull out her mouthpiece and return it, but the man shook his head, motioning her to keep it. Then he held the slate in front of her again.
Gone how long?
Miki frowned and tried to remember.
Not sure. Less than an hour.
The man wrote quickly. Need your help.
Miki shivered with cold, treading the murky water. If she died now, who would miss her? Who would remember her for touching a life or changing the world in any way? That was what you were supposed to do, wasn’t it? People said that everyone had a gift, and you were supposed to find that gift and use it fully before you died.
Right now it looked as if she had a ninety-ten chance of dying, and she’d done nothing of any importance in her life. This was her chance.
She nodded at him.
He wrote another line. Will be very dangerous.
He hadn’t finished writing when she grabbed the board from his hand, crossed out the last line and scrawled in big letters.
YES.
One of the other men swam closer and squeezed her shoulder, giving a big thumbs-up. If the whole scene hadn’t been so surreal, and if she hadn’t had a mouthpiece locked between her trembling lips, she might have laughed.
But the danger ahead was anything but funny, and now the lead man was writing on the slate again, while one of the others pressed something heavy into her hands.
When she looked down, the slate said, Kevlar vest. Put it on under your shirt.
After Miki pulled her shirt back on over the black protective vest, he nodded and gave her arm another reassuring squeeze.
Max needs you. Can you do this?
She didn’t hesitate, nodding hard.
Behind the dark masks, six sets of eyes probed her face, and she sensed how closely they were weighing her strengths and weaknesses. She wanted to scream that she was tough and they could count on her, that she’d anything to help Max, but they wouldn’t hear and probably wouldn’t believe it anyway. Then the man nodded at the others and she knew the decision to trust her had been made. He wrote one more line on the slate.
Can you keep a secret?
MAX SAW THE SPEEDBOAT surge around the bottom of the cliff, just the way Cruz had promised.
But they were going to play the last act by new rules. Ignoring the boat, Max slipped back into the water.
Ten minutes later, he dumped his breathing gear in a rocky crevice at the far side of the island. He hid his sealed rifle and removed a revolver from inside a waterproof case, then sprinted into the trees.
It wasn’t hard to locate Cruz’s camp. An hour before, there had been no signs of life here, but there was no more effort to hide. Now lights burned above the jungle and Max heard the rumble of machinery.
He made his way silently through the outskirts of the camp, where a dozen men unloaded crates with what appeared to be satellite communication equipment. There was no sign of Cruz, but his energy trail was strong, focused near the beach.
A twig snapped behind him. When Max turned, he was staring into Wolfe Houston’s face. Why in the hell was the new Foxfire team leader here in the jungle?
“Be careful.” Wolfe frowned, bending closer. “He’s unstable and probably paranoid. You saw Ryker’s medical reports during the briefing. You know what you have to do.”
Max kept his body relaxed as he laughed. “Nice job, Cruz. You almost had me believing you. But you made one mistake: Wolfe trusts me. When he gives an order he knows I carry it out without any further instructions. That’s where you gave yourself away.”
The man before him seemed to flicker, shifting colors like a photographic negative taking on tones and dimension in a chemical bath.
In a span of seconds Max was staring at the gaunt, powerful features of Enrique Cruz, not Wolfe Houston. Cruz looked sick, Max thought. He also looked deadly.
Max’s gun was drawn, pointing at Cruz’s head. “Where is she?”
“You’d put a woman above your mission? Ryker would have your ass and all the rest of you for that.” Cruz pointed through the trees to the edge of the beach. “The boat will be here shortly and she’ll be kept in confinement until I decide what to do with her. Dutch turned out to be very useful, managing to get hired in Hawaii at the last minute.” Cruz’s mouth twisted. “You broke one of Ryker’s rules when you got emotionally attached.”
“Maybe I’ve decided to set my sights higher than Ryker’s rules. But as I said, you’ll have to make it worth my while.”
“If you join me, there’s nothing we can’t do. I’ll let you have the woman, for a start.”
Max stood for a long time, staring into the rain. The timing was crucial now. Cruz wouldn’t expect an easy capitulation. “You almost tempt me, Enrique. But the answer’s still no. It’s not enough.”
At Cruz’s signal, four of his men drove Max to the ground and cuffed him. Cruz hit Max hard. With his hands tied, Max felt the blow slam through his jaw and whip his head back. Blood spurted into his mouth and down his neck.
“I’ll ask you again. Join me.”
Max kept his face expressionless. “Not interested without more inducement. And just for the record, you were a rotten leader. You started liking the power and the ability to give orders, and you were afraid that someone would take that away from you. The day you put your own power above the safety of your men was the day you stopped being a leader worthy of my respect. You’re nowhere close to being the man that Houston is.”
Cruz hit him again, and this time Max managed to fall forward, away from the grip of the man in a faded camo uniform. Max grabbed at Cruz’s arm, hormones and sweat burning into his awareness, painted through layers of adrenaline and more hormones. Max had each detail etched into his memory before Cruz shoved him away.
Now he had the information he needed, torn from those moments of physical contact. This was why Ryker had sent him, so he could read and record every detail of Cruz’s physical and mental status. The weapon guidance system was valuable, but nothing in comparison with upto-date information about Foxfire’s rogue leader.
Max shielded his mind as Cruz squatted in front of him. “Something’s different.” Cruz touched Max’s forehead and cursed. “You’re blocking me, Preston. How?”
Max didn’t answer, thinking of the rain and Miki’s warm body. Thinking of their rough and primitive mating beneath a veil of water. He kept his mind deep in those moments, and through that energy he blocked Cruz.
“They’ve done something to you. Is it a new chip? Tell me, Preston.”
Max leaned forward and spat coldly on the sand. You are a dead man, his mind whispered back, letting Cruz hear.
Not without my revenge complete. Cruz’s eyes
were like streaks of mud as he dug into the pocket of his vest and held out what appeared to be a black penlight. “I doubt you’ve seen this before. It was one of Ryker’s favorite toys before I got away. He was testing a way to make our chips migrate slightly, using magnetics. I don’t need to tell you how painful it is.”
As he spoke, Cruz pressed on the barrel.
Pain stabbed through Max’s neck like living slivers of glass. He felt the muscles at his shoulders clench.
Cruz triggered the unit again. Max had to bite back a curse as the chip in his neck infiltrated deeper, tearing through tissue and nerves while the pain went on and on and rain hammered the beach. “Join me.”
Max’s cold answer didn’t change, though Cruz repeated the order again and again, each time driving Max’s chips deeper. Twenty minutes later, his face streaked with blood, he blacked out.
MIKI WAS CAUGHT SOMEWHERE between terror and a raw adrenaline high. In a gray blur she watched waves pound against the beach. What was she doing here facing bullets and pretending to be brave? She wasn’t cut out for heroics.
Maybe not, but she wasn’t backing down and she wouldn’t screw up. Max and Truman both needed her. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.
“Do you have everything straight?”
The man who had written on the slate was at the wheel of Dutch’s boat, wearing Dutch’s clothes. The pilot was tied up and sedated, out of sight below the deck. In the heavy rain no one would notice the change.
Miki smoothed the torn shrug covering her shirt and nodded. “I remember.”
“Good. It’s going to get physical,” the man who called himself Dakota said. “It’s got to be convincing but I’ll keep you out of range as much as—”
“To hell with staying out of range. Do whatever you need to do so you can get to Max,” Miki said fiercely. “But once you’re on the beach, they’ll realize you’re not Dutch.”
The man steering the boat smiled faintly. “I’ve got a few tricks of my own, ma’am.”
The old Miki would have hammered him with questions.
The new Miki zippered her mouth and focused on staying calm so she could give the best performance of her life. Dipping her hand into the boat’s wake, she drenched her face and hair. The cold would help her focus.
Ahead of them on the beach a man pointed, running over the sand with a walkie-talkie pressed against his ear.
“You ready back there?” The question was low.
No. Actually, she was white-knuckle material, petrified that she’d screw up the way she had too many times before.
Miki took a deep breath. She didn’t know who this Dakota was, but she was trusting him with her life. If he was a friend of Max, she knew it was the right thing to do. “No problem. I’ll be fine. Let’s bag this creep and go home.”
“I’m with you, honey.”
Their boat hissed as it touched sand and Miki slid lower, the perfect picture of a cowering woman. “Dutch” had his collar rolled up around his face as he leaned down, grappling with her.
A man in a camouflage uniform and an Australian bush hat walked toward them, an Uzi slanted over his shoulder. “Need some help?”
Dakota shook his head and grunted a graphic curse that made the man with the Uzi smile. “Hurry up. Cruz wants to see you pronto. He’s in his tent up the beach.”
Dakota released Miki and hunched over, hacking loudly. “Damned lungs.”
Someone called out for Malovich, and the man with the Uzi ran back up the beach, his walkie-talkie screeching.
None of the other men paid much attention as “Dutch” yanked Miki out of the boat and shoved her across the sand. Her body blocked any view of his face.
“Let me go,” she rasped. “You can’t hold me. I’m an American and I demand—”
She was thrust sideways with an apparent backhand that sent her sprawling to the ground. Dakota leaned over her, holding her down with one foot. “There’s no American embassy here so shut the fuck up.”
She tossed sand in his face, prompting a string of curses.
Up the hill a cold voice brought all movement to a halt. “Bring them here.”
Miki struggled to stand up and Dakota hunched over, coughing harshly.
“You can’t hold me here.” Suddenly something buzzed through her head, and pain shot up her neck. Her nose began to bleed again.
Two men stood near the tent above the beach, watching her as if she was a stray dog that had wandered into camp. Coughing loudly, Dakota pushed her forward.
Something felt wrong to Miki. Her palms were clammy with fear as the wrongness grew. She saw the man propped on the sand with a harpoon arrow protruding through his chest. In one quick glimpse she recognized the man who’d attacked her earlier on the beach. He hadn’t died fast or easily.
Miki closed her eyes. She didn’t know how he had ended up here. Another man was stretched out on the ground, leaning against a green tent. When she realized it was Max, her heart lurched. He was slumped sideways, his face swollen and smeared with blood. A man sat in a folding chair two feet away, watching him with eyes that missed nothing.
What she did next wasn’t planned.
She ran forward, flailing at the two new men who tried to stop her. “What did you do to him?” She dug out a knitting needle she’d hidden under her shirt and jabbed it deep into one of the men’s hands. “Let go.”
She twisted free and dropped to her knees beside Max, touching his face gently. He didn’t move or give any sign that he knew she was there.
“Max,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
He forced open an eye, studying her blankly. “Don’t know you.”
The man in the chair stood up and pulled Miki to her feet, then slapped her hard. She bit back a moan, summoning all her anger to fight back, but her arms were pinned. Max’s captor reminded her of the hungry wolves she had seen one winter pawing for food near a garbage dump outside Santa Fe. There was nothing that felt human in his eyes and his face held no expression as he shoved up the sleeve of her torn shrug and pressed the scar where she had been burned. Twice he probed her arm until she was hit by waves of nausea.
“Dutch” shuffled along the sand, coughing as he came closer. He called a name and Miki realized it was Cruz.
Someone yelled. Gunfire cracked in the trees, and the next thing Miki knew, she was flat beneath Max’s body, pressed into the sand while “Dutch” pointed a rifle at Cruz.
None of the three men spoke. They seemed to communicate without words, their eyes locked, and the unnatural tension between them made the little hairs prickle along Miki’s neck. Who were these people?
Men were everywhere now, racing along the beach, charging out of the trees. More gunfire erupted. A man appeared in the back of the beached speedboat, shoved aside a tarp and sprinted toward the tent.
The man called Cruz didn’t move. There in the rain he seemed to pull himself inside and shape the action around him. He raised his face to the wind, closing his eyes.
The rain grew harder, pounding against the tent and slashing at the trees.
Miki felt dizzy. Blood trickled from her nose as Max and a man who looked amazingly like Denzel Washington cornered Cruz.
Lightning arced through the sky, striking the tent until the air sizzled, acrid with ozone and burning nylon, and Miki flinched at the violent explosion, pitching forward. When she opened her eyes, Cruz was gone.
She saw Max on his feet, racing toward the trees, with Smith right beside him. She could have sworn she saw a brown shape that looked like Truman hurtling out of the rain directly toward them.
Everything was chaos in the half-formed camp. No one paid any attention to her or to the Denzel lookalike. Miki was certain she’d seen him once in the hospital with her friend Kit’s fiancé, Wolfe. He smiled slightly as he shoved aside the flap of the tent and pointed to the ground. “Stay down,” he said. “We’ll be fine. You’ve got the Kevlar and I’ve got the Glock.”
Miki
blinked at him. Fine?
She leaned over and was blindingly sick.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THROUGH A TUNNEL OF PAIN, Max ran after Cruz. Behind the hill a fuel dump exploded, marked by shouts and the hammering of feet while flames rose in an orange column. Without turning his head, he sensed Wolfe Houston and another Foxfire teammate, Trace O’Halloran, running parallel to him in the trees, fanning out to take their target in a pincer movement.
Trace, what have you got?
Max sensed Wolfe’s growing impatience.
Energy trails everywhere, Wolfe. I’m getting multiple readings. Hell, they’re all over the place. I can’t pin them down. He’s too damned good.
None of the men needed to speak aloud. From long practice their skills were honed to maintain a lethal silence. But now they faced an enemy who was one of their own kind, who thought the way they thought. Max wondered how much Cruz was picking up right now.
He knew Cruz’s vitals. He’d read his pulse and hormone levels during their moments of contact during the interrogation, but Cruz had his own mental shields in place, and Max couldn’t go deep enough to gauge the extent of Cruz’s damage. All he could pick up was superficial structure changes. Ryker’s scientists had equipped all of the field team with resonance chips to disrupt Cruz’s old implants, and judging by Cruz’s fury during their meeting, the chips had been successful.
But it would be dangerous to underestimate the man’s resourcefulness. Like a cat, their rogue teammate always seemed to land on his feet.
Automatic weapon fire crackled behind them, but none of the men broke stride to look back. Their mission lay ahead in the jungle, with a man more valuable than any weapon guidance system.
A grove of black bamboo cracked and groaned in the wind, brushing Max’s face with a shower of water. Suddenly Truman cut across the face of the slope. Max swerved sharply, jumped a fallen tree trunk to avoid the dog, and kept right on moving until the dog cut him off again.
Code Name: Blondie Page 24