Code Name: Blondie

by Christina Skye

  What’s wrong with Truman? Trace was at the top of the hill, looking back.

  Something’s got him spooked, Max thought back in answer. Better slow down.

  You two stay back. I’m taking point from here on, Wolfe cut in.

  Max started to argue, but you didn’t question the team leader’s direct order. He knew that Wolfe had a personal stake in bringing Cruz down after their prior encounter and the threat to the woman he loved. Max was starting to understand that last feeling very well.

  He looked down as Truman bumped his leg. The dog’s body was rigid, ears pricked alertly.

  Air gusted as a bird shot over his shoulder, wings spread. Truman watched the hurtling flight, ears flat, his muscles tensed. One paw scratched a straight line on the ground.

  Unspecified alert. Indeterminate danger.

  Max slowed, checking the heavy vegetation along the slope. The heavy rain made vision difficult, and as Max trained his focus he picked up Cruz’s energy signature, just the way Trace had said, projected along the trail. Max’s skill wasn’t half as strong as Trace’s but he saw the ghostlike outlines of Cruz’s projections as a shifting oily sheen in the air.

  The gunfire came closer. A burst from an Uzi sent Max zigzagging to the left. When he turned around, Trace was hunched over, gripping his side.

  Trace?

  Took a round beneath the ribs. Hurts like hell, but I’ll survive. You two go on and I’ll catch up.

  Max didn’t hesitate. He would have made the same call if the situation were reversed.

  We’ll be back as soon as we can, Wolfe answered. Stay low. He’s close now.

  Max studied the slope, feeling awareness gather at the back of his neck. He was assaulted by the sudden smell of gasoline, carried on black, oily clouds from the explosion. For the other two men, the acrid smell would be unpleasant, but Max couldn’t risk the contamination that would throw off his sensory work. Truman would have a similar problem unless the wind dispersed the smoke soon.

  As he jerked a length of black cloth from his backpack and tied it around his face, something else bothered Max. He dropped to one knee, pressed his hand into the ground beside a wall of shifting bamboo plants, and picked up a dim impression of motion and what felt like the hum of machinery. He was trying to focus on the source when Truman went flat, ears back, body rigid.

  A warning alert. Danger straight ahead.

  Max stopped instantly. Wolfe, can you see Truman?

  Yeah, and I wish I couldn’t. Gotta be Cruz.

  Max looked up and saw the bamboo wall part. Cruz stood in the middle of the trail, smiling coldly, holding out what appeared to be a computer disk.

  Truman’s teeth pulled back in a snarl, as if he was under silent attack. Max knew that Cruz had shown the ability to manipulate animals as part of his enhanced skills, and Truman would be a definite prize. But right now the Lab showed no signs of giving in easily.

  Up the trail, Cruz’s image seemed to waver and then reform. His lips moved, but no sound emerged, like a bad copy of a silent movie. Though Max searched the ground, he picked up no biomarkers or chemical layers.

  Do you see him? he asked Wolfe.

  Keep moving. It’s an ID.

  Image distortion, another one of Cruz’s skills. Wolfe Houston would recognize the technique perfectly because he had always been the strongest of the team at the focused distortion skills.

  What about the computer disk he was holding?

  Max felt Wolfe’s intensity as he stared up the trail. Probably showing us what he thinks we want most. Don’t trust anything you see, not even me. You know the code word. And if he takes you down…

  Understood.

  Wolfe was warning that any image could be manipulated, friend turned to foe and foe to apparent friend. Without code verification, no one could be trusted. And if Cruz managed to take any of the men, the others were under order to kill him to avoid him being turned into a weapon in Cruz’s hands.

  Max picked up the hum of a wireless energy source somewhere near his feet. Sensors, he thought, reading the edge of a focused wireless network fanning out across the hill.

  He pulled off his gloves and touched the tree trunk with his palm, reading patterns and searching for oil traces left by human skin.

  Not here, but nearby. A dense line led up the hill.

  He looked back at Trace, who was climbing awkwardly toward a flat rock, one hand pressed against his rib.

  Trace, stop!

  Max followed a faint trail of sweat and more of the amphetamine traces. Even in the rain, the layers were well defined. Immediately he projected the image to the others, who froze in mid-footstep.

  But the warning came too late. The ground rumbled and soil heaved, giving way. Max plunged into a pit gaping open beneath him. By instinct, he managed to relax and shield his head, preparing for a fall.

  He hit hard, dirt filling his mouth. His head throbbed as he crawled to his feet, staring up at the gashed earth and overturned bushes. A well-placed sensor had triggered a fall in what appeared to be one of Cruz’s underground tunnels.

  Max, are you all right?

  Only a few scratches. Max ran a hand over the shifting earth. Stay back, Wolfe. I’m picking up additional sensors, and the area looks unstable.

  Understood.

  As the rain hammered on, Max moved to the center of the hole. Finding nothing significant, he squished on through dirt that was rapidly turning to mud.

  And then he saw a weathered door. It was all but invisible, brown and mottled in the same colors as the ground.

  Wolfe, there’s a door down here. I’m checking it out. Max felt Wolfe’s hesitation.

  Negative. Not without backup. Trace is out of the picture and I can’t get down there yet. Hold position.

  We need a reading.

  Wolfe’s answer shot back, sharp and decisive. Negative. This is Cruz’s home turf and we’re at a disadvantage. Are you picking up anyone in the area?

  No one, Max shot back.

  Give me a second. I’ll hitch my rope around a tree and you’ll be out of there shortly.

  Silently Max registered assent. Staying where he was, he pulled off his gloves and rested his palms against the newly furrowed ground.

  Sweat. Layers of cortisol and adrenaline. The flash of amphetamines again, mixed with caffeine and tobacco.

  Cruz kept his workers stoked and uncertain, always watching their backs. Max realized that it was a worst-case scenario of the way Ryker might handle the Foxfire team in a crisis. No one ever said that being nice got the job done.

  Max didn’t want to think about the similarities. None of them had done the things that Cruz had done. Most likely his chip degeneration had triggered a long dormant instability that had slipped past all the medical evaluations.

  But a tiny voice whispered that the same chips could cause the process to repeat in any one of the team. Would Max wake up one day to find himself taking enemy fire from another friend turned foe, with all the skills of Foxfire technology turned against the team? What if it was Wolfe next time?

  Impossible, Max thought.

  Did you say something? Wolfe sounded a little distracted.

  No.

  Max couldn’t analyze what made him go very still. It might have been a hint of adrenaline in the air or maybe raw instinct.

  He sniffed the air. Climate control. Not for personal comfort, but almost certainly designed for high-tech equipment that required stable temperature and humidity.

  What the hell was Cruz making down here?

  Max didn’t move, wary of triggering another sensor.

  Don’t bother waiting for Wolfe. He’s not coming.

  Max stiffened as air brushed his back and a voice seemed to whine inside his ear.

  We both know you’d give anything to take me down, Preston. So open the door and come on in. I’m here where you can get me. Unless you’re afraid to see what I can show you because it will prove that I’m right. Ryker is nuts and the whole
program is flawed.

  The voice was hollow, disembodied, and Max couldn’t register any physical signs of Cruz’s presence, which meant this was more illusion.

  Smoke and mirrors, the kind Cruz conjured best.

  I don’t need to see your world, Cruz. I already know it’s as sick as you are.

  Hell, you’re so afraid that you’re sweating, Preston. Ryker’s got you so twisted around his finger you won’t breathe without getting his approval first.

  Max tried to contact Wolfe, but got no answer. Meanwhile, Cruz’s ravings continued.

  Where’s your freedom gone, Preston? Where are the honesty and idealism you bought into? Ryker’s made you all into his drones, shaped to his personal whim. Face it—Foxfire isn’t about the government or securing our borders, it’s about Ryker and his personal quest for power. Why don’t you ask him what he’s doing in Lab 21? Ask him about South America and—

  Max shielded his mind from the delusional ramblings. There wasn’t a Lab 21 back at HQ. All of this was more of Cruz’s paranoia.

  You can dismiss me the way Wolfe did, but what happened to me will happen to you. One day you’ll look in the mirror and you’ll see my haunted eyes, my gaunt face. None of the medications will help. I’ll be the only one you can turn to then.

  Max tried to cut out the voice. It wavered like static from a distant radio, then came back stronger than before.

  You want to be Ryker’s slave. I thought you were smarter than that, Preston. Guess I was wrong.

  Max’s vision swam. He was hit by a sudden wave of dizziness, and when he looked around, the hole had vanished. Despite all Max’s shielding, Cruz’s image distortion patterns kicked in hard and all he could see was a high canopy of endless trees above him.

  If you want to meet me, do it like a man, Cruz. Not like some dime-store magician.

  I’m hardly dime-store quality. Remember, I cost the government ten million dollars to make.

  I’m supposed to be impressed by all this hocus-pocus?

  No, you’re supposed to come and get me, unless I get you first. I intend to have those new chips you’re carrying. Whether you’re dead or alive when I get them is up to you.

  The trees shook, and Max stared into desperation and sorrow. Whether it came from his mind or Cruz’s, he couldn’t tell.

  “WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?” Trace was propped against a tree, his face white. A dark stain was growing at his waist.

  “Ground caved in,” Wolfe said tightly. “One of Cruz’s hidden sensors got tripped.”

  “Where’s Preston?”

  “He’s good to go. I should have him out shortly.” Wolfe wrapped his rope around a tree and knotted it securely. “How’s that wound?”

  “Hurts like hell. I’ve lost a little blood.” Trace took a breath and grimaced. “I can still back you up. Say the word.”

  “The only word I’m saying to you is rest.”

  “But—”

  “That’s an order, O’Halloran.” Wolfe sprinted back toward the gaping hole, playing out rope until he came to the spot where he’d left Max.

  Preston, where are you?

  No answer.

  Scowling, he tossed the rope over the edge and rappelled down. More dirt had fallen, mounded several feet high, and footsteps led across the soft earth toward the half-hidden door.

  The door was open and Max was gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  MAX FELT THE THREAD of contact break. Cruz was making this into a game, complete with taunting and trickery and threats. He’d always loved being tested and testing back.

  The trees vanished over Max’s head, and suddenly he was inside a tunnel beneath dim lights running along a low ceiling. The whine of generators seemed real, but Max knew that creating unshakable illusions was one of Cruz’s oldest skills.

  If Cruz wanted to play a game, Max would oblige him.

  He rounded a turn cautiously and was hit by the pungent smell of animals from a narrow room lined by cages. Medical books and dissecting equipment were lit by high-wattage halogen lights, and Max saw refrigerators, microscopes and centrifuges similar to those in the Foxfire labs.

  This was more than a simple storage area. Cruz was carrying on Ryker’s research. The thought left Max very uneasy.

  He watched a pair of lemurs swing from perch to perch in a high cage. Both appeared healthy and well fed, but agitated. Max picked up a black notebook on a shelf and flipped through the creased pages.

  September 21—continued to check implantation problems.

  September 25—sacrificed test animal.

  October 1—muscle pattern control successful

  All in all Max found records for twenty-six animals used in tests with various chip configurations, including full behavioral results.

  Interesting, isn’t it?

  Cruz appeared in the doorway with an Uzi over one arm. Not an image this time, Max thought. The energy trail was too clear for that.

  “Starting your own lab, Cruz? I thought you had enough of that at Los Alamos.”

  “I’m using what Ryker taught me, only driving in a new direction. I want his ability to shift chips once they’re implanted. You saw that firsthand. How does it feel when they start moving inside you?”

  Like hell, Max thought. He shrugged. “Why, so you can control us? If so, think again.”

  “I planned every step of this, and that bothers you. I knew Ryker would send someone once I unshielded the weapon area for his satellite. Face it—I’m ten steps ahead of you.”

  “What do you want from me, Cruz? Absolution or loyalty? Because I’m no priest and you’re sure as hell no friend.”

  “What I want is for you to open your eyes. Do you think they’ll let you have any say about your life? Do you think you can have any time with the woman after you leave this island? It’s a dream. You’ll walk away because they’ll order you to.”

  Max tossed the notebook from one hand to the other, ready to move when he saw a break. “Maybe, maybe not. Now I get a question. Where did you hide the inertial weapon system?” he said coldly.

  “Ryker whistles and you jump. Nice job they did on you. But there are too many things you don’t know about the program, things that Ryker never plans to tell any of you. I’m going to enjoy watching your face when I show you his encrypted files. Then I’m going to drive your chips out your neck while you scream.”

  Max’s lips curved. “You really know how to throw a party, Cruz.”

  “Tough talk. You won’t be tough when four pieces of silicon slice through your spine.”

  Max was pretty sure Cruz was right, but he wasn’t going to dwell on the possibilities. “You’re not going anywhere. The whole team is on the ground right now, combing the jungle. You can’t hide from all of us.”

  “I’m not interested in the rest of the team. Right now I’m only interested in you. Have you read your latest medical files closely?” Cruz held up a computer disk, his eyes locking with Max’s. “I mean your real file, the private one Ryker doesn’t want you to see. Remember what happened during the surgery after your training accident?”

  “Broken bones. Kidney problems. Big deal.”

  “What about your partner?”

  Max shied away from the memories and what he had been told about that long ordeal. “Drake died in transit to the hospital.”

  “Not true. Your partner was alive but in bad shape, dying on the operating table. Ryker didn’t want to wait around, so they harvested his organs before they let him go—spleen, kidney and part of both tibias. You know where they went, don’t you?”

  Cold fingers crawled up Max’s neck. “Not interested.”

  “You should be. They gave them to you, Preston. Ryker’s medical experts decided you were more viable, and he had them pull the life support on Drake, but only after they’d taken any organs you might need. I saw your real files. You were side by side on two different operating tables that night. Ryker called the shots and let Drake die.”

  Max fe
lt sick, and his uncertainty made him sicker. Why was he listening to a word from this traitor unless part of him had wondered all along? “I don’t believe it. And if you want my chips, you’ll have to take them out of my dead body.”

  “I expected you’d feel that way. Let’s say you’ll be my first living human test animal.” Cruz raised the same little device he’d held in his tent, and pressed its switch. Instantly Max was swimming in pain, his nerves on fire, hammered by sharp movements beneath his skin, under his collarbone, along his spine. His chips were migrating just the way Cruz had described.

  But Max hadn’t come this far without backup scenarios. Wolfe and Trace would be coming after him shortly, and even the techno genius, Izzy Teague, had insisted on being part of the final op. His electronic tracking skills were second to none.

  He grimaced, feeling a chip work upward past his collarbone and pierce the dermal layer, blood trickling over his shirt. The pain nearly blinded him, but he forced his mind to remain focused. “What about you, Cruz? You’re having problems replacing your nutrients, and your body’s burning too much energy at a constant temperature of 103. You’re not sleeping, either.”

  Cruz’s eyes narrowed. “You determined that from a few seconds of contact? That’s very impressive. I’m going to enjoy those new chips of yours.”

  “What would you give me for a complete hormone assessment so you can replace everything you need? Your body will stop degenerating. That pain in your back will stop, too.” Max smiled at the shock in Cruz’s eyes. “What do you say?”

  “What’s your price?”

  “You answer one question. I want to know what else you did to Miki Fortune. If you went to the trouble to insert one chip, I figure you didn’t stop there.”

  “Busted.” Cruz’s laugh was a cold, reckless sound. “It’s nothing she’ll feel for a few months. Let’s just say the woman you fell in love with—the woman you were screwing blind back in that bunker—has turned into my walking weapon. I control the detonator, the place, the time. When I choose, she’ll go off. You’ll understand if I don’t disclose the details.”

  Max closed his hands to fists, battered by fury. Was this one more test by Cruz or was it real?