Code Name: Bikini

by Christina Skye

  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 cl
ose 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 m
oved 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.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  HE HADN’T BEEN to San Francisco in six years, and he loved the chaos as much as ever. A bike messenger was blasting rap music. Two truckers argued over one parking space. A woman with purple hair blew him a kiss.

  Trace had forgotten how the colors mixed, how the noise roared and ebbed. Standing on Kearny Street, he caught the drifting scent of Middle Eastern spices mixed with Chinese sesame cakes and fried ginger. His stomach growled. Too bad he didn’t have time to stop at the little Hunan restaurant with the blister-your-tongue chile.

  But Trace was due to press the flesh at the senator’s affair in less than twenty-four minutes, and he still had six blocks to walk. His CO had stayed behind in the hotel to make a last-minute phone call to the Foxfire facility.

  His uniform drew a few curious stares, but Trace ignored them, walking briskly. He enjoyed the sea-tinged air, the fog and the pleasant twinge in his legs from climbing steep streets.

  At the busy corner of Sutter Street, he swung his shoulder carefully, testing for range of motion, pain and strength. The rehab process was a success. He wasn’t quite back to one hundred percent strength, but he was damned close. After ten days on the cruise ship, with as many gym sessions as he could schedule, Trace expected to be at full operational ability.