Code Name: Bikini

by Christina Skye

  Trace walked inside, and the man looked him over in silence, then nodded slightly. “You’re taller than your picture.”

  “And you’re older.” May as well get all the attitude out on the table.

  “Not so old that I can’t get the job done.” The man sipped his coffee, studying Trace intently. “I hear you had an accident. Got torn up bad.”

  “Nothing important.” So Ryker was calling the ambush in Afghanistan an accident, was he? Trace made a mental note to keep his story consistent with Ryker’s.

  He glanced around the outer office, looking for concealed electric lines and slight differences in paint color, which would signify security equipment upgrades. He pointed to the ceiling. “Two fish-eye lenses in the overhead light canisters. Primary and redundant wiring in the side wall. Motion sensors behind the potted plants.”

  “You missed the pressure-sensitive plates outside the door.” Tobias relaxed slightly and held out a beefy hand. “Hale. And you’re O’Halloran. Have a cup of coffee. It isn’t Starbucks’ finest, but the way I make it will keep you awake a whole lot longer.”

  Trace poured himself a cup of coffee, took a sip and nodded. “Pretty bad. Then again, I’ve always liked it strong enough to melt a spoon.”

  “You came to the right place.” Tobias opened the door to the interior office. “Have a look around.”

  Trace glanced around Tobias’s private office. He hadn’t expected anything so subtle and well appointed. Asian prints lined two walls and a raw silk couch in sage green faced the desk. The effect was soothing as well as efficient. “Is the safe in here?” Trace asked quietly.

  Tobias closed the office door and nodded. “Behind the second print. “Number coded, with security connection to my pager, which I keep on me at all times.”

  “Power backup on the monitoring equipment?”

  “Two separate units. One here. Another hidden overhead in the ceiling.”

  Trace nodded. “Sounds like good coverage.”

  “I’m always open to suggestions.” Tobias leaned back in his chair. “Not that I’m expecting any problems this run.”

  The words hung in the air between them. Trace realized the man was fishing for information.

  “That would seem to be the case. Ryker didn’t brief me about detailed problems.”

  Hale blew his coffee. “That makes two of us.” He sat back, eyes narrowed. “I’ll give you the formal tour in a few minutes. First we need to discuss your cover. You’re on record as a tourist, Ryker says. I’ve told my people that your father was an old USMC friend of mine, and that you and I are planning to shoot the bull during the cruise. That should give you credible cover for any meetings we have.”

  “Noted.”

  “If anything develops, I’ll connect via your cell phone. Ryker gave me all the details. Encryption up to date?”

  “Of course.” Trace nodded, finishing his coffee. He didn’t mention just how high the encryption levels went or the new technology Izzy had devised to beef up the phone for difficult conditions at sea. “You arranged my cabin location? I see that it’s just two decks up from your office, with direct corridor access to the staff stairs.”

  Hale gave a Cheshire cat smile. “It was the least I could do. By the way, you’re not going to ask what I’m transporting in my safe?”

  “No.”

  “You’re not even curious?”

  “No. If something goes wrong, I’ll recognize the package. Ryker’s man filled me in with a description.”

  Tobias stood up. “I guess that brings you current, O’Halloran. If you come this way, I’ll brief you on the new infrared sensors and their scan patterns. Then I’ll call some of my security people and introduce you. May as well get your cover initiated immediately.”

  The security chief bent down and straightened the picture at the corner of his desk. There was a precision in the movement that told Trace this man would be nobody’s pushover.

  Maybe this mission wasn’t heading south as fast as he’d thought.

  THE FORWARD DECK WAS hot and sunny, and women were everywhere. Some wore sarongs and some were in halter tops. Most were wearing scraps of fabric that skirted legal limits.

  Trace frowned.

  Red, purple and black. Striped and plain, with serious skin on display. He should have enjoyed the sea of micro-bikinis, but there was way too much grabbing going on. He’d just had his butt fondled twice in the buffet line and once in the elevator.

  Now a woman in a skimpy string thong number was staring at his thighs while she licked salt from the rim of her margarita glass. Every stroke of her tongue was slow and blatantly suggestive.

  It should have left him feeling something—simple lust at least, but it didn’t.

  He had a sudden memory of the pastry chef at the hotel, wheeling across the loading bay in a forklift truck. The memory stirred emotions more complicated than lust, and for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why.

  Before he’d left the hotel, her assistant had given him her last name and e-mail address. No phone number. Probably she was careful about giving it out to strange men.

  He wondered where she was now, what she was doing. Probably baking another cake and setting up for a big event. Judging by the enthusiastic clapping, her pastry class had been a big success. Trace was no cooking expert, but he guessed her decorated cakes wouldn’t come cheap. All of which meant she was a busy lady. Most likely she’d forgotten him already.

  He frowned, reaching up to rub the small scar near his collarbone. Before his return from the mission in Afghanistan, a chip embedded beneath the skin had enhanced his control over his heart rate and brain waves. Another chip provided continuous GPS data to Foxfire monitors. A third chip had allowed him to carry out controlled energy sweeps and monitor all nearby movement, visible or invisible.

  Trace had added his innate abilities of strength and speed, which allowed him to push his skills to the max.

  Now the chips were all inactive, and he felt naked without them. But until he was back to full physical and mental strength, Ryker had ordered that the chips had to go dormant.

  So he would deal with it. As a SEAL he was confident in his ability to adapt and improvise, using whatever tools were at hand. Instead of getting irritated, he shut off his mind and tried to relax.

  It wasn’t as if he was likely to see action on this trip. According to his last briefing with Izzy, the mission security was fully intact.

  Ryker was probably being too touchy. With a new experiment in the works, his scientist required a transfer of sensitive material or equipment. It figured that Ryker would want a second layer of protection, using a civilian outsider as a courier. Tobias Hale fit the bill.

  Trace wondered what Ryker had on the civilian to ensure his compliance. Probably he was calling in a favor. Trace doubted the job was based on simple friendship. Ryker had no friends.

  Somewhere nearby water splashed, and a woman laughed loudly to Trace’s left. Suddenly cold water drenched his chest.

  Two people in the nearby pool appeared to be involved in a no-holds-barred splashing contest. Did people generally turn insane when a cruise ship left sight of land, or was it something in the drinking water?

  A woman in a black microbikini walked in front of his chair. Silhouetted against the sun, she stood with one hip thrust out as she held out a bottle of sunscreen. “Would you be a love? I never can reach all the way to my back.” She puffed out glossy lips as she eyed him closely. “Something tells me you’re good with your hands.”

  Trace gave a mental sigh. He was out of touch. He knew more about fighting than socializing.

  He was trying to relax and blend in with the other passengers, but going with the flow had never been part of his repertoire. He’d always considered relax a four-letter word.

  He poured sunscreen in one hand and worked it in, trying to ignore the breathy little sighs of pleasure the woman made as she wriggled under his touch. If she was trying to simulate sex, she was d
oing a good job.

  “So are you from California? I mean, you’re very tan. It looks like you work outside or climb mountains or something. Are you some kind of athlete?”

  “No, ma’am.” Let her decide which part he was referring to. Go with the flow, he thought grimly.

  Finished at last, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. With the sun warm on his face and shoulders, he began to relax.

  Abruptly the woman leaned closer. “Honey, you look lonely, and I can do something about that. What do you say?”

  Trace cracked open one eye. “About what?”

  “About us. Your cabin or mine?”

  Trace opened his other eye. Ms. Microbikini’s improbably large breasts were threatening to pop free. Mascara smudged the edges of her eyes. Something told him the woman had a scorecard she was determined to fill before the ship reached its final port.

  Because he felt a little sorry for her, Trace kept his voice casual. “Sorry, I’m meeting someone here.” He made a point of checking his watch. “Man, is she running late.”

  “Well, you could have told me sooner that you were attached.” Towel twitching, the redhead shot to her feet and stalked off in search of more productive company.

  Trace eyed her bikini appreciatively, but it was only a reflex. He wasn’t really interested.

  He drummed his fingers on the table and stood up.

  If he had to be aboard the damned ship, at least he’d be productive and work on some strength training moves.

  HE WAS ON HIS THIRD SET of overhead presses when the buzz started behind his left ear. At first Trace thought it was just the exercise buzz hitting, along with the good pump of blood. But something shimmered at the corner of his eye.

  Then he smelled the faint scent of lavender.

  He shrugged it off.

  There had been a few weird sensory moments since his hospitalization.

  Trace shrugged off the events as the Phenomenon. Nothing to get bent about. After all, Izzy had told him to expect some distortions following his chip shutdown.

  Except that the lavender smell was getting stronger.

  Marshall had loved lavender. Trace remembered the night he’d found the senator’s daughter curled up in a ball, covered with dirt and cuts. When he’d slipped inside the mercenary camp to the tent where she was held captive, he’d gagged her to prevent an outcry that could have gotten them both killed.

  She’d fought him at first. Then Trace had given her a picture of her family dog, whispered a warning, and pulled out a small cloth to clean her face and hands. She had whimpered, tears coursing over her cheeks.

  By the time he’d wiped away a month of grime, she had trusted him.

  Strange how the memory came back now.

  Trace took a deep breath, pushing away the dark images of Marshall’s captivity. He still couldn’t believe she’d taken her own life.

  He pumped two more sets and leaned back against the weight machine, sweat covering his face. He closed his eyes, breathing hard.

  Cool fingers touched his forehead.

  He shot up, dropping his water bottle.

  A faint outline shimmered in front of him. Her hair was pulled away from her face, and her eyes were guileless, just as he remembered them.

  Except now Trace could see the wall behind her.

  Through her.

  This wasn’t happening. It was just another chip malfunction. He closed his eyes, counted to five. When he looked up, she was still there, only now she shimmered above the weight rack.

  Six feet above the floor, in thin air.

  A hallucination of some sort. Trace wondered if he should report the malfunction to Izzy.

  She seemed to frown and the air felt colder.

  Trace stared at the swirling light above the two rows of weights. Marshall Wyckoff was dead. Drowned.

  This was some kind of projection, born out of his guilt.

  He smelled the drifting perfume again, stronger now, carrying hints of cinnamon and lavender. Something cool moved over his neck. The light gathered as she stared straight into his eyes, almost as if she was waiting for something.

  Trace picked up his towel and water bottle and walked away.

  Marshall followed—or the shimmering and insubstantial illusion followed him, her eyes unreadable.

  Trace closed his mind and looked away, walking out onto the promenade deck, where he faced the cutting wind, letting his mind go blank.

  The shimmering figure appeared on the ship’s rail. She frowned at him, her mouth moving. “Can’t go away.” The words formed into a whisper. “Something’s wrong. Have to stay until…”

  She looked into his eyes, as if willing him to understand.

  But Trace didn’t.

  He ran through all the scenarios. Most likely, she was one of Ryker’s off-the-wall psych tests, some kind of chip-based projection to determine if Trace was focused and ready for action.

  One thing that a life lived in dangerous places had taught him was that you didn’t sweep your problems under the rug. Problems got faced until you found solutions, and then you moved on. Denial was ineffective and downright stupid.

  And this…thing…looked like a ghost. Like a teenage ghost, her face too pale and her eyes too dark.

  She appeared and disappeared like a ghost.

  Except ghosts didn’t exist. This had to be the result of a chip error of some sort.

  As a member of Foxfire, he knew that under the right conditions images could be shaped and directed. The process was part of his specific Foxfire training—or it had been until he’d nearly died and Ryker had disabled all his implants.

  But Ryker lied when it suited him. Maybe he’d left one device in place, its function hidden from Trace.

  He was hit with a sudden urge to know what had happened under the bridge in D.C. If he could understand how Marshall had died, he could put this aberration behind him. But there was no point trying to interrogate a hallucination.

  He forced himself to walk away. He wouldn’t buy into this fantasy.

  Don’t shut me out.

  He froze, willing the words away.

  Something’s wrong.

  The scent of lavender grew, wrapping around him.

  Find her.

  “Find who, damn it?” Trace spun around, the words coming in an angry rush.

  Find her.

  The silent command came again.

  He took a deep breath and shoved his hands in his pockets. When he looked across the deck, the image was gone.

  There was no more shimmering. No voice in his head.

  Find her. What the hell was that supposed to mean? There were women all over the ship.

  The vibration of his cell phone cut through his irritation. He glanced at the LED and answered.

  “Yeah.”

  “Everything squared away?” Izzy’s voice sounded as if he were right across the deck.

  “More or less.” Trace chose his words carefully. “I checked in with security and verified the arrangements. They look A-Okay.”

  “Something else bothering you?”

  Trace stared at the line of clouds dotting the horizon. “I’m having some sensory…disturbances. Auditory and visual.”

  “Type and frequency. Location pattern, too.” Keys clicked at a computer.

  Trace gave every detail of what he’d seen and heard. If there was any possibility of serious sensory breakdown, Izzy needed to know.

  When Trace was done, he shoved one hand through his hair and stared at the faint line of the horizon, blurred by mounded clouds. “So what do you think? She—I mean, it—looks like Marshall, but we both know that’s impossible.”

  The computer keys stopped clicking.

  “Teague?”

  “Right here. And if you’re asking me do I believe in ghosts, the answer is no.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Trace watched a seagull cut cleanly across the deck and plunge toward the water. “Then it’s a chip error. One of them wasn’t shu
t down properly.”

  Silence.

  “This isn’t some half-assed psych maneuver by Ryker, is it? A test to evaluate my response to Marshall’s death? He’s done things like that before, but if he’s toying with my mind through Marshall, I swear I’ll—”

  “Ryker didn’t do this.” Izzy’s tone was cold. “I have a complete medical file on you, and that includes a chip evaluation.” Papers rustled. “According to my records, everything but a GPS locator was turned off in your last surgery.”

  Trace’s hands tightened on the cool teak railing. “Then what in hell is happening to me?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  BIRDS SCREECHED.

  Waves churned, sullen foam spilling into restless gray water.

  Trace stared without seeing any of it. “If you tell me I’m going crazy, I’ll be seriously pissed off, Teague.”

  A chair creaked. Paper rustled. “Your last psychological evaluation gave you the highest marks ever noted for stability and adaptability. You’re not crazy.” Izzy took a slow breath. “But I can’t explain what’s happening until I do some tests at this end. You’ve got third-generation chips, and I’ll start by running a search for any reported anomalies in the series. That would give us someplace to start.”

  Trace had hoped for more. “How long?”

  “Twenty-four hours. We rule out production and design error first. After all, your chips were shut down, not removed completely. Then we look at the human factor. Is this interfering with your mission capability?”

  “No.” Not yet.

  “If that changes, I expect to be notified immediately. Is that understood?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  “Note any patterns. Keep a log. Anything you can give me will help.”

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  “I’ll be in touch as soon as I have something concrete.”

  Izzy rang off.

  No wasted words. No morale-building talk, which was fine with Trace. He was a big boy.

  He scanned the deck, relieved that the shimmer was gone. No voices or lavender scent, either. By reflex, he rubbed his shoulder, feeling a slight twinge from his earlier workout. He thought about going back to the fitness center and finishing his last sets. He had nothing important to do until 1800 hours, when Tobias was going to introduce him to several of the security crew.