He was going to choke her. She twisted as she felt his hands tighten on her neck. He seemed to search her skin carefully, pressing a spot at her ear.
White lights burst behind her eyes and Miki felt the world drain away to black around her.
THE FREAKING WOMAN HAD done it now, Max thought. If Cruz had spotters in that plane they’d be down on this beach in minutes.
He’d had no choice but to knock her out while he tackled damage control. His eyes narrowed as he swept both sides of the beach. There was no sign of a response yet. No energy signatures that matched Cruz’s.
Max swept her limp body over one shoulder and sprinted for the bunker. After dumping her on a cot, he grabbed a wide palm leaf and worked his way back along the sand, methodically wiping away all their footprints.
He tapped his leg, summoned Truman and swept away the dog’s prints, too. With the beach clean, Max studied the sky to the west. There was no further sign of air traffic, nor any movement at sea, and he hoped it would stay that way. He would have to face Cruz soon, but first he needed more information about the fortifications on the nearby island.
Max brushed the sand around the door, and as a final precaution, scattered twigs and torn palm leaves randomly throughout the area. When he finished, untrained eyes would have sworn they were standing on pristine beach.
But Cruz didn’t have untrained eyes. He had been the first and very best at reading energy trails, and his skills had grown stronger since his escape from Foxfire custody.
Max had to assume they had been spotted by the plane, their hiding place blown. Once he was back underground he slung Blondie over his shoulder, grabbed a pack with extra supplies, pressed a spot in the wall and watched the cement slowly part to reveal a hidden tunnel.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Max scrambled up the hillside beneath a cover of trees. He’d left Blondie unconscious and secured out of sight in a nearby cave, then retrieved his gear and set up an alternate camp at a spot overlooking the beach. Now he was in the process of carrying Dutch to safety, with Truman walking point. The Lab stopped every few moments, head raised to sniff the air, his eyes on the horizon, but so far there had been no alerts to indicate danger.
Max’s shoulder felt the first hint of strain from five trips up and down to the beach, but beyond that he’d barely broken a sweat. Good genes, as Wolfe Houston liked to say with a wry smile.
As he climbed the rim of a rocky slope, Max heard a low vibration behind him. Truman had already stopped, his ears raised, studying the clouds to the south. Racing back, the dog bumped Max’s leg.
Danger alert.
A small seaplane appeared, no more than a smudge against the racing clouds. Truman looked up at Max, as if asking for orders.
“Out of sight ASAP, buddy. Double-time it.” Max sprinted up the steep slope, careful to stay under cover of scattered trees. As the motors droned closer, he calculated the distance to the cave.
He wasn’t going to make it. Carefully, he lowered Dutch to the ground, hidden beneath an overhanging bush.
“What’s—wrong?” The pilot roused, his voice cracking. “Have to land. Strict…orders. No time.”
“It’s okay, pal. Take it easy.”
But the pilot had already slipped back into unconsciousness. Max made certain he was out of sight, then turned to gauge the distance to the hidden cave.
Something prickled at his neck. A weight seemed to fall without warning, pinning him to the ground.
Cruz. Foxfire’s ex-leader could distort and project any kind of energy until Miami Beach looked like Nome, Alaska. If he didn’t know better, Max would have sworn he was being crushed by a chunk of that plane overhead. With focused concentration, Max cut through his sudden immobility and sprinted up the hill, Truman inches behind him. Even at top speed it was going to be damned close.
The prickling at his neck grew into a sharp stabbing, and Max had no more doubts: it had to be Cruz carrying out an energy scan from the approaching plane.
A cloud covered the sea, casting a shadow over the slope. Truman brushed past Max’s leg and turned, very still, face to the sky as the wind riffled his hair. The dog’s tail flattened to a rigid line.
“Take cover, Truman.” Max snapped the order, aware that precious seconds were passing. He brushed his collarbone, pressing an implant in the bone to set off a localized energy disturbance, but he knew the field wouldn’t last long—or possibly not at all, if Cruz’s skills had grown sharp enough to see through this recent Foxfire innovation.
He glanced back at his training partner. “Tru, heel.”
But the Lab didn’t move, body stiff, face toward the sky.
Something drifted out of the air. Light and cold, it danced over Max’s cheek and then vanished. Another speck swirled through the air, and suddenly Max was surrounded by white flakes drifting out of a sunny sky.
Snow? Impossible.
As the engine whine grew closer, the delicate flakes seemed to blur, whirling above Truman’s head. Darkening, they gained substance and rippled into a wall of fog, dense and moist, shrouding Max and the dog in an impenetrable curtain.
The airplane shot past, engines throbbing. Max felt the hairs stand up along his neck as a bar of energy probed the spot where he had been standing moments before. As the fog pressed at his face, he heard the plane bank and circle, dropping lower.
The energy signature retreated, and still Truman hadn’t moved, his head raised alertly to the sky. The possibilities left Max stunned. This was the new skill that Ryker had hinted at, glimpsed only once before in the training facility. Whether it could be controlled and harnessed, Max didn’t know, or even how long the dog could maintain the effect. Max knew how draining a small image distortion could be, and an intense weather disturbance like this had to have cost Truman dearly.
The plane circled again, and Max breathed in relief as it droned away into the distance. Seconds later the prickling at his shoulders vanished.
Over his head the fog began to fade. Max picked out the outline of nearby trees as a gust of wind swept up the slope, scattering the unstable gray veil. In a surreal moment, mist gave way to sunlight that beat hot on Max’s neck. If he had not stood here in the middle of the phenomenon and experienced it, he would never have accepted any of it.
He rubbed a hand over his eyes, but the sunshine remained. He looked over at Truman, shaking his head. Wait until Ryker heard about this.
“Pretty smart, aren’t you?” Max knelt and raised one hand. “How about a high five for a fellow SEAL?”
Truman turned around in a circle, tail wagging happily as it banged Max in the face. Then the dog sat, raised one paw and waited.
High five.
Damned if he didn’t know that, too. Filled with a wave of pride, Max laughed as the big dog licked his face. “Is there anything you can’t do, champ?”
Truman’s head cocked. He panted hard, tongue lolling. Then he shuddered.
“What’s wrong, Tru?”
The dog whimpered softly. Then he collapsed.
Truman felt cold as Max picked him up and sprinted uphill. Because this was new behavior, Max had no idea of how to treat the dog or even the nature of the problem. The Foxfire science team had given him a medical kit with nutrients, so Max figured he’d start there.
“What’s wrong with your dog?” Blondie was sitting against the cave wall, her hands on her forehead as if it hurt. “While you’re at it, why do I have the mother of all headaches and how did I get here?”
Her questions didn’t surprise him. She wouldn’t remember the last minutes before he had put her out. No one ever did. “I knocked you out,” he said curtly. “The men flying in that plane could have been dangerous.”
“You think everyone is dangerous.” She started to say something more, but instead she frowned and crossed to sit beside Truman. “He doesn’t look right. Did he fall during that fog?”
“Not exactly. Hell, what’s your real name? We both know it’s not Ella.”
She chewed at her
lip and stared back at him, then shrugged. “Miki—like the mouse.”
Max filed the name away for future reference. He had a hunch that she was telling the truth this time.
“What’s wrong with Truman?”
“Something happened after that fog came in off the sea.” Max chose his words carefully. “You saw that, did you?”
Miki nodded. “At first I thought I was imagining it.” She ran a hand slowly along Truman’s head. “He feels cold. Can’t you do something for him?”
Max found a package of green gel nutrients and squeezed a tiny amount into Truman’s mouth.
The dog didn’t respond, barely breathing now. Max lifted him gently onto his lap and stroked his head.
“What happened?” Miki asked anxiously.
Max shook his head. “One minute he was fine. Then the fog came and he just collapsed. Maybe it’s some kind of canine virus.”
Miki pushed closer, rubbing Truman’s stomach. “Poor baby,” she crooned. “Move over,” she ordered. “Then go get me a blanket.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s cold, stupid.” Miki nudged him away as she scooped Truman closer, smoothing the fur across his back. She lifted one of the Lab’s eyelids carefully and frowned. “No pupil response. That’s a bad sign.”
Max stiffened. “You know about dogs?”
“I told you before that my friend is a trainer and one of her dogs had a habit of getting sick. He’s a real handful, but he likes me, so I help take care of him.” Miki felt Truman’s chest. “Where’s that blanket?”
Max didn’t have a blanket in his pack, so he pulled off his T-shirt and draped it over the Lab’s motionless body. He realized Blondie was staring at his chest. “Something wrong?”
Her eyes were wide. She took a little gulping breath. “You—Your chest. It’s…strong,” she said hoarsely. “But the scars…”
It had been so many months that Max had actually forgotten the silver network that laced his ribs and shoulder, relic of a mission gone bad in Indonesia. “I had a car accident,” he said tightly.
Her hand rose involuntarily, almost as if to soothe and comfort. The sight made Max’s stomach clench. When had a woman last touched him to comfort rather than in the heat of sex?
He cleared his throat, annoyed at the sharp image of her fingers tracing all his scars while her soft mouth offered whispers of praise and desire.
“Shit.”
“What’s wrong?” Her brow wrinkled. “Do they hurt—your scars, I mean?”
“No, they don’t hurt. They haven’t hurt for months.” He was angrier than he should have been. “Forget about it.”
“I can see how you’d be sensitive about them. I’m sorry.”
“Look, I’m not—hell, forget it.” Max jammed a hand through his hair. “They’re ancient history.”
He saw her eyes linger on his stomach and he realized there was appreciation, not distaste in her glance. Instantly his body hardened in an erection.
Talk about rotten timing, he thought irritably. Silent and controlled, he pulled a syringe from a sealed packet of the medical kit. Ryker had told him the high potency stimulant was strictly for emergencies. Max figured this fit the definition.
Kneeling beside Miki, he brushed aside the fur at Truman’s chest and broke the seal off the packet.
“Is that adrenaline? Do you think it’s his heart?” Miki’s voice was tight with concern. The name suited her, Max thought. Restless and quirky. Unusual.
Not that any of that mattered to him.
“Try to hold him. He can be very strong, I warn you.”
“Just do it,” she said tensely. “We’ll be fine, won’t we, honey?” She stroked the dog’s silky head.
Truman lay limp and cold. Max could no longer feel a pulse. He found the carotid artery and injected the stimulant. If this didn’t work, he could do CPR—even a cardiac thump, part of his advanced field training. But beyond that…
He forced away the thought. He’d never left a man behind in battle and he damned well wasn’t going to lose Truman. The injection done, he smoothed the Lab’s fur, checking for a pulse.
Nothing.
Miki watched his face, her fingers smoothing the Lab’s soft hair. Their shared worry tightened, a thread of emotion that built until it stretched between them, deep and tangible. Max could almost feel her anxious breath, the brush of her thigh, even though they weren’t touching.
Suddenly Truman wheezed. His tail banged Max’s leg weakly. With a sharp surge of relief, Max saw the dog’s eyes open. The Lab twitched hard, looked up at Miki, then lapped her face with his wet tongue.
Most women would have gasped and squirmed away. But this woman laughed in pure exuberance, brushing Truman’s nose with hers and ruffling the dog’s fur. “About time you came around, big guy. Come on, give Aunt Miki a kiss.”
Limp but eager, Truman burrowed closer against her chest, his nose shoved under her shirt directly atop her breast.
Smart dog, Max thought wryly.
“I don’t think we should move him.” Max straightened his T-shirt over the two of them. “He still feels cold.”
“Of course we can’t move him.” Miki sounded indignant. “He almost died, so he gets whatever he wants.” She looked around in excitement. “I still have two sticks of beef jerky in my camera bag. And you should bring my shrug. It’s light but warm.”
Max gave a little half smile. “Any other orders, ma’am?”
“Yes. Cover us up. Your shirt just slipped again.”
Max made a mock salute and did as Miki ordered. “I need to carry Dutch up here. Then I’ll go back for your sweater and more supplies.”
Her eyes darkened. “I forgot about Dutch. How is he?”
“Stable.” As Max straightened his T-shirt over Miki’s arm, his fingers brushed her cheek. Something filled the air between them, sharp and electric, making him keenly aware of her skin, her energy and the questioning look in her eyes.
She cleared her throat. “Thanks for the shirt. And thanks for pulling me out of the water after the crash.”
Truman made a tiny huffing noise and rested his head across her arm, sleeping deeply. Max looked down and shrugged. “No need for thanks. Keep an eye on Truman for me. I won’t be long.”
IT WAS GETTING HARDER AND harder to dislike her.
The woman could be irritating, but she had also helped save Truman’s life. She was stubborn and outspoken, yet Max sensed that she was working hard to hide deep layers of vulnerability beneath her stubborn facade. But the questions remained: who was she and why was she here?
Max hoisted Dutch up on his shoulder once more. The pilot roused at the sudden movement and frowned. “Who…are you? Man on the phone? My plane—” Agitated, he tried to sit up and see the sky. “Where’s my plane? What happened to Miki?”
“Take it easy. Miki’s doing fine.” Max didn’t mention the plane, which was gone forever. “What went wrong out there?”
“Wrong? Maybe—fuel line. Vance was cheap. He—cut corners on repairs.” The pilot’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you? Don’t…know you and I want—my plane.” The pilot struggled blindly, wheezing for breath, then lapsed back into unconsciousness.
When Max entered the cave, Truman opened one eye, wagged his tail and tried to sit up, but Miki held the dog tight against her chest. “You just stay here and rest, honey. Aunt Miki has another beef treat for you when you’re ready, assuming the big, mean man says it’s okay.” She shot a level glance at Max. “Maybe even if he doesn’t.” She laughed as Truman licked her face with sudden energy. “It’s you and me against him. How does that sound?”
Truman burrowed closer, his face disappearing under her shirt.
“I’ll take that as a vote of agreement.” But her smile soon faded. “Funny, I can’t remember much of what happened right before I got here. I remember running—and then nothing. I was trying to get away, wasn’t I?”
“You seem to do that a lot,” Max said tightly.
“Because you’re a stranger and I don’t trust you.” Miki wriggled as if it was possible to get comfortable with one hundred pounds of dog sprawled on top of her. “And I know you’re only telling me half of what’s going on here.”
Max started to answer, but she shook her head. “Save your breath if it’s just another story you made up. Tell me the truth or don’t tell me anything.”
He could have lied or sidestepped her question. Instead he nodded.
“It will save us both a lot of trouble if you remember that.” She smoothed Truman’s head. “And I know something happened. First there was a loud noise and then I saw that strange fog drift up the hill.” She frowned at Max. “But it was clear and sunny. I don’t remember any clouds.”
“The weather can change in seconds here. I wouldn’t get too upset trying to figure it out.”
There was a faraway look in her eyes. “I wish I’d gotten a picture. It would have been one in a million. The light was so strange and the ocean changed colors.” Her face filled with a longing so intense it made Max’s throat tighten. “If you miss a chance like that, you never get another one.”
She knew about missed chances, he thought. That would explain part of her vulnerability under that mouthy exterior. “Have you lost many pictures?” He told himself it was simply to change the subject, but he knew that was a lie. He cared about her answer even though he shouldn’t have.
Far more dangerous, he was starting to care about her.
“More than I should have.” Her voice was quiet, wistful. “First I was too young, then I was too stupid. Later I was too lazy. There were always good excuses and a thousand reasons why the important work could wait one more day. Then one morning you wake up and realize you’ve wasted your life on a string of nothings.”
Max wondered what had left her with such pain and regret in her eyes. The thought that it was a man filled him with icy fury.
But things were getting too personal. When you joined Foxfire, you gave up all rights to downtime and a personal life. It was part of the deal you made with Uncle Sam.
Clean and simple, Max thought. It had always made perfect sense to him before. He wondered why he was questioning the idea now.
Code Name: Bundle! Page 35
