Code Name: Bundle!

by Christina Skye

  Who was she? he thought angrily. What was she?

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER MAX stood on a lower deck of the rusting derelict gunboat beyond the reef. “I’m sure,” he said tersely to Izzy. “There was no question. Touching her triggered some kind of…weakness. We should be checking her medical records to research that scar.”

  “No records for anyone named Miki or Michelle. Not on any flights to or from Bora Bora in the last week.” Keys clicked quietly at a keyboard. “How’s that dizziness you experienced?”

  “Completely gone now.”

  “Any other effects?”

  Max didn’t mention the inexplicable sense of bonding he’d felt. He needed to understand that better before he tried to describe it to Izzy or Ryker. “There was pain below my right ear. A small nosebleed, too.”

  The computer keys stopped clicking. “Small? You ever get nosebleeds?”

  “Never,” Max said curtly. “Not until today.”

  Papers rustled. “Describe the scar on her arm again.”

  Max repeated the details for the second time, watching a line of gray clouds race across the horizon. “She kept saying something that sounded like race, but it makes no sense.”

  “Let me play with it,” Izzy said tightly. “What else can you give me?”

  “She told me that a man spilled hot coffee on her arm. The shop was called the Java Express.”

  “Give me that again.”

  “Java Express.”

  “With luck, it won’t be a chain,” Izzy said. Computer keys tapped as fast as a weapon burst. “What else?”

  “She was able to give an excellent description of the man who bumped her. Heavy tan. Red hair going gray, a small mole above his left eyebrow. But we still don’t have any names.”

  Izzy’s voice took on an edge of excitement. “I can crosscheck the store name with local E.R. reports for burns in the last sixty days, which would be the usual time frame for second-degree wound healing. We may find a record for the man’s treatment. I’ll get right on it.”

  Max rubbed his neck. “I’d better get back. Truman is guarding the upper deck, but I don’t like taking risks in case she decides to run again.”

  “I’ll report to the big man. Meanwhile, get me a picture of her scar.”

  “Will do.”

  “Any idea how she spells her name?”

  Max shoved supplies into his waterproof tactical vest. “The usual way, I guess, with an i-e.” He stared at the darkening line of the horizon. “What’s the radar showing for that storm?”

  “Winds at twenty knots. We’re calculating landfall around 2100 hours.”

  “Understood. Latest location of our friend’s tracking chip?” Max was careful not to mention Cruz by name.

  “Sporadic. The last coordinates we picked up were in Thailand, assuming it wasn’t another malfunction.” A chair creaked. “Hold on.”

  Max heard muffled voices and the sound of papers rustling.

  “Listen up. We just got a new fix on that GPS chip you mentioned. The signal faded almost immediately, but my team managed to fix the location first. It’s one mile away from your current position. I repeat, the target is in your vicinity, due southwest. Coordinates following.”

  “Roger that,” Max said tensely. With Cruz in the area, he had to backtrack to the island immediately.

  “One last thing. We’ve had reports of maritime hijackers operating in your area. They use speedboats with deck-mounted machine guns, and they are all-around bad news. Watch your six out there.”

  Great, Max thought grimly. Another complication he could do without. “They’ll be on my radar. Thanks for the tip. Signing off now.”

  He didn’t waste energy on questions or curses. After memorizing the coordinates Izzy had given, he flipped off the radio, hid his equipment inside a rusted wall and secured his vest.

  Two minutes later he was in the water.

  LLOYD RYKER WAS STARING at the newest report from Izzy Teague and nursing a stomach-scouring cup of coffee when he heard a knock at his door. He barely had time to slide two papers off to the side of his desk before the door opened.

  Wolfe Houston, the current Foxfire team leader, looked cool and calm, but after months of working together Ryker knew that the more tense the situation, the more cool Houston appeared. It was the mark of a good operative, but it made the man hard as hell to read.

  “Something wrong, Houston?”

  “Permission to speak with you, sir.”

  “Of course. Have a seat. I’d offer you some coffee, but the stuff I make will kill you.” As Houston sat down, Ryker managed to spill his coffee over the open file on his desk. “Shit. Too much coffee in the last twenty-four hours has got me on edge.” Ryker grabbed a handful of napkins and blotted the top-secret report that was now buried, out of Houston’s line of vision. “What did you want to talk about, Lieutenant?”

  “Preston’s op, sir. Izzy Teague tells me things are heating up.”

  “Nothing that we didn’t expect. Is there a problem I’m not seeing?”

  “I just wanted to be sure everything was on target, sir.” Houston’s eyes were cool as they locked on Ryker’s face. “And that there aren’t any new developments you may have forgotten to mention.”

  Was there a warning in that question? If so Ryker would discipline Houston as soon as the mission was completed. He wouldn’t tolerate insubordination or questioning of command judgment. “I don’t follow you, Houston.”

  The tall SEAL sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “You updated me about the training Cruz was receiving before his flight from the secure facility. You mentioned a new chip that appeared to malfunction in the field. I wanted to be sure there weren’t any other…modifications that you might have forgotten.” Houston let the words hang. “Sir,” he added calmly.

  Ryker felt the muscles clench at the back of his shoulders. The question wasn’t insubordinate but it was damned close. He’d have to keep Houston on a short leash from now on. “Modifications as in training and chips, Lieutenant. You think I’m keeping secrets from you?”

  “I have no idea, sir. I simply want to be fully briefed to protect my man in the field.”

  “Perfectly understandable. And the answer to your question is no. To my knowledge Cruz had no additional training in process at the time of his escape.”

  Houston’s eyes narrowed slightly. “‘To my knowledge’? Is it a possibility, sir?”

  “You know what I know, Lieutenant.” Ryker decided the conversation had gone on long enough. It was always a bad idea to let subordinates see a crack in your armor. He sat back and casually pushed his PDA over the file he had been reading when Houston entered. “You have the full resources of this project at your disposal to find Cruz. What else do you need?”

  “Nothing, sir. Preston’s a good man. He’ll finish the mission as planned.”

  “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.” Ryker studied a pile of government forms on the corner of his desk. “While you’re here, I should mention that I’m considering your request for personal time…and marriage to Kit O’Halloran. You know my feelings about personal involvements.”

  Houston simply nodded, his face unreadable.

  “Still, some rules are meant to be relaxed. I have the possibility under advisement.” There, the tantalizing offer was now raised openly. Ryker snapped his briefcase shut and stood up. “Anything else, Houston?”

  “No, sir. That’s all. Izzy Teague has briefed me. The team is ready to deploy at your command.”

  “Stay ready, Lieutenant. I don’t need to tell you what Cruz is capable of. You saw him in action.”

  “It’s nothing something I’m likely to forget, sir.” Houston stood up and picked up a wet napkin that had fallen from Ryker’s desk. “I’ll put those in the garbage for you, sir.”

  “No need. I clean up my own messes, Lieutenant.” Ryker wondered how much Houston had seen in that first moment of entering the room. The man had superb memory, and o
ne glance would have been enough.

  No, that was impossible. The man was good, but no one was that fast.

  “I’m leaving this to you, Houston. Take down Cruz. I want this problem dealt with.”

  “Count on it, sir.”

  When the door closed, Ryker pulled the wet napkins away from the top-secret file. Lab 21 had been a mistake from the start, but the possibility of success had been too great to ignore.

  One day Houston and the others would know the full extent of Ryker’s vision and the power it would create for all of them. But first they had to track down a traitor. Enrique Cruz was a time bomb that could send the whole Foxfire project up in smoke with two words.

  Lab 21.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MIKI CAME AROUND SLOWLY, aware of a splitting headache and a taste like shoe leather in her mouth. Something bad had happened, and as she sat up, she remembered what it was.

  He’d watched her, first curious and gentle. Then his face had hardened. She knew that something in the dog’s reaction had been the trigger. After that, Max had turned cold and distant, staring at her but not really seeing her. Then he’d caught her against the wall and touched her as if he was looking for something specific, hidden on her skin.

  Cruz. He’d asked her about someone named Cruz.

  Crazy.

  Miki took an angry little breath that caught in a hiccup. Slowly she stood up, trying to understand. She was in deep water here, and good and bad might not be where she expected them. She was almost certain that Max worked for the government and he was here under orders of secrecy.

  She looked out the room’s old, warped porthole, suddenly exhausted. She was out of her league, with no idea where to turn. Right now no one else even knew she was here. There would be no cavalry and no rescue teams charging in as saviors. She was on her own.

  The sky was gunmetal under a blotchy sky. Miki watched a school of dolphins crest suddenly, leap in exuberant arcs and then vanish, and for a moment there seemed to be a message there.

  But she didn’t know what it was. She was cold and hungry and her arm throbbed badly. She wanted to be home, surrounded by mountains and the clear light of the high desert. She closed her eyes on another hiccup. Stress, she thought.

  Focusing, she took deep breaths and willed away her panic. The hiccups vanished shortly after that and she watched angular birds walk clumsily on the beach, digging in the sand and calling hoarsely.

  There was something wrong with her scar. It burned in a way it never had before. Her forearm was swollen, too. Somehow Max was involved in this though she didn’t understand how that was possible.

  Standing at the warped old porthole, Miki thought of all the reasons she wanted to live and all the things she was determined to accomplish. She felt the blood pump through her heart and squeeze through her veins and the cool brush of metal at her forehead where it pressed on the porthole and Miki thought it was good to be alive. If the pain and exhaustion were part of the price, then she welcomed them, too.

  She refused to die.

  With one finger she traced a line in the rust covering the metal wall. She could try to run again, but where would she go? Maybe she could find another cave, another bunker, but then what? More hiding and more running.

  No, she was going to stand her ground. She would have to trust Max and work with him for the moment even though it went against every instinct. He was her only way out.

  A gust of wind raced up from the ocean, shaking the old boat and something crashed behind her. She swung around and saw a dark head with a gaping mouth and bulging eyes rolling toward her.

  She was on the edge of a scream when she realized that the thing on the floor was a World War II gas mask slung over an old nylon parachute. Twisted together on the floor, they looked like a figure straight out of hell.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep, rasping breath. “Time to calm down,” she said tensely. “Don’t be an idiot. You’re alone and you’re breathing, so it could be a lot worse.” And the jerk in the black wetsuit—okay, the gorgeous jerk with the buns of steel and abs of solid platinum—was nowhere to be seen now.

  Miki looked around the dusty cabin. She was still confused by what he’d done and even more confused by his sudden nosebleed. And he hadn’t seemed personally interested in her body. His eyes had been cold and focused, almost as if he was involved in a science project.

  But she was the science project, and it had something to do with the man named Cruz, who had done some seriously bad things, judging by the way Max said his name.

  And he thought she was involved?

  Miki made a nasty comment, rolling her eyes. No way would she ever sell out her country. Hard on the heels of that thought came another. If this man Max was tracking a traitor, that meant he was definitely one of the good guys. No matter how furious she was, she had to find a way to help him. After all, Truman was gorgeous and smart and wonderful, so how could his owner be all bad?

  She took a wobbly step, wishing she had some of the water from Max’s canteen. A quart of Starbucks premium espresso ice cream would have been nice, too.

  But what she really needed to do was figure out the lay of the land. After that she would find a way to help him—even if she had to beat him to a pulp to convince him she was on his side.

  She tried the wooden door to the companionway and wasn’t surprised to find it locked. He had locked her up again. No doubt he would insist it was all for her own safety.

  Half a dozen hard thumps with the weight of her body proved fruitless. Another thing that didn’t surprise her.

  Ignoring a wave of hunger, Miki studied the room, which appeared to be some kind of storage area. Old cardboard boxes and empty tins of food were shoved in a corner, surrounded by animal droppings and the small skeleton of what appeared to have been a rat.

  Ugh. Rats again. She hated rats. Shuddering, Miki opened a rickety crate and checked inside.

  Empty.

  Wincing, she sat down on the crate and rubbed her arm, feeling another stab of pain along her scar, which was aching viciously. Her eyes flickered over the darkened room, taking in the gas mask and the old parachute. She wasn’t sure what made her drag the mask and the torn nylon across to the door. She had never been very good at long-term career planning or financial strategies—the flat-broke state of her bank account was proof of that. She had always been a seat-of-the-pants, follow-your-bliss kind of person, but survival meant taking advantage of any tools you stumbled upon.

  With awkward movements Miki pushed the heavy mask up against the wall and dropped the parachute on top of it, then searched the rest of the room. The cardboard boxes were empty. The food was all eaten. Only a rusty metal locker stood with its door askew across from the dented porthole.

  Hardly promising. What would Lara Croft do now?

  Miki’s arm throbbed as she sat down on the empty crate. When she rolled up her sleeve, she saw a small line of blood and prayed the wound wasn’t infected.

  She was trying to relax when something skittered overhead like dry leaves. Metal creaked and the rustling came again, moving across the deck.

  Miki grabbed the gas mask and parachute and sank against the wall next to the companionway door. The skittering had stopped, but something about that one sound made her uneasy.

  A seabird cried in the distance.

  The door latch rattled sharply and Miki’s fingers trembled as she leaned against the wall, waiting, listening to the pump of her heart.

  Something heavy shifted out in the corridor. The door slowly opened, and an arm appeared, hidden beneath a black rubber wetsuit.

  So Max had returned. Yet something kept her rigid, watching the edge of the wetsuit. The figure’s furtiveness didn’t feel right.

  Her heart lurched when she saw a serrated knife gripped in the gloved fingers. The face above the knife belonged to a stranger.

  In sheer terror Miki swung the gas mask with all her might, knocking the man in the side of the head as she let
it fly. He staggered against the wall, shook his head, then swung back to face her, blood streaming from his forehead. Flat, cold eyes narrowed on her face.

  The big knife pointed directly at her heart. Miki knew she couldn’t surprise him a second time, and even if she could, the gas mask was out of reach, halfway across the floor.

  She took a gasping breath, fighting panic, then feinted right, made a run for the mask and shoved the metal crate between them. Because her attacker was right-handed, he was forced to change sides, but before he could reach her, Miki threw the parachute up in the air over his head, his knife slashing wildly as the nylon canopied out and dropped over his eyes. While the man was blind beneath the dusty fabric, she grabbed the gas mask and slammed him in the head again. He swayed, striking furiously and the blade’s wicked teeth ripped through the nylon and slashed deep into her arm.

  Tears blurred her vision, but she swung the gas mask yet again, knocking the knife free. The big blade clattered across the floor and her attacker cursed, then pitched forward onto the floor, wrapped up neatly in white nylon.

  Miki closed her eyes and dragged in air, shaking as panic hit her full bore. Was she crazy? Had she just gone mano-a-mano with a mercenary wielding the biggest freaking knife she’d ever seen? Who did she think she was?

  When her shaking stopped, she stood up slowly. Blood oozed from the long cut on her arm, and she felt oddly disjointed, separate from her own body. Shock, she thought.

  I am going to throw up any second now.

  When she turned around, Max was standing in the doorway, the big knife gripped in his right hand. He looked entirely comfortable holding it.

  “What the hell happened?”

  Miki stared at him in confusion, caught by terror and fury. “All of a sudden he was there, holding that knife. He tried to—he almost—” Her voice shook.

  Dark and fierce, Max’s eyes locked on her arm. “He hurt you.” He pulled her against him and shoved back her sleeve, frowning. “Pretty damned deep, too. I’ll clean it up.”