Code Name: Bundle!

by Christina Skye

  Instead she took a step back and knelt beside Truman, stroking his head. “The fog came again. Truman was acting so strange. I almost think that…”

  “Tell me later,” Max said tightly. “The others won’t be far behind.” He tossed her the shotgun and lifted Truman’s motionless body, scanning the sand. “There’s a spot just beyond the beach where we can hide.”

  Always prepared, Miki thought.

  She followed him into the swirling white and noticed that it was beginning to fade. A shout came from somewhere to their left and Max grabbed her arm with his free hand, tugging her up the slope, urging her to go faster.

  It was like coming awake from a nightmare, Miki thought. Her hand shook as she felt the points of her knitting needles dig into her palm. Dimly, she felt a pain near her elbow, but she was too confused, too focused on keeping up with Max to pay much attention.

  Gunfire exploded behind them.

  Max grabbed her shoulder and pressed her to the ground, his body across hers. A hero trained to protect, just like Truman.

  Gunfire hammered over their heads and moved off to the right. Silently, Max pulled her to her feet and pointed to a wedge of ragged limestone up the slope. Only when Miki scrambled around a tree did she glimpse the shadow of another tunnel. She headed down, stopped and turned to look for Max.

  “Go on,” he whispered.

  “Give me Truman then. Help me get him onto his feet and we’ll manage from here. He’s starting to look more energetic.”

  His smile was swift and hot, knocking the breath out of Miki’s chest, heating her face and diving deep into the wary corners of her heart. His lips curved, rakish, smooth as sin itself. “You go, girl.”

  He waved her forward and then turned, vanishing into the fog.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  MIKI SAW A STREAK of blood across her arm. Hers or her attacker’s? She decided she didn’t really want to know.

  The man was probably dead. It might just as easily have been her or Truman lying on the sand, bleeding out their last seconds of life.

  Miki began to shiver. Fighting back panic, she leaned against Truman, helping the Lab down a row of steps to a shadowed space just like the other bunkers. The dog still hadn’t moved when she set him on the floor.

  How had things gotten so wrong, so far out of control? Her throat was raw as she closed her eyes, struck by a sudden, blinding need to be home in Santa Fe, wrapped in the beauty of the high desert. She thought of her friend Kit and her four wonderful dogs, smiling just a little. Then she thought about all the stupid, small, pleasant things that made up her day and how much she missed them.

  Coffee. Checking her e-mail. Watering her plants and watching the sun rise over the rugged Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

  Silence stretched out around her, magnifying the thunder of her pulse. Max was gone and the gunfire had stopped.

  Her stomach twisted and she fought down an urge to gag. She had to help Truman, and as soon as possible, they’d have to find Dutch. Responsibility and fear made her hands shake.

  Didn’t Max know she wasn’t good with planning and responsibility? Didn’t he understand she wasn’t the best person to trust with important things like saving lives and maybe even protecting her country?

  Miki remembered his stern orders about dehydration. Though she could barely swallow, she forced down several gulps of water from the canteen he’d slid under her arm, and kept her gaze away from the shadows farther back in the tunnel.

  If there were more rats hiding there, she didn’t want to know about it. But suddenly the weight of death and violence was all around her. She sank down on the stone floor, thinking about Max’s trunk and its neatly stacked clothes, rolled maps and zippered mesh pockets with papers inside.

  Government work.

  Her hands twitched.

  Looking down, she saw that the knitting needles were digging into her palm, raising beads of blood. As she fingered the rough wood, Miki turned over the few explanations that Max had made to her. Who was this man Cruz and why had Max been so interested in the scar on her arm? Mostly she wondered how the strange fog had come out of nowhere two times, both when danger was present.

  Hugging Truman close, she found the fiber she had begun to knit. Already it seemed like years had passed. When she sneezed, she gripped the last of Max’s white fiber, light, yet warm against her fingers.

  She spread it gently over Truman and then she sat in the darkness, too tired to move.

  Too tortured to sleep.

  JELLYFISH.

  Max hated the damn things. They had been everywhere when he climbed out of the crashing surf. His wetsuit had been slashed in three places when unexpected currents had tossed him against the shelf of coral. Big surprise number one.

  It was just Murphy’s Law that they had to be the really nasty kind, capable of a virulent sting. He had encountered box jellyfish twice before in the South Pacific, and both times the stings had required medical intervention. Now his shoulder and neck were swelling, and he didn’t need to see his face to know he was going to swell up again unless he got to Izzy’s miracle mix.

  But the jellyfish fix would have to wait. With fog trailing in faint wisps, he made his way from boulder to boulder until he was no more than twenty yards from the surf where the yacht rode at anchor. A man in a blue shirt shouted orders to his frightened crew in a snarl that sounded Indonesian or maybe Cambodian.

  DAMNED MARITIME PIRATES, Max thought. The modern-day variety armed with cell phones and GPS and Swiss bank accounts. Men who would attack boats under contract and kidnap by pre-arranged e-mails.

  He would have enjoyed cutting them down in one blitz, but staying out of sight and under the radar remained his mission priority. He wondered if Cruz had picked up their presence yet. If not, it would be soon.

  While he waited behind the boulder, Max winced, feeling the burn of the jellyfish tentacles. He needed to irrigate the wound areas with Izzy’s potent surfactants and apply a tight pressure wrap to prevent the spread of the neurotoxin.

  But he didn’t move.

  At least Izzy had provided him with several doses of box jellyfish antivenin to be used in just this event.

  Max gritted his teeth against the pain and grabbed the man who dashed behind the boulder. One blow sent him to the ground.

  Two minutes later a second man appeared and Max took him out, too.

  The captain was shouting on the yacht. Machine-gun fire raked the beach, and then the motors kicked in. The yacht sputtered, then roared out to sea.

  Max glanced south, noting the outline of storm clouds that had built up in the last hour. Izzy’s predicted storm was closing in fast.

  Wincing at the burning pain at his shoulder and chest, he surveyed the rest of the beach. Two crabs scurried across the sand. A seabird fluttered its huge wings as it nested near the water. Otherwise the cove was empty.

  He glanced at the luminous dial of his watch and rubbed his neck. He had been working straight for thirty-six hours. He was going to need to a nap soon, before his reflexes began to slow.

  He looked over his shoulder, half expecting to hear Truman’s soft footfalls any second. He frowned as he crossed the beach and up to the top of the slope. As a precaution he watched the yacht until it vanished at the horizon. Then he made his way along the cliff and pulled away the rocks disguising the tunnel entrance. The rope was right where he had left it.

  Swinging down with one hand, he pulled branches back to cover the opening and descended into the darkness.

  The dark shape at the side of the tunnel brought him up cold. There was no mistaking Truman’s motionless length. Miki was holding him against her chest.

  Her face was white, her body stiff. When she looked up, her eyes were tense. “Are they gone?”

  Max nodded, already searching his vest.

  “They were…” Her voice trailed away.

  “Pirates. Damned nasty people.”

  She didn’t seem to be hurt. Max saw that she
was pale, but there was no sign of blood or bruises.

  “What happened?”

  “Truman heard them. He was guarding me and they saw him. Then that man with the missing teeth found us, even in the fog. He—” She took a deep breath, her face lined with exhaustion as she lost her balance and swayed.

  “Take it easy.” Max sank down beside her, bracing her back. “Everything’s going to be fine.” He smiled faintly when he saw the carved sticks on the ground beside her. “Chopsticks?”

  “Knitting needles,” she rasped.

  “What were you going to do, knit him a pair of Fair Isle socks?”

  She took a shaky breath. “I was going to blind him. Hit his throat if I had to.” She shuddered, then tried to pull away from Max.

  He wouldn’t let her move, not even an inch. “Are you hurt?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Max pulled off his shirt and covered Truman. The dog’s pulse was weak but steady as Max squeezed some of Izzy’s supercondensed gel into Truman’s mouth.

  The Lab’s eyes opened and his tail wagged once.

  “Take it easy, ace. Enough good work for one day.”

  Truman licked Miki’s face and then bumped his head against Max’s shoulder. Weak as he was, he went from one to the other, three times. Then he sneezed and fell asleep.

  “He’s amazing,” Miki said softly.

  “You’re telling me. Can you handle him for a few minutes more?”

  “He’s fine right here.”

  Max sat on the floor, pulled off his vest and then stripped back his wet suit. The sooner he applied Izzy’s antivenin, the better.

  He heard Miki gasp.

  “What happened to you, Max?”

  “I ran into a few jellyfish.” A whole damned school of them, Max thought grimly. “Not one of my better days.” He dug out his medical kit, feeling Miki’s eyes on him as he filled a syringe and injected the muscle of his upper arm. After that there was nothing more to do but wait. He needed to make another patrol on the beach and then find Dutch, but exhaustion was finally catching up with him.

  He stifled a yawn. “How was Dutch doing?”

  “About the same. Sometimes his breathing was worse, but a few minutes later he seemed to calm down.”

  Max nodded. The details seemed fairly standard for a lung injury of this sort. He dropped his vest and tugged at his wetsuit. “I need to get a nap. An hour should do it.”

  “Only an hour? And what about those welts? They have got to hurt.”

  “I’ll survive. The medicine should kick in soon.” Max had weathered far worse than this.

  Miki looked away.

  She was giving him privacy to change, Max realized. But he didn’t have the slightest bit of self-consciousness as he stripped off the tight black rubber suit and changed into dry clothes from his vest.

  “What about the man on the beach?” Miki’s voice was shaky.

  Max shrugged.

  “I’m tired, Max. And I’m tired of being in the dark.” Her fingers tightened in Truman’s hair. “This is no ordinary dog and you’re no everyday soldier. Don’t you think I’m entitled to know something?”

  Max looked at her for a long time. “No.” He rubbed his neck, desperately needing to sleep. “I can’t talk about this. You’re going to have to trust me, Miki.”

  Her jaw hardened.

  Given the fact that her life appeared to have gone straight to hell in the last twenty-four hours, Max couldn’t blame her.

  “Did you call your team…your people?”

  He nodded.

  “And?”

  “And they’ll do what they can.”

  Max stretched slightly, wincing as pain lanced through his shoulder. He hadn’t told her a lie. He had equipment for communication with the Foxfire team in the event that they had to deploy on the island.

  Right now, that didn’t appear likely.

  “What does that mean? Truman needs help. So does Dutch.”

  Max gave a little shrug. He reached into the medical kit and took out a topical analgesic for his neck. Reaching over his shoulder was painful, but it had to be done.

  “Stop.” She sounded irritated and worried at the same time. “Let me do that for you.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “Lie down and shut up, Max.” She slid free of Truman and knelt beside Max, smoothing cream gently over his neck and shoulder. Every motion made him jumpy. Her breath skimmed his cheek and Max told himself the sharp, hot tension was strictly because he wasn’t used to people taking care of him.

  But that was a definite lie. He was far too aware of Miki’s skin and scent and warmth. He caught the faint smell of her sweat and the heat of her body where she knelt behind him. Max knew that if he pulled off his gloves and touched her now, skin to bare skin, her emotions would flood into him, raw and unconstrained.

  And some deep part of him demanded that contact. On some level things had already gone too far to turn back.

  “That’s good enough.” His voice was curt. It was getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open, but he managed to lean down and scratch Truman’s head gently, then remove his harness. He poured some water from his canteen into the dog’s mouth, but in his exhaustion, the canteen nearly slipped from his fingers.

  “Idiot.” Miki grabbed his gloved hand, her fingers locking around his while she replaced the cap. “You’re dead on your feet.”

  No kidding, Max thought grimly.

  “Go to sleep.” She ran a hand through her hair, then squared her shoulders as if she had come to some kind of decision. She glanced at his watch. “If you want me to wake you up, I’ll need your watch.”

  Max tried to undo his watch, but his fingers were stiff. In the end, he simply held out his arm and watched her remove the heavy strap. She slid it onto her hand, pulled the strap tight, and put one hand on his chest.

  “Go to sleep,” she ordered again. Trying not to smile and failing. “I’ll wake you in an hour.”

  That one small smile with her light and casual touch still packed the force of a punch. Max had to work to concentrate on what she was saying, instead of how she felt and smelled and how much he wanted to feel her body pressed against his.

  Simply the effect of working thirty-six hours without a break? Or was it something more insidious?

  “I trust you. Heaven knows why.” She shook her head and then pushed him back down onto the ground and rolling his vest into a pillow.

  She looked at him intently. “I saw some photos in your trunk. They were thermal images.”

  Her words were tinny. Max could barely hear her. “So?”

  She looked defensive. Max wanted to tell her not to bother, that he understood. He was slipping into sleep, his body finally starting to relax, and he wanted to tell her that he liked the way she smelled, liked the way her hair spiked around her cheeks.

  Sexy, he thought.

  Strong and yet vulnerable.

  “Just photos,” he repeated. “Nothing important.”

  But that was a lie. The thermal images were crucial to his search.

  “They looked important to me,” she said thoughtfully. “Whoever took them had to climb some rugged cliffs, according to what I saw. They went to a lot of trouble. I think they were looking for something up there.”

  “Talk later.” Max yawned, curling onto his side, trying to find a comfortable position despite the pain burning through his shoulder and neck. “Have to sleep now…”

  She started to say something more, but stopped, shaking her head. “You’re right. This can wait. I’ll be quiet so I don’t wake you.”

  “No need. I can sleep through anything,” Max muttered. “Part of the job.” He stretched, rolling his shoulders. “Only one hour, remember? I set the alarm in my watch. I’ll hear it anyway.”

  “Are you always this bossy?”

  Max smiled, half asleep. “Not always. Not when I’m in bed with a beautiful woman and I’m busy getting her naked. Not when I’ve g
ot my mouth exactly where I want it. I figure you know where that is.” He hadn’t meant for that last part to slip out, but by the time he realized what he’d said he was already slipping down into sleep.

  He didn’t hear her quiet laugh. He didn’t feel her bend close and smooth the blanket across his chest. But in some strange and very unfamiliar way, while he slept, he felt the odd sensation of being safe and well guarded.

  HE DREAMED OF TURQUOISE water, bordered by white sand beaches. He drifted in bloodred dawns that burned up out of the South China Sea. In those dreaming waters he swam effortlessly, surrounded by ever changing schools of flashing fish. Gold faded into bright blue and green shimmered into neon red.

  But something was wrong with the sea around him. Nets of black tangled around him, turning the water cold.

  The dream was a message, Max thought dimly, a warning he couldn’t unravel. He felt weightless, trapped inside huge bubbles, chasing a shadow that stayed always out of reach.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  MIKI SAT IN THE DARKNESS, listening to Max’s slow, steady breathing. A glance at his shoulder convinced her his pain was worse than he would admit. His resources and his reserve were greater than any man she had met, but even he couldn’t hide his exhaustion any longer. And how could he hope to recover with only one hour of sleep?

  Because he was different.

  She closed her eyes, going through the details of all she had seen inside his trunk, the papers, tools and weapons that showed a hard-eyed professional at work.

  The truth was, she had enjoyed rummaging, enjoyed the chance to touch Max’s clothes and pick up the faint scent of man and soap and sweat. When she was done with her search, she was convinced there was something strange about one of the photographs she had seen pushed beneath his clothes. Something about the heat signatures seemed off somehow.

  But Miki was no expert in thermal photography. She could be wrong about her assessment. Meanwhile, the fatigue on Max’s face convinced her to table any discussion until he awoke.

  With Truman beside her, she sat staring at Max’s watch. He had saved her life on the beach, a silent and lethal protector appearing out of the fog. She didn’t want to consider what might have happened otherwise.