Code Name: Bundle!

by Christina Skye

  No. Actually, she was white-knuckle material, petrified that she’d screw up the way she had too many times before.

  Miki took a deep breath. She didn’t know who this Dakota was, but she was trusting him with her life. If he was a friend of Max, she knew it was the right thing to do. “No problem. I’ll be fine. Let’s bag this creep and go home.”

  “I’m with you, honey.”

  Their boat hissed as it touched sand and Miki slid lower, the perfect picture of a cowering woman. “Dutch” had his collar rolled up around his face as he leaned down, grappling with her.

  A man in a camouflage uniform and an Australian bush hat walked toward them, an Uzi slanted over his shoulder. “Need some help?”

  Dakota shook his head and grunted a graphic curse that made the man with the Uzi smile. “Hurry up. Cruz wants to see you pronto. He’s in his tent up the beach.”

  Dakota released Miki and hunched over, hacking loudly. “Damned lungs.”

  Someone called out for Malovich, and the man with the Uzi ran back up the beach, his walkie-talkie screeching.

  None of the other men paid much attention as “Dutch” yanked Miki out of the boat and shoved her across the sand. Her body blocked any view of his face.

  “Let me go,” she rasped. “You can’t hold me. I’m an American and I demand—”

  She was thrust sideways with an apparent backhand that sent her sprawling to the ground. Dakota leaned over her, holding her down with one foot. “There’s no American embassy here so shut the fuck up.”

  She tossed sand in his face, prompting a string of curses.

  Up the hill a cold voice brought all movement to a halt. “Bring them here.”

  Miki struggled to stand up and Dakota hunched over, coughing harshly.

  “You can’t hold me here.” Suddenly something buzzed through her head, and pain shot up her neck. Her nose began to bleed again.

  Two men stood near the tent above the beach, watching her as if she was a stray dog that had wandered into camp. Coughing loudly, Dakota pushed her forward.

  Something felt wrong to Miki. Her palms were clammy with fear as the wrongness grew. She saw the man propped on the sand with a harpoon arrow protruding through his chest. In one quick glimpse she recognized the man who’d attacked her earlier on the beach. He hadn’t died fast or easily.

  Miki closed her eyes. She didn’t know how he had ended up here. Another man was stretched out on the ground, leaning against a green tent. When she realized it was Max, her heart lurched. He was slumped sideways, his face swollen and smeared with blood. A man sat in a folding chair two feet away, watching him with eyes that missed nothing.

  What she did next wasn’t planned.

  She ran forward, flailing at the two new men who tried to stop her. “What did you do to him?” She dug out a knitting needle she’d hidden under her shirt and jabbed it deep into one of the men’s hands. “Let go.”

  She twisted free and dropped to her knees beside Max, touching his face gently. He didn’t move or give any sign that he knew she was there.

  “Max,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

  He forced open an eye, studying her blankly. “Don’t know you.”

  The man in the chair stood up and pulled Miki to her feet, then slapped her hard. She bit back a moan, summoning all her anger to fight back, but her arms were pinned. Max’s captor reminded her of the hungry wolves she had seen one winter pawing for food near a garbage dump outside Santa Fe. There was nothing that felt human in his eyes and his face held no expression as he shoved up the sleeve of her torn shrug and pressed the scar where she had been burned. Twice he probed her arm until she was hit by waves of nausea.

  “Dutch” shuffled along the sand, coughing as he came closer. He called a name and Miki realized it was Cruz.

  Someone yelled. Gunfire cracked in the trees, and the next thing Miki knew, she was flat beneath Max’s body, pressed into the sand while “Dutch” pointed a rifle at Cruz.

  None of the three men spoke. They seemed to communicate without words, their eyes locked, and the unnatural tension between them made the little hairs prickle along Miki’s neck. Who were these people?

  Men were everywhere now, racing along the beach, charging out of the trees. More gunfire erupted. A man appeared in the back of the beached speedboat, shoved aside a tarp and sprinted toward the tent.

  The man called Cruz didn’t move. There in the rain he seemed to pull himself inside and shape the action around him. He raised his face to the wind, closing his eyes.

  The rain grew harder, pounding against the tent and slashing at the trees.

  Miki felt dizzy. Blood trickled from her nose as Max and a man who looked amazingly like Denzel Washington cornered Cruz.

  Lightning arced through the sky, striking the tent until the air sizzled, acrid with ozone and burning nylon, and Miki flinched at the violent explosion, pitching forward. When she opened her eyes, Cruz was gone.

  She saw Max on his feet, racing toward the trees, with Smith right beside him. She could have sworn she saw a brown shape that looked like Truman hurtling out of the rain directly toward them.

  Everything was chaos in the half-formed camp. No one paid any attention to her or to the Denzel lookalike. Miki was certain she’d seen him once in the hospital with her friend Kit’s fiancé, Wolfe. He smiled slightly as he shoved aside the flap of the tent and pointed to the ground. “Stay down,” he said. “We’ll be fine. You’ve got the Kevlar and I’ve got the Glock.”

  Miki blinked at him. Fine?

  She leaned over and was blindingly sick.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  THROUGH A TUNNEL OF PAIN, Max ran after Cruz. Behind the hill a fuel dump exploded, marked by shouts and the hammering of feet while flames rose in an orange column. Without turning his head, he sensed Wolfe Houston and another Foxfire teammate, Trace O’Halloran, running parallel to him in the trees, fanning out to take their target in a pincer movement.

  Trace, what have you got?

  Max sensed Wolfe’s growing impatience.

  Energy trails everywhere, Wolfe. I’m getting multiple readings. Hell, they’re all over the place. I can’t pin them down. He’s too damned good.

  None of the men needed to speak aloud. From long practice their skills were honed to maintain a lethal silence. But now they faced an enemy who was one of their own kind, who thought the way they thought. Max wondered how much Cruz was picking up right now.

  He knew Cruz’s vitals. He’d read his pulse and hormone levels during their moments of contact during the interrogation, but Cruz had his own mental shields in place, and Max couldn’t go deep enough to gauge the extent of Cruz’s damage. All he could pick up was superficial structure changes. Ryker’s scientists had equipped all of the field team with resonance chips to disrupt Cruz’s old implants, and judging by Cruz’s fury during their meeting, the chips had been successful.

  But it would be dangerous to underestimate the man’s resourcefulness. Like a cat, their rogue teammate always seemed to land on his feet.

  Automatic weapon fire crackled behind them, but none of the men broke stride to look back. Their mission lay ahead in the jungle, with a man more valuable than any weapon guidance system.

  A grove of black bamboo cracked and groaned in the wind, brushing Max’s face with a shower of water. Suddenly Truman cut across the face of the slope. Max swerved sharply, jumped a fallen tree trunk to avoid the dog, and kept right on moving until the dog cut him off again.

  What’s wrong with Truman? Trace was at the top of the hill, looking back.

  Something’s got him spooked, Max thought back in answer. Better slow down.

  You two stay back. I’m taking point from here on, Wolfe cut in.

  Max started to argue, but you didn’t question the team leader’s direct order. He knew that Wolfe had a personal stake in bringing Cruz down after their prior encounter and the threat to the woman he loved. Max was starting to understand that last
feeling very well.

  He looked down as Truman bumped his leg. The dog’s body was rigid, ears pricked alertly.

  Air gusted as a bird shot over his shoulder, wings spread. Truman watched the hurtling flight, ears flat, his muscles tensed. One paw scratched a straight line on the ground.

  Unspecified alert. Indeterminate danger.

  Max slowed, checking the heavy vegetation along the slope. The heavy rain made vision difficult, and as Max trained his focus he picked up Cruz’s energy signature, just the way Trace had said, projected along the trail. Max’s skill wasn’t half as strong as Trace’s but he saw the ghostlike outlines of Cruz’s projections as a shifting oily sheen in the air.

  The gunfire came closer. A burst from an Uzi sent Max zigzagging to the left. When he turned around, Trace was hunched over, gripping his side.

  Trace?

  Took a round beneath the ribs. Hurts like hell, but I’ll survive. You two go on and I’ll catch up.

  Max didn’t hesitate. He would have made the same call if the situation were reversed.

  We’ll be back as soon as we can, Wolfe answered. Stay low. He’s close now.

  Max studied the slope, feeling awareness gather at the back of his neck. He was assaulted by the sudden smell of gasoline, carried on black, oily clouds from the explosion. For the other two men, the acrid smell would be unpleasant, but Max couldn’t risk the contamination that would throw off his sensory work. Truman would have a similar problem unless the wind dispersed the smoke soon.

  As he jerked a length of black cloth from his backpack and tied it around his face, something else bothered Max. He dropped to one knee, pressed his hand into the ground beside a wall of shifting bamboo plants, and picked up a dim impression of motion and what felt like the hum of machinery. He was trying to focus on the source when Truman went flat, ears back, body rigid.

  A warning alert. Danger straight ahead.

  Max stopped instantly. Wolfe, can you see Truman?

  Yeah, and I wish I couldn’t. Gotta be Cruz.

  Max looked up and saw the bamboo wall part. Cruz stood in the middle of the trail, smiling coldly, holding out what appeared to be a computer disk.

  Truman’s teeth pulled back in a snarl, as if he was under silent attack. Max knew that Cruz had shown the ability to manipulate animals as part of his enhanced skills, and Truman would be a definite prize. But right now the Lab showed no signs of giving in easily.

  Up the trail, Cruz’s image seemed to waver and then reform. His lips moved, but no sound emerged, like a bad copy of a silent movie. Though Max searched the ground, he picked up no biomarkers or chemical layers.

  Do you see him? he asked Wolfe.

  Keep moving. It’s an ID.

  Image distortion, another one of Cruz’s skills. Wolfe Houston would recognize the technique perfectly because he had always been the strongest of the team at the focused distortion skills.

  What about the computer disk he was holding?

  Max felt Wolfe’s intensity as he stared up the trail. Probably showing us what he thinks we want most. Don’t trust anything you see, not even me. You know the code word. And if he takes you down…

  Understood.

  Wolfe was warning that any image could be manipulated, friend turned to foe and foe to apparent friend. Without code verification, no one could be trusted. And if Cruz managed to take any of the men, the others were under order to kill him to avoid him being turned into a weapon in Cruz’s hands.

  Max picked up the hum of a wireless energy source somewhere near his feet. Sensors, he thought, reading the edge of a focused wireless network fanning out across the hill.

  He pulled off his gloves and touched the tree trunk with his palm, reading patterns and searching for oil traces left by human skin.

  Not here, but nearby. A dense line led up the hill.

  He looked back at Trace, who was climbing awkwardly toward a flat rock, one hand pressed against his rib.

  Trace, stop!

  Max followed a faint trail of sweat and more of the amphetamine traces. Even in the rain, the layers were well defined. Immediately he projected the image to the others, who froze in mid-footstep.

  But the warning came too late. The ground rumbled and soil heaved, giving way. Max plunged into a pit gaping open beneath him. By instinct, he managed to relax and shield his head, preparing for a fall.

  He hit hard, dirt filling his mouth. His head throbbed as he crawled to his feet, staring up at the gashed earth and overturned bushes. A well-placed sensor had triggered a fall in what appeared to be one of Cruz’s underground tunnels.

  Max, are you all right?

  Only a few scratches. Max ran a hand over the shifting earth. Stay back, Wolfe. I’m picking up additional sensors, and the area looks unstable.

  Understood.

  As the rain hammered on, Max moved to the center of the hole. Finding nothing significant, he squished on through dirt that was rapidly turning to mud.

  And then he saw a weathered door. It was all but invisible, brown and mottled in the same colors as the ground.

  Wolfe, there’s a door down here. I’m checking it out. Max felt Wolfe’s hesitation.

  Negative. Not without backup. Trace is out of the picture and I can’t get down there yet. Hold position.

  We need a reading.

  Wolfe’s answer shot back, sharp and decisive. Negative. This is Cruz’s home turf and we’re at a disadvantage. Are you picking up anyone in the area?

  No one, Max shot back.

  Give me a second. I’ll hitch my rope around a tree and you’ll be out of there shortly.

  Silently Max registered assent. Staying where he was, he pulled off his gloves and rested his palms against the newly furrowed ground.

  Sweat. Layers of cortisol and adrenaline. The flash of amphetamines again, mixed with caffeine and tobacco.

  Cruz kept his workers stoked and uncertain, always watching their backs. Max realized that it was a worst-case scenario of the way Ryker might handle the Foxfire team in a crisis. No one ever said that being nice got the job done.

  Max didn’t want to think about the similarities. None of them had done the things that Cruz had done. Most likely his chip degeneration had triggered a long dormant instability that had slipped past all the medical evaluations.

  But a tiny voice whispered that the same chips could cause the process to repeat in any one of the team. Would Max wake up one day to find himself taking enemy fire from another friend turned foe, with all the skills of Foxfire technology turned against the team? What if it was Wolfe next time?

  Impossible, Max thought.

  Did you say something? Wolfe sounded a little distracted.

  No.

  Max couldn’t analyze what made him go very still. It might have been a hint of adrenaline in the air or maybe raw instinct.

  He sniffed the air. Climate control. Not for personal comfort, but almost certainly designed for high-tech equipment that required stable temperature and humidity.

  What the hell was Cruz making down here?

  Max didn’t move, wary of triggering another sensor.

  Don’t bother waiting for Wolfe. He’s not coming.

  Max stiffened as air brushed his back and a voice seemed to whine inside his ear.

  We both know you’d give anything to take me down, Preston. So open the door and come on in. I’m here where you can get me. Unless you’re afraid to see what I can show you because it will prove that I’m right. Ryker is nuts and the whole program is flawed.

  The voice was hollow, disembodied, and Max couldn’t register any physical signs of Cruz’s presence, which meant this was more illusion.

  Smoke and mirrors, the kind Cruz conjured best.

  I don’t need to see your world, Cruz. I already know it’s as sick as you are.

  Hell, you’re so afraid that you’re sweating, Preston. Ryker’s got you so twisted around his finger you won’t breathe without getting his approval first.

  M
ax tried to contact Wolfe, but got no answer. Meanwhile, Cruz’s ravings continued.

  Where’s your freedom gone, Preston? Where are the honesty and idealism you bought into? Ryker’s made you all into his drones, shaped to his personal whim. Face it—Foxfire isn’t about the government or securing our borders, it’s about Ryker and his personal quest for power. Why don’t you ask him what he’s doing in Lab 21? Ask him about South America and—

  Max shielded his mind from the delusional ramblings. There wasn’t a Lab 21 back at HQ. All of this was more of Cruz’s paranoia.

  You can dismiss me the way Wolfe did, but what happened to me will happen to you. One day you’ll look in the mirror and you’ll see my haunted eyes, my gaunt face. None of the medications will help. I’ll be the only one you can turn to then.

  Max tried to cut out the voice. It wavered like static from a distant radio, then came back stronger than before.

  You want to be Ryker’s slave. I thought you were smarter than that, Preston. Guess I was wrong.

  Max’s vision swam. He was hit by a sudden wave of dizziness, and when he looked around, the hole had vanished. Despite all Max’s shielding, Cruz’s image distortion patterns kicked in hard and all he could see was a high canopy of endless trees above him.

  If you want to meet me, do it like a man, Cruz. Not like some dime-store magician.

  I’m hardly dime-store quality. Remember, I cost the government ten million dollars to make.

  I’m supposed to be impressed by all this hocus-pocus?

  No, you’re supposed to come and get me, unless I get you first. I intend to have those new chips you’re carrying. Whether you’re dead or alive when I get them is up to you.

  The trees shook, and Max stared into desperation and sorrow. Whether it came from his mind or Cruz’s, he couldn’t tell.

  “WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?” Trace was propped against a tree, his face white. A dark stain was growing at his waist.

  “Ground caved in,” Wolfe said tightly. “One of Cruz’s hidden sensors got tripped.”

  “Where’s Preston?”

  “He’s good to go. I should have him out shortly.” Wolfe wrapped his rope around a tree and knotted it securely. “How’s that wound?”