Code Name: Blondie Page 7

  “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 di
sappearing 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.

  Miki winced slightly. She looked more uncomfortable than ever, trying to move her leg without shifting Truman’s body.

  “What can I do?” Max asked quietly.

  “A Brandy Alexander with one of those cute little umbrellas would be nice.” Miki gave a crooked smile and then yawned. “A pedicure and a deep tissue massage would be a bonus.” She yawned again. “Barring that, maybe you could—”

  Max bent beside her, noticing the slab of rock that dug into her shoulder. Carefully he lifted her up, slid his folded vest beneath her side and neck, then settled her back on the ground. “Better?”

  She stared at him, looking tired and more than a little dazed. “Who are you really?” she whispered.

  Max walked around her and picked up his canteen. “I’m the person you’re going to have to trust.”

  The silence seemed long and far too heavy. Then she shook her head. “Wrong again. I make it a firm rule not to trust anyone but the face that looks back at me in the mirror every day. Sometimes not even her.”

  “Anybody ever tell you that you’ve got issues?”

  She gave a tired shrug. “A few. I didn’t pay attention because I didn’t trust them.” She smiled crookedly, her eyes closing. “Shut the door on the way out,” she murmured, snuggling closer to Truman.

  They made quite a sight, Max thought. Truman’s head rested on her chest, his body half covered by Max’s black T-shirt. Right now both of them were oblivious to the world.

  Max tried to look away, but something held him immobile. Simple weariness, he thought. But there was something deep and real about the bond of trust he sensed between woman and dog. There was no questioning, calculating or negotiating between them. It simply was. Max wasn’t sure he had ever trusted anyone that much, outside of his Foxfire teammates. He wondered how it would feel to let down his guard that way. Just once.

  Clean and simple, he told himself harshly. No strings and no emotions. Attachments broke your focus during a mission, but emotions could get you killed faster than bullets.

  Max wasn’t taking chances on either.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE SEA WAS A RESTLESS curtain of silver beneath a darkening sky. Enrique Cruz sat without moving, hands locked on his seat. His focus was cold, intense and impenetrable. For a moment there had been a stirring of something familiar below him between the stretch of open sea and the dozen small islands scattered along the horizon.

  He had sensed familiarity. And danger. He had seen what looked like fog, and the weather pattern continued to bother him. Now he opened his awareness, scattered a broad net of energy and waited for a response. The process had always seemed a little like sonar, except the trigger was his mind, focused like a weapon. Once he had been Foxfire’s best weapon, the first in a team of deadly warriors who fought in silence with skills no machine could detect.

  Now Cruz fought only for himself. And his greatest wish was to cripple the men who had studied him, caged him and made him into a lab animal.

  One day soon they would pay for that.

  Sweat dotted his brow as the small seaplane circled. Once he sensed something…familiar, but he couldn’t trace it to a specific location. Give it time. Soon he would be able to verify his suspicions. “Go back,” he rasped. “Thirty degrees north. Hurry.”

  His brother shifted uncertainly. “It is too late. Our fuel is already low. We must land, jefe. Tomorrow we can—”

  In a savage movement, Cruz shot around in his seat and gripped his brother’s throat. “Now, I said! Never argue with my commands, imbecil. Tomorrow will be too late. He will be gone, hidden like the snake that trained him.”

  The three other men in the plane’s small cabin watched in horror as Cruz slowly choked his own brother, but none dared to say a word for fear of a similar fate.

  White-faced, Cruz muttered vows of death in a mix of Spanish and English. Then his hands opened and he took a harsh breath, staring at his brother, now unconscious. “Never mind. We will return tomorrow after my brother recovers,” he said unsteadily. “The snake can live for one more night.”

  The pilot nodded, too afraid to speak. The small plane banked and circled back to the east, swallowed by a wall of sullen clouds.

  The sun vanished over the ragged horizon, pulling behind it an endless curtain of night.

  CHAPTER NINE

  MIKI SAT UP ABRUPTLY and felt the ground spin.

  She whimpered as the world went black and tilted sharply. Cradling her head, she opened her eyes slowly.

  Truman was still asleep, draped over her chest, and Miki’s head felt as if it had been run over by a cement mixer. She had a vague memory of the fog that had come out of nowhere and Truman’s collapse, but the memories were little more than fragments strung together by threads. She couldn’t seem to hold any of them long enough to figure out how they fit together.

  But something had happened, and it had been important.

  Images began to return. She remembered how gentle Max had been with the dog and how carefully he’d arranged his vest under Miki’s head. He’d seemed vulnerable then, even wistful, and Miki hated that she had flinched at the sight of his chest and its web of silver scars.

  What kind of car accident could have left him so badly hurt? Probably she would never know. He never talked about himself unless she probed hard.

  Wind sighed outside the mouth of the cave. From where she lay, a corner of velvet sky burned with scattered stars that looked close enough
to touch. Miki smoothed Truman’s head and fell back to sleep. Though it made no sense at all, she felt safe for the first time in weeks.

  MAX DIDN’T CURSE, BUT he thought about it. Cool air rushed over his face as he moved silently through the night. With the probability that a hostile force was watching the nearby island, either directly or indirectly, he had only a few more hours to finish his surveillance, locate the target and extract—all without tipping off Cruz.

  Now he had two civilians gumming up the works, and one of them was in bad shape. As for the woman, he still couldn’t decide whose side she was on or why it was starting to feel like a personal question.

  Max studied the spot where he’d buried her shrug—or whatever the little sweater was called. He still couldn’t understand why she was so protective about a piece of clothing, especially one as beat-up as this was.

  Crouching on the sand, he studied the darkness that stretched to the neighboring islands. He wouldn’t make radio contact until just before dawn, when he took his next trip out to the beached gunboat near the reef. That would give him enough time for a brief coded update about Truman’s condition and the airplane flyover.

  After removing a camouflaged pack that he’d hidden in the sand, Max trotted into the trees and set up a sniper scope to view the ragged cove at the far side of the bay. As before, there was no sign of human presence. There had been no returning airplanes, either.

  After an hour of continuous surveillance he stood up and stretched, working out the tension in his neck. From his cover behind a wall of bushes he could see the opening to the cave. So far Miki had stayed out of sight, along with Truman.

  She had great legs, he’d give her that. None of that perpetual-teenager, skinny look too many women went for. The rest of her body wasn’t half bad either, though she was a little tall for his taste. What man liked to stand level with a woman when they kissed?