Code Name: Blondie. Christina Skye

moved back to the nearby cot, looking irritated. “He needs a doctor. A real doctor,” she snapped.

      “He’s going to be fine.”

      She continued to stare at Dutch. “What happens if he gets worse?” Her voice had turned uncertain.

      Max didn’t answer. He knew she wouldn’t want the truth, and tactically it was best not to lie any more than you had to.

      She looked down suddenly, rubbing her arm. “What did you do to me?”

      “Nothing.” His voice was a whisper. “You were lurching around in your sleep and you hit the wall.”

      Her eyes said yeah, right.

      Max figured it was time to ask his own questions. “I don’t know your name.”

      She stared at him. “That’s right, you don’t. Yours first.”

      “Max.”

      “Max what?”

      “Massey.” He lied without hesitation.

      A frown worked down her forehead. Probably she was surprised by the quick answer and after that she was trying to figure out if he was telling her the truth.

      “My name’s Jones. Ella…Jones.”

      “Sure it is. I’ll just call you Blondie.”

      That seemed to irritate her. “No blonde jokes or it won’t be pretty.”

      Max shrugged. He wasn’t up on current entertainment due to months of medical recuperation, followed by round-the-clock training at the Foxfire facility. “So where are you from, Blondie?”

      “Detroit.” She sat up slowly and rubbed her elbow. “Dad was a cop. Mom was a school nurse. Dinner conversation got pretty raw sometimes, what with sucking chest wounds and infectious impetigo.” She pulled the shirt around her shoulders, her eyes locked on his face. “What are you doing here?”

      The question was casual, Max thought. Like she had no particular interest. If she was working for Cruz, she was damned good.

      Of course Cruz would insist upon that skill in an operative.

      “I do chemical work.” Max used his arranged cover, every detail well rehearsed. “Microscope and chemical assay for hire, world wide.”

      “What kind of chemical work?”

      “Oil fields, that kind of thing.”

      “I guess that’s important.” Her eyes moved over the room and its small crates of stored equipment, and Max could see her putting the pieces together. “Why did you tie me up at first?”

      “Lady, you came down in a plane right at the epicenter of my exploration zone. I’m taking no chances. I’ve been alerted that two other oil companies may be sending in unlicensed investigators, and that could cost my employer millions. Money aside, freelancers don’t always have scruples about how they get the job done. It’s the Wild West every day, everywhere when you’re talking about oil. We have a closed contract for exploration here for another two months, and no one is getting in here before that.”

      “People do that kind of thing? I mean, they steal corporate information in a deserted place like this?”

      Max thought she sounded surprised. Either she was very naïve about how business worked, or she was one very smart woman putting on a great act.

      He shrugged. “Where money’s at stake, people will do anything.”

      “You’re probably right.” She studied his Mini-mag. “So you’re here doing x-rays, things like that?”

      “More or less. Since it’s proprietary, I can’t really discuss it.” Max pulled his canteen out of his vest and held it out for her to drink. “You should rehydrate.”

      She took the canteen eagerly, then gave the opening a quick scrub with the hem of her shirt. “Nothing personal, but I don’t know you from Adam.”

      “Always smart to be cautious.” He watched her drink. There was something fascinating about the way her muscles rippled. Her hair was wild, a dozen different shades of blonde. Beads of water trailed from her mouth, over her chin.

      What would they taste like, mixed with her unique scent blend?

      Enough. You know she’s probably connected to Cruz. There are damned few coincidences in this line of work.

      When she stopped drinking, Max took the canteen, then raised Dutch’s head and poured a small amount into his mouth.

      “How is he doing?”

      “He seems stable. Heart rate in the normal zone.”

      Her eyes narrowed. “You know about stuff like that? Hardly standard procedure for engineers.”

      “I go into some pretty desolate areas, so I have to know basic bush medicine.”

      She appeared to think this over and then nodded. “What’s wrong with him?”

      “I’d say it’s his lungs. His chest looks like it took some trauma, and he may have compression in the right side.”

      “How soon can we catch a plane back?” Her voice tightened. “You must have some way to communicate with your headquarters, right? They can send a plane for you.”

      “Not yet, they can’t.”

      “Why not?” She shot to her feet, banging her head on the earth ceiling. The woman was tall, Max thought, and she looked more than a little klutzy. Probably that was part of the act, too. “I want to leave now.”

      “Open your eyes. Did you happen to see any planes in the area?”

      “So call someone. Use a radio. You must have something.”

      “There’s a storm heading into this area. I doubt that any planes are flying right now.”

      “So when?” She winced, rubbing her head. “Dutch looks bad. I don’t think we should wait.”

      “I’ll try calling again soon. The weather situation could clear by then.” Like hell he would, Max thought grimly. He held up a cardboard-covered tray with a pre-packaged meal. “Are you hungry?”

      “I guess I should be, but I’m not. I had breakfast back in Tahiti and some coffee and a protein bar at the beach where we were shooting—”

      “Shooting what?”

      “Swimsuit stills and tropical backgrounds for a calendar.”

      “You’re a photographer?”

      “For ten years. I can’t think of any work I’d like to do more—and I’ve done most of it, believe me.” Something haunted filled her eyes. “I guess that’s all off, now that Vance is…gone.”

      “Vance was the other passenger? Big guy, balding?”

      “That’s him. He wasn’t breathing when I woke up. There was a lot of blood on the seat. You found his…body?”

      Max nodded. The sight hadn’t been pretty, the body swollen and pale.

      She cleared her throat and looked at him uncertainly. “Could I have more water, or is that something we need to ration?”

      “We should have enough, but don’t overdo it.”

      She took the canteen and splashed a little on her hand, then rubbed her face. “I’m sticky from seawater. What I wouldn’t give to clean up.”

      “Afraid I don’t have bath facilities.”

      She squirmed uneasily. “But you must have—I mean, what about the necessities?”

      Max pointed over his shoulder. “When you need to go, you find a quiet spot and do what