Code Name: Blondie. Christina Skye

tank with a flyswatter.

      His thighs opened. He wrapped one foot around her ankles and their bodies ground together intimately. He was stronger than she’d realized, stronger than any man she knew, and she was his captive with no way to escape and nowhere to go even if she succeeded.

      Miki’s face flamed at the pressure of his thigh wedged against hers. She jammed her other elbow upward, fighting blindly. This time he didn’t grunt or show any sign of contact. What kind of man was he? A direct blow like that should have hurt him somewhere.

      As she struggled, she had a glimpse of his face, cold and determined above her. The smooth surface of his leather glove traced her flushed skin.

      His fingers opened at her jaw, tightened.

      He was going to choke her. She twisted as she felt his hands tighten on her neck. He seemed to search her skin carefully, pressing a spot at her ear.

      White lights burst behind her eyes and Miki felt the world drain away to black around her.

      THE FREAKING WOMAN HAD done it now, Max thought. If Cruz had spotters in that plane they’d be down on this beach in minutes.

      He’d had no choice but to knock her out while he tackled damage control. His eyes narrowed as he swept both sides of the beach. There was no sign of a response yet. No energy signatures that matched Cruz’s.

      Max swept her limp body over one shoulder and sprinted for the bunker. After dumping her on a cot, he grabbed a wide palm leaf and worked his way back along the sand, methodically wiping away all their footprints.

      He tapped his leg, summoned Truman and swept away the dog’s prints, too. With the beach clean, Max studied the sky to the west. There was no further sign of air traffic, nor any movement at sea, and he hoped it would stay that way. He would have to face Cruz soon, but first he needed more information about the fortifications on the nearby island.

      Max brushed the sand around the door, and as a final precaution, scattered twigs and torn palm leaves randomly throughout the area. When he finished, untrained eyes would have sworn they were standing on pristine beach.

      But Cruz didn’t have untrained eyes. He had been the first and very best at reading energy trails, and his skills had grown stronger since his escape from Foxfire custody.

      Max had to assume they had been spotted by the plane, their hiding place blown. Once he was back underground he slung Blondie over his shoulder, grabbed a pack with extra supplies, pressed a spot in the wall and watched the cement slowly part to reveal a hidden tunnel.

      TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Max scrambled up the hillside beneath a cover of trees. He’d left Blondie unconscious and secured out of sight in a nearby cave, then retrieved his gear and set up an alternate camp at a spot overlooking the beach. Now he was in the process of carrying Dutch to safety, with Truman walking point. The Lab stopped every few moments, head raised to sniff the air, his eyes on the horizon, but so far there had been no alerts to indicate danger.

      Max’s shoulder felt the first hint of strain from five trips up and down to the beach, but beyond that he’d barely broken a sweat. Good genes, as Wolfe Houston liked to say with a wry smile.

      As he climbed the rim of a rocky slope, Max heard a low vibration behind him. Truman had already stopped, his ears raised, studying the clouds to the south. Racing back, the dog bumped Max’s leg.

      Danger alert.

      A small seaplane appeared, no more than a smudge against the racing clouds. Truman looked up at Max, as if asking for orders.

      “Out of sight ASAP, buddy. Double-time it.” Max sprinted up the steep slope, careful to stay under cover of scattered trees. As the motors droned closer, he calculated the distance to the cave.

      He wasn’t going to make it. Carefully, he lowered Dutch to the ground, hidden beneath an overhanging bush.

      “What’s—wrong?” The pilot roused, his voice cracking. “Have to land. Strict…orders. No time.”

      “It’s okay, pal. Take it easy.”

      But the pilot had already slipped back into unconsciousness. Max made certain he was out of sight, then turned to gauge the distance to the hidden cave.

      Something prickled at his neck. A weight seemed to fall without warning, pinning him to the ground.

      Cruz. Foxfire’s ex-leader could distort and project any kind of energy until Miami Beach looked like Nome, Alaska. If he didn’t know better, Max would have sworn he was being crushed by a chunk of that plane overhead. With focused concentration, Max cut through his sudden immobility and sprinted up the hill, Truman inches behind him. Even at top speed it was going to be damned close.

      The prickling at his neck grew into a sharp stabbing, and Max had no more doubts: it had to be Cruz carrying out an energy scan from the approaching plane.

      A cloud covered the sea, casting a shadow over the slope. Truman brushed past Max’s leg and turned, very still, face to the sky as the wind riffled his hair. The dog’s tail flattened to a rigid line.

      “Take cover, Truman.” Max snapped the order, aware that precious seconds were passing. He brushed his collarbone, pressing an implant in the bone to set off a localized energy disturbance, but he knew the field wouldn’t last long—or possibly not at all, if Cruz’s skills had grown sharp enough to see through this recent Foxfire innovation.

      He glanced back at his training partner. “Tru, heel.”

      But the Lab didn’t move, body stiff, face toward the sky.

      Something drifted out of the air. Light and cold, it danced over Max’s cheek and then vanished. Another speck swirled through the air, and suddenly Max was surrounded by white flakes drifting out of a sunny sky.

      Snow? Impossible.

      As the engine whine grew closer, the delicate flakes seemed to blur, whirling above Truman’s head. Darkening, they gained substance and rippled into a wall of fog, dense and moist, shrouding Max and the dog in an impenetrable curtain.

      The airplane shot past, engines throbbing. Max felt the hairs stand up along his neck as a bar of energy probed the spot where he had been standing moments before. As the fog pressed at his face, he heard the plane bank and circle, dropping lower.

      The energy signature retreated, and still Truman hadn’t moved, his head raised alertly to the sky. The possibilities left Max stunned. This was the new skill that Ryker had hinted at, glimpsed only once before in the training facility. Whether it could be controlled and harnessed, Max didn’t know, or even how long the dog could maintain the effect. Max knew how draining a small image distortion could be, and an intense weather disturbance like this had to have cost Truman dearly.

      The plane circled again, and Max breathed in relief as it droned away into the distance. Seconds later the prickling at his shoulders vanished.

      Over his head the fog began to fade. Max picked out the outline of nearby trees as a gust of wind swept up the slope, scattering the unstable gray veil. In a surreal moment, mist gave way to sunlight that beat hot on Max’s neck. If he had not stood here in the middle of the phenomenon and experienced it, he would never have accepted any of it.

      He rubbed a hand over his eyes, but the sunshine remained. He looked over at Truman, shaking his head. Wait until Ryker heard about this.

      “Pretty smart, aren’t you?” Max knelt and raised one hand. “How about a high five for a fellow SEAL?”

      Truman turned around in a circle, tail wagging happily as it banged Max in the face. Then the dog sat, raised one paw and waited.

      High five.

      Damned if he didn’t know that, too. Filled with a wave of pride, Max laughed as the big dog licked his face. “Is there anything you can’t do, champ?”

      Truman’s head cocked. He panted hard, tongue lolling. Then he shuddered.

      “What’s wrong, Tru?”