Code Name: Blondie. Christina Skye

radio transmitter and emergency water, along with food stores and ammunition. If necessary, Max could hole up there indefinitely, keeping Cruz’s island under covert surveillance.

      No one had counted on two civilians plummeting out of the sky in the middle of the op zone. But as a SEAL, Max was trained to expect the unexpected, so the show would go on. He wouldn’t worry about the woman with the expressive eyes or the body that was tempting in all the right places, even buried beneath soggy jean shorts and a baggy Hawaiian print shirt.

      Come to think of it, why was she dressed like a college student on spring break? How could a college student afford the expensive camera and lenses that he’d seen in her leather bag? He’d have to search for her ID again later while she slept.

      First he had to swim to the reef and complete a secure transmission back to HQ. After that, he’d stockpile more medical supplies, transferring them from the beached gunboat to the underground bunker. If the pilot took a turn for the worse, Max wanted to be ready. He was no surgeon, but he’d had training in field medicine and Izzy Teague would brief him on what to expect from lung complications.

      After a final scratch and a touch command to his new best friend, Max slipped on his breathing gear and headed back to the water.

      “YOU’VE GOT WHAT?” Lloyd Ryker, the head of the Foxfire research program, sounded worried.

      “Two civilians from a ditched Cessna, sir. Vehicle ID number Alpha seven—one—niner—four—two—zero. The pilot’s passport reads Jase Van Horn, and the woman called him Dutch. He’s in bad shape, sir.”

      Ryker muttered a few choice words. “I’ll put our tech man on when we’re done. He’ll handle the medical end. What about the woman?”

      “Not much to tell. Blonde hair, maybe five foot ten. Speaks English like an American and seemed pretty strong for a woman.”

      “No ID?”

      “None that I could find, sir.”

      “And there’s been no sign of your target?”

      “Not yet.” Max sensed Ryker’s growing tension that Cruz hadn’t been sighted.

      “Did your friend show any scent alerts for these two?”

      He meant Truman. “Nothing that was clear. He was edgy, and he checked out the woman briefly, along with her bag. Before he got very far, a bottle of perfume broke inside her case. That pretty much blew any hope of a clean scent.”

      “Accident?” Ryker snapped.

      “Unclear.”

      “No weapons on either of them?”

      “No, and no communication devices,” Max said tightly.

      Ryker drummed his fingers loud enough for Max to hear over the static. “They could be civilians, but you are to treat them as hostiles until we have confirmation of their aircraft number and passports. We’ll have an answer by your next check-in. What happened to their Cessna?”

      “I drilled the pontoons and sank it, sir. Figured we didn’t need any floating debris to trigger alarms.”

      “Good. Keep focused out there. Here’s your tech contact. You’ve got ninety seconds. I won’t risk detection.”

      “Copy, sir.”

      Static crackled. “You’ve got a possible lung compression there? Give me the vitals,” Izzy Teague said briskly.

      When Max finished his report, Izzy was silent. Paper rustled, then Foxfire’s techno wizard cleared his throat. “There’s good news and there’s bad news. Your man there is in bad shape, but he appears stable. That could change fast, of course. For now, just keep him warm and hydrated, and watch for signs of infection. Keep me updated, if possible.”

      “Will do.” Max watched the sweep hand on his luminous watch. “Time’s up.”

      “Give ’em hell. Oh—give your friend a nice scratch from me.” Izzy was careful not to mention Truman by name in case the message was picked up. He was chuckling when he cut the connection.

      Quickly, Max stripped down the phone and hid it in a false compartment inside the ship. Then he sealed extra medicine inside his watertight kit for the swim back. His watch vibrated, signaling that it was time to leave, and Max knew he was cutting things close if he hoped to miss first light.

      With his swim fins over one arm, he climbed the rusted companionway of the old gunboat, wondering what tales the walls could tell of Japanese sailors sent out to this remote island to watch for enemy activity. The ship’s log indicated that a storm had run the ship onto this reef and put it out of operation. The captain had committed suicide, shamed by his carelessness.

      Shadows moved along the companionway as Max made his way to the middeck. He understood the weight of duty and self-sacrifice. There were worse ways to go out than falling on your sword.

      But Max wasn’t about to let his own mission run aground.

      As he slipped on his mask and breathing gear, he focused on the woman. Maybe she was the pilot’s daughter. The age difference was about right, and she seemed genuinely concerned—assuming this wasn’t one more part of an elaborate act.

      He smiled as he went backward into the water. If she was lying, he’d know soon enough.

      There weren’t many ways to keep secrets from him.

      WHEN MAX REACHED THE beach, Truman was waiting. The dog looked up, wagging his tail but holding his down position above the well-hidden bunker.

      There were no signs of footprints or boat draglines along the sand, and Truman would have signaled any visitors. With the perimeter secure and full light due any second, Max opened the trap door and headed underground.

      The pilot was breathing fitfully, and the woman was curled up on Max’s cot, her Hawaiian shirt tugged around her shoulders and her arm propped against the wall of the little room. Every time the pilot made a noise, she gave a jump, then sank back into deep sleep.

      Max checked the pilot’s vitals as Izzy had specified, frowning at his low temperature. Silently, he covered the man with another blanket. Pulse and heart rate were in acceptable limits, which was good news.

      Time for work. The kind of work that the Foxfire team did best. He studied the sleeping woman, considering his best avenue of approach.

      Not the hands. After too long in the water the skin usually became risky to read due to contamination. Not the legs or chest, since he didn’t want to risk waking her yet, and moving her clothes would almost certainly wake her. That left the face and neck. Swimmers always tried to keep both above water, which would help him pull a better impression.

      Silently he pulled the soft leather glove from his right hand. Breathing deeply, he rested his fingers at the nape of her neck. He made a preliminary scan, checking for the most reliable scent and steroid markers.

      With each biochemical marker, his senses tightened, drawing him deeper. His eyes narrowed and his breathing slowed as he focused. The tactile scan wasn’t magic and it wasn’t superhuman, but it might have appeared that way to an uninitiated observer. What he did was the result of medical enhancements and a third-generation sensory biochip, courtesy of the crew of eggheads that Lloyd Ryker kept on tap at the Foxfire lab. Max had trained hard to master a huge range of human steroids, hormones and man-made chemicals. When carefully recorded, they presented a picture of the subject’s recent activities, where they took place and the emotions that were present at the time.

      To a civilian it would look like witchcraft, images pulled from thin air. But every scan had its price, demanding absolute focus as well as psychological risk. Like Truman, Max’s amped-up senses were vulnerable to every stray chemical, whether human-based or manufactured. For his own protection, gloves were required gear, keeping his senses clear for mission work. At the beginning he had missed casual skin contact; now it was his normal mode.

      He felt the hairs stiffen