Code Name: Blondie. Christina Skye

      “I can’t leave you.”

      “Listen, I got us down in one piece, but Vance is gone and my arm’s pretty well crushed by this broken seat. If you stick around, you’ve got no odds, which is just plain stupid. So I’m ordering you to unharness and ditch. You’ve got your flotation vest. Pull the cord once you’re outside. Someone will come eventually. You can tell them to come back for me.” His voice tightened. “Now get going.”

      “But I—”

      Water hammered high and the windshield gave way. The plane pitched hard, driving Miki back. Suddenly she was fighting to breathe as seawater covered her face, and raw instinct took hold. She clawed free of her safety restraint, kicked past Vance’s lifeless body and managed to find the rear cargo doors. An eternity passed as she searched blindly for the door latch. Water slashed her face, blinding her as she forced open the hatch. She turned back to search for Dutch and felt the plane shake. Engulfed, she lost all sense of direction, unable to see Vance or Dutch. Desperate for air, she kicked in the direction of a dim patch of light, fighting through cold, churning water.

      Her face broke the surface. Her first gasping breath was torn away by the howling wind. Then Miki began to sink and realized that she’d forgotten to open her flotation vest.

      After her third try, the vest inflated and she bobbed to the surface. Dragging in air, her thoughts flashed to Vance, lifeless and cold somewhere in the water while Dutch bled in the cockpit, maybe dead already.

      Another wave crashed into her face. Everything slid away but survival.

      Stay smart and you’ll stay alive.

      Miki clung to the words as she was yanked up over the lip of a towering wave and dropped mercilessly into a trough.

      Someone would come, she told herself. They would. All she had to do was stay alive.

      THERE WAS A STIFFER current than Max had expected from the prejump briefing. Even Truman was tired from their long swim. Unfortunately, the drop had left them slightly off course and they hadn’t been able to make up the distance in their glide before chute opening. As a result, their swim to the island had taken twice the estimated time. But they’d made the beach with no more than a few bumps and bruises. The big yellow Lab had come through like a pro in the air and in the water.

      Max’s target was a neighboring island separated by half a mile of open sea. This was the spot where recent intel had indicated Cruz was building a covert base. So far Max had found no movement or signs of life, but that meant nothing. Any plan by Cruz would involve elaborate security precautions.

      Max put down his binoculars and scratched his canine backup behind the ears. Otherwise, neither moved. The wind was already picking up and gray-green clouds dotted the horizon. The Lab raised his head, ears alert. It was still too early to say if Izzy’s storm predictions would be on target.

      Max was about to scan the far side of the nearby island when he heard the muffled cough of a motor. Instantly he swung his binoculars up, but saw nothing in the fading twilight. When he swept the ocean, he saw a dark shape hurtle down, hitting the water too fast. A smaller outline separated, bobbing on the gunmetal waves. Focusing his powerful binoculars, Max made out a figure near what looked like the body of a wrecked seaplane.

      An accident here, within earshot of Cruz’s island? Unlucky tourists? Max didn’t buy it. That kind of coincidence only happened in movies.

      But if innocent civilians had been forced to ditch at sea, they could be fighting for their lives. He couldn’t let them die without a chance.

      Max felt his senses narrow, focused and alert as he grabbed his scuba gear. He wouldn’t go in too close, in case this was a trap, but he had to check out the scene carefully. Cruz himself might be out there.

      On the other hand, he might run into twenty drunken tourists. The SEAL bit back a curse at the thought of the possible complications. Civilians would whine and make noise, asking questions and demanding to be taken back to Tahiti or Bora Bora.

      FUBAR.

      After a silent touch command to his dog, Max waded into the restless water, flipped on his mask and headed west into the night toward the coordinates where he had last seen the downed plane.

      CHAPTER THREE

      SURROUNDED BY SLASHING WAVES, Miki tried to stay calm just the way Dutch had ordered. She kicked her feet for a few minutes and then floated, stretching out her reserves as she was yanked up and down in the choppy water. At each crest she searched in vain for lights or landmarks, and every time panic threatened, she looked up at the sky, where specks of silver glinted between rushing clouds. Taking steady, deep breaths, she forced her mind away from Vance and the wounded pilot she’d left behind.

      In and out. Don’t panic.

      Stay calm and stay alive.

      As the sky darkened, her hands turned cold. Her body tightened, shuddering violently. Was this shock or some kind of delayed reaction to the cold? She had no inkling of how long she had been floating and kicking, watching the sky and trying to stay calm.

      She cast about wildly for a distraction to hold back her panic. Music fragments slid through her mind like broken time capsules.

      ABBA. Dancing Queen. Summer of ’92. Her first big romance. Her first devastating split one week later.

      Eric Clapton. Change the World. Christmas 1997. Mesquite smoke drifting in the clear Santa Fe air like incense. Adobe walls along Canyon Road glinting with luminarias and laughter spilling through the cold.

      Would she see Canyon Road again? Would she ever get back home to Santa Fe’s beauty?

      Cold water sprayed her face. She plunged back into fear and exhaustion. How far had she drifted from Dutch and the plane—and how would rescuers find her out here in the ocean, even if they managed to track the distress call?

      Something bumped Miki’s foot and she screamed in mind-jolting terror. Please God, no sharks, she repeated over and over.

      Reining in her nerves, she forced her mind to a place of safety. Battling panic, she began to sing hoarsely—ABBA, Radiohead, Eric Clapton. Sheryl Crow and Frou Frou. Over and over until her throat was raw and there was no more energy, no more strength left.

      Again something touched her leg. Water slapped and a weight settled over her shoulder, dragging her under. Miki screamed, fighting the dark thing in the water until the world blurred.

      THE DAMNED WOMAN WAS singing, if you could call that ridiculous noise singing. And she was surprisingly strong.

      Max ducked back underwater, away from the kicking legs and slapping arms. When she started singing, he’d made up his mind to risk contact. It could still be a clever trick by Cruz, but her terror was real and Max couldn’t leave a civilian to drown. He’d thought he was dealing with a man until he’d felt the kicking legs and heard the unsteady, exhausted voice singing an out-ofkey pop song he didn’t recognize.

      A woman.

      Hell.

      He stayed out of range until she stopped screaming and her body relaxed. He could have subdued her, but out here a mile from land with no raft, struggling would have been a risk he didn’t need. So he waited, knowing she was tired and disoriented. It wouldn’t be long before her strength gave out.

      He saw her head loll, bobbing as she was carried along a dark curl of water. The only sound was the slap of the sea and the shrill cry of the wind as he caught her arm. When she didn’t move or fight him again, Max checked the backlit compass on his watch, noting time and location for his next report.

      They were over a mile from the island now, but on the way back he’d have the current in his favor. Carrying her would be no problem as long as she didn’t wake up and start fighting him again. Then he’d have to knock her out for sure.

      Meanwhile his questions remained. Who in the hell was she? Most important, was she connected with Cruz?