Code Name: Blondie. Christina Skye

through the water, heading back through the darkness. He couldn’t see any details of her face. There was no way to tell her age or background or hair color, but her body was impossible to ignore with her hips brushing against him every few moments as he swam. She was tall for a woman—maybe five foot ten. Her arms were firm and toned. Her waist felt slim and her breasts—

      Max did an unconscious inventory as he swam. She was soft and full where their bodies met, but he couldn’t let himself think about that or anything else. If Cruz sent her, she would be ruthless and experienced, alert to any weakness. But Max would have the truth out of her in moments, whether she wanted it or not—because he was a veteran, too.

      When he touched her, skin to skin, she wouldn’t lie. Couldn’t lie. His special Foxfire skill would guarantee that.

      Beneath his scuba mask his lips curved. He cut through the water with smooth, practiced strokes. Her body would tell him everything he needed to know. For her sake, Max hoped that Cruz wouldn’t figure anywhere in those secrets.

      The Navy didn’t hand out medals for being nice.

      SHE WAS GOING TO THROW up any second. She was cold, suffocating, disoriented.

      A sharp movement jerked Miki awake, out of her dreams of nausea and into something far worse. Wind cut into her face out of an endless darkness as an arm locked around her shoulders. By instinct she screamed and terror made her fight with desperate strength, but the grip at her shoulders was implacable.

      Where was she?

      She tried to see, but there was water in her face, in her eyes. “Let me go,” she tried to gasp. “Dutch is back there. I have to go—” The words were only guttural sounds, blocked by a powerful body she couldn’t see. Then her stomach clenched hard and she broke into painful spasms.

      Hard hands flipped her over sharply and for a terrible moment Miki thought the man was pushing her under, set to drown her. Instead he lifted her, one hand across her mouth.

      His dark arm was barely visible against the night. The man was wearing a wet suit. Miki could hear the squeak of rubber as he carried her forward. Suddenly her bare feet hit sand. Glorious, wonderful sand.

      She tottered, falling to her knees, but he dragged her back to her feet, every motion made in silence. They were moving up a beach, she realized, the stormy surf behind them now.

      She shivered in the wind, waterlogged and exhausted. “Who are you?” she tried to ask, but his hand tightened, and something slid around her mouth.

      He’d gagged her. The damned man had gagged her.

      Grunting angrily, she fought free and toppled onto wet sand, her cropped angora sweater tearing off. The man didn’t say a word, efficiently cuffing her hands in front of her, then tossing a blanket around her shivering shoulders.

      She muttered her anger at him and tried to stand, but he turned, striding back toward the water. He hadn’t removed his dark swim mask.

      He stopped abruptly. “No noise,” he whispered. “I’m going back for the other one.”

      She heard a hiss, like something sliding into place. She stared around her at the darkness. Even the stars were hidden beneath racing clouds, and there was no moon to be seen. Miki had no idea where she was or how she could wiggle free of his restraints. He’d saved her life, but she didn’t trust anyone who slapped cuffs on her without a word.

      She stumbled forward and a furry body shoved at her leg. A low canine growl rose from the darkness, freezing her in place.

      “Good boy.” The man’s voice was almost too low for Miki to hear. “Guard.”

      Miki swayed, dazed and exhausted, but determined to escape. She didn’t move, listening to footsteps crunch over the sand. Something brushed her feet again.

      The dog. Big one. Lots of hair.

      She was almost too tired to think straight. Who were they and why where they here—wherever here was?

      She sank to one knee, too tired to move.

      “You won’t get past the dog,” the man said roughly. “Don’t waste your time trying.”

      Cool air brushed her face. Miki sensed more than saw movements nearby.

      And then her rescuer—or her captor—vanished into the water.

      Huddled in the blanket, shoeless, cold and miserable, Miki felt her thoughts blur. The world had turned into an endless nightmare. Nothing made any sense. She stared into the darkness, trying to stay awake, but her thoughts kept looping and tangling like cotton candy.

      Trees hissed. A bird cried. Then Miki heard a loud splash somewhere to her left. She was certain she’d heard the man call softly to his dog. Then there were faint movements near the beach and more splashes.

      She reacted by pure instinct, running in the opposite direction. She had to hide until she understood what was going on and whom she could trust. She tried to move quietly, barely able to see inches in front of her as she crossed the sand, her feet cut by stones and shells.

      Must have lost my shoes during the crash. Blast it, she’d loved those bright red sneakers that matched her favorite Hawaiian shirt. Leaning against a tree to catch her breath for a moment, Miki discovered that she’d lost her favorite angora shrug, too. She had designed and knitted the fluffy little sweater with ruffles, during downtime while Vance bickered with the models and Dutch tinkered with the two Cessnas’ engines.

      Vance.

      Dead.

      Dutch.

      Lost at sea. Probably dead.

      Somehow the sweater didn’t seem so important after that. She bit back a sob and kept moving, forcing her way through bushes and tall grass that shredded her feet further. She staggered through a patch of mud, hit water and then stopped to listen for sounds of pursuit.

      All she heard was the hiss of the wind.

      Her hands hurt where the Jerk had cuffed them in front of her. Wincing, she shoved and twisted against the heavy restraints.

      No luck.

      And there was no time to waste. Miki remembered seeing the glint of a stream when the creep in the wetsuit carried her up the beach, so she followed the dark curve of water rather than pushing farther inland. Five minutes of steady climbing later she was breathless, standing at a small pool surrounded by tall grass. From the sound of it, the stream fell sharply, spilling into a space somewhere to her left. In the dark she had no idea how far down the waterfall went, and she couldn’t distinguish the roar of the water from the rustle of the trees. A bird shot from the right, and Miki guessed that her captor was close.

      Exhausted, she sank down on a rock. She couldn’t go back and she couldn’t go forward. One wrong step would send her out into space, wherever the waterfall went.

      She shivered, fiercely cold and badly frightened. Then she closed her eyes, relying on her photographer’s memory to reconstruct everything she knew about this place.

      Water glinting to her left. Rocks straight in front of her, a dark mass that was probably a cliff. Bushes and grass to her right.

      As she stood in the restless night, putting together the pieces from memory, she caught a musty smell. It reminded her of the dust mixed with mold of an old basement. She had gone caving once with Kit O’Halloran, her best friend back in Santa Fe. The experience had been fascinating, and Miki was sure the smell was a current of air carried from underground. Could she find the source by smell alone?

      She had to find it. She also had to avoid breaking her neck in the attempt.

      She slitted her eyes and looked from side to side, using her peripheral vision, which was more effective in darkness. Working slowly from bush to bush, she came to a wall of rock where the musty smell grew more intense. She followed it until cool air gusted directly onto her face. Kneeling in the mud beside the pool, she searched carefully.

      The