Code Name: Bikini. Christina Skye

narrowed eyes. “Are you going to do another set to keep your mind off it?” he said quietly.

      Trace didn’t move.

      “We both know Marshall’s death is bothering you.”

      Trace started to answer, then looked down at his hands. He didn’t want to talk about Marshall. Hell, he didn’t want to think about the death of the teenager he’d rescued from particularly nasty South American kidnappers two years earlier. Her death was ruled a suicide, but Trace was having a hard time believing it. Marshall was a fighter and a survivor. Lost and confused, she still had shown the courage of a soldier during her captivity.

      It didn’t make sense that she’d overcome so much just to give up in the home stretch.

      He was fighting to accept her death, fighting to acknowledge his grief. If he’d kept in better touch with her afterward, things might have gone differently. If there were problems, she might have confided in him.

      But beating himself up now wouldn’t help anyone. It was too damn late to do what friends do—supporting each other, watching each other’s back.

      And he wasn’t going to spill his guts to Wolfe. This was his own problem to work through. “The rehab is taking too long. My shoulder’s much stronger now. I keep thinking if I can work a little harder or a little longer—”

      “All you’ll do is blow out your shoulder.” Wolfe faced him squarely. “Do me a favor and get well before you report for duty. Otherwise, you endanger all of us in the field.”

      Trace knew Wolfe was dead right. Every man relied on his team for life-or-death backup during a mission. If Trace screwed up on an assignment, he could get other people killed. “Roger that, sir. I’ll gut it out.”

      Even though I’m going to shoot someone if I don’t get out of rehab and back to work soon. He wanted his chips functional, too.

      He was getting to like the Superman experience.

      “Glad you’re being reasonable. And in the spirit of being reasonable, Ryker told me to give you this.” Wolfe’s lips twisted as he slapped a thick envelope on the table beside Trace. “You’re shipping out in forty-eight hours.”

      “Mission orders?” Trace grabbed the envelope and tore open the seal eagerly. “Urban or jungle target?”

      “Neither.” Wolfe crossed his arms. “You’ll be at sea.” He cleared his throat. “On a cruise ship to Mexico.”

      Because he was concentrating on reading the papers, Trace almost didn’t hear the assignment. “Puerto Vallarta and Mazatlán? I don’t understand. This says—” His head snapped up. “This is a pleasure vessel? A cruise ship?” he said, ice in his voice. “I’ll be damned if Ryker is going to send me off for ten days on a ship full of Desperate Housewives at sea.”

      “He’s dead serious about this. This mission is important.”

      “On a cruise ship?” The words dripped with distaste. “Why not a Navy support vessel? Hell, even a tramp steamer would be preferable.”

      Wolfe’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t have all the details, only that you’re to guard a package being conveyed outside normal channels. This is highly sensitive material and you’ll be working with a civilian.”

      A civilian? Trace hated the assignment already. “Anything else I need to know?”

      “A Navy SEAL will be aboard with his family. Izzy knows them well. Use him if things get sticky.”

      “Identity?” Trace asked. He wondered if Ryker had bothered to cue the guy about the chance that he would be tapped for duty during a family vacation.

      Doubtful, he decided. Ryker didn’t bother with niceties. If a SEAL was stupid enough to get married and have a family, Ryker would figure the man deserved to live with interrupted vacations.

      “His name is Ford McKay. The man is tough and smart. His wife, Carly, has been involved in producing several Navy training films. You may have seen her pictures in Time and Newsweek.”

      Trace gave a low whistle. “I’m impressed.”

      “You should be. She’s way above your pay grade, pal.”

      “Exactly what is the nature of the package and the possible threat?” Something cold stirred in Trace’s mind. “Not Cruz?” That had to be impossible. Their old enemy and rogue operative was dead, according to all intelligence.

      Trace had seen him die.

      “No, not Cruz. He went down in the chopper crash in the Pacific.” Once the leader of the Foxfire team, Enrique Cruz had been a superb officer and fearless operative, but he had snapped a year earlier, betraying his team and his country with a vengeance. Everyone in the secret project had breathed a sigh of relief when the man had finally been cornered and killed on a deserted island in the Pacific.

      “No one could have escaped from that burning chopper.” Trace frowned. “Right?”

      “Nothing suggests that Cruz escaped. Ryker has a full-time team monitoring the crash region, and they’ve found zilch.”

      Some of Trace’s uneasiness faded. “What’s the threat?”

      “Izzy will give you more details before you embark.” Wolfe shook his head. “You know how Ryker loves drama.”

      Irritated, Trace riffled through the papers, pulling out a set of travel documents. “Vacations make me crazy.”

      “I seem to recall hearing something about that from your sister. Kit says your record visit at the ranch is three days and four hours—and that was only because you were testing some new ammunition for Ryker.”

      Trace gave a sheepish laugh. “At least Kit understands how I feel.” His smile wavered. “She wasn’t upset that I haven’t visited for a while, right? She loves the ranch and she’s great at raising her service dogs, but—”

      “Stop worrying. Kit knows the ranch isn’t your thing. She’s fine with that. On the other hand she told me to make sure that you don’t get cut to ribbons someplace with an unpronounceable name. I promised to try my best.”

      The words were casual, but the strength behind them was unyielding as forged steel. Foxfire men were tighter than family. Guarding each other’s back was both a practiced skill and a task of bone-deep loyalty.

      “Always glad to have you watching my six.” Trace held up an arm brace made of moldable high-tech foam. “This new contraption is pretty amazing, but I’d like to know when I’ll be done with the training wheels.”

      “Ask Teague. He’s the go-to guy for tech and rehab.”

      The door swung open. “Someone call my name?” Izzy appeared with a sleek laptop under one arm.

      “Speak of the devil,” Trace muttered.

      “I’m a hell of a lot more handsome. Better with computers, too. So what’s your problem, O’Halloran?”

      Trace dangled the tube of molded foam. “I’m ready to roll. And not on some half-baked duty aboard a cruise ship. I want my chips operational.”

      “Not possible until the medical team finishes a complete assessment. Some anomalies have turned up following your hospitalization.”

      Trace made an impatient sound. “I’m fit, Teague.”

      “You’re strong and your reflexes max the chart. That’s why you were chosen for Foxfire in the first place. The chips enhance, but they don’t define your abilities, O’Halloran. They just make you a little stronger and faster than you already are. And throwing energy nets can wait until the assessment is done.”

      Trace wasn’t close to being convinced. He hadn’t endured his grueling Foxfire training to be stuck on a half-baked assignment that a civilian could handle blindfolded. “This is kindergarten.