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CHAPTER THREE

THEY WERE coming.

Gina Ryan heard tense voices echo in the hall. She scanned the big wall clock above her commercial double oven. Twenty minutes early?

Unbelievable.

She took a deep breath and rubbed the ache at her forehead, checking her last row of desserts. What was the point of having a schedule if you ignored it? Didn’t people realize that a wedding reception with formal seating required split-second timing and no distractions?

Silver trays laid with white linen napkins?

Done.

Spun-sugar flowers arranged at each seat?

Done.

Mini rum cheesecakes plated?

Ditto.

Three-tier chocolate ganache wedding cake decorated with edible flowers?

Perfect.

Gina straightened the marzipan figures of two Olympic speed skaters, which the bride and groom happened to be. Through a porthole she saw clouds skirt a gleaming row of waves. Another glorious day at sea on a top-rated cruise ship, but she’d be too busy to enjoy it.

Laughter spilled into the room. A door opened and the bride appeared, radiant in a chiffon halter gown with vintage lace that clung at her hips and neck. At her side, the groom stood tall in an elegant black tuxedo. A smile stretched over his happy, sunburned face.

This was it, Gina thought. This was love, exactly the way it should be.

Exuberant and gracious. Taking risks. Staying vulnerable. Not jealous and demanding, calculating selfish returns. And didn’t Gina know all there was to know about that kind of love?

She pushed the thought deep, buried with all her other sad memories. A wedding was no time to dredge up the past. Besides, the champagne was chilled, waiting to be poured into Waterford crystal beneath a display of Orange Beauty tulips.

Her staff was flawlessly efficient, the menu a perfect mix of classic and trendy for the young, excited bride and groom.

She felt a knot form at her forehead. This was her second wedding that day. On a big cruise ship, weddings were the top guest request, and Gina was known for creating the best wedding cakes on any cruise line.

The bride and groom held hands, flushing as eighty-five guests offered cheers and catcalls. At her nod, Gina’s skilled staff poured the first chilled champagne and circulated with tempting desserts.

Music filled the room. Slow and soft, the notes tugged at Gina’s heart as she watched the bride and groom exchange lingering kisses.

The dancing began and the regular waitstaff took over. Her team was done.

As she straightened a silver urn of flowers, Gina had a quick impression of wary eyes, short cinnamon hair and a stubborn chin.

Her eyes, her chin. A face too angular for beauty, and eyes whose strength made most men uneasy. Right now pain circled behind her forehead, vicious and swift.

She was getting worse.

The thought filled her with panic. She needed more time.

“Hey, Chief, you okay?” One of her staff, a slender ex-kindergarten teacher from San Diego, studied her anxiously. “You’ve got that look again. It’s like last week when someone smashed your thumb with their heaviest marble rolling pin.”

Gina forced a smile. “Hey, it’s called resting, enjoying the sight of a job well done.” She hid her embarrassment with casual dismissal. “Anything wrong with my taking a rest?”

“Not a thing. But you never rest. And for someone trying to enjoy her success, you looked too worried.”

Gina made a noncommittal sound and cleared the last serving tray. What was the point of dwelling on what you couldn’t change?

Her vision was going. End of story.

It wouldn’t happen in a day or a week. Maybe not even in a year. But the deterioration was noticeably increasing. Despite the newest medicines, her vascular problems were eating away at her vision neuron by neuron, robbing her of the career and future she’d planned with such care.

Put it away.

Shrugging, she headed to the kitchen door. “I’m not distracted now, so let’s move. We’ve got another event in four hours.”

She took one last look at the bride and groom, who had joined hands to cut the first wedge of her exquisitely iced white chocolate cake with trailing sugar roses. The pair didn’t look back, oblivious to the world as they fell into another slow kiss.

Gina wasn’t really jealous. In a world of bad luck somebody deserved to be happy.

She’d believed in love, dreamed of it, felt certain the right man would appear. When he did, she’d know him instantly.

Nice dream. Stupid dream.

When the man had appeared, she’d chosen wrong. He’d robbed her of many things, the most important among them her innocence and trust. He’d taken her job and her reputation. Now she had no dreams left.

One more line item to cross off your day planner, she thought wryly. No Rose Garden wedding with a formal arch of swords. For some reason she’d seen that vision ever since she was twelve.

She blew out an irritated breath and gathered her equipment. At least she’d made a lot of people happy. With every new event she worked harder, pushing her skills. On the days when her headaches and dizziness were too intense, she’d pull out the bottle of pills hidden inside an empty package of Kona coffee and swallow two.

The pills were working for the moment. But they weren’t a cure. Worse yet, they created side effects.

Without a word her brawny Brazilian sous chef slid the tray from her hands. No one said a word, but Gina felt the eyes of her staff. They knew. They had noticed her unguarded moments of pain.

Funny, she’d been so sure she had fooled them. Maybe you didn’t fool anyone but yourself.

As she felt their silent concern, tears burned at her eyes. Tall, studious Andreas from Brazil touched her arm. Then the others closed ranks around her, two in front and three walking behind.

Emotion engulfed Gina at the unspoken signs of trust and protection. She’d lost her father years before; she hadn’t seen her mother in months. This was her real family, the people she had cursed and laughed, sweated and trained with.

The only real advice her mother had ever given her was that falling in love was a curse. Nice advice for a teenager. But over time Gina had come to believe it. Lucky for her, she was too busy for relationships to have a place in her life.

She squared her shoulders. “Andreas, Reggie, did you finish tempering that white chocolate for the tea cakes?”

“All done, boss. But I need some help with the spun sugar.” Andreas rubbed his jaw. “It keeps cracking at the edge of the petals.”

“Did you double-check the temperature and humidity?”

Gently the conversation turned to safer waters. In the sharp argument over the merits of Colombian vs. Mexican chocolate, Gina forgot about her fear and the bouts of occasional pain. She forgot the headaches and the sudden dizziness.

Who needed love or sex when you could make a killer crème brûlée?

CHAPTER FOUR

Foxfire training facility

Northern New Mexico

One month later

TWENTY.

Twenty-one.

Twenty-two.

Sweat beaded his shoulders and chest, and exhaustion hammered at his concentration. Trace ignored everything until only the heat and pull of his muscles remained, strength returning in slow, almost cruel increments. As the weights rose, he focused on his arm, battling against his own weakness. He had work to do, missions to run. Foxfire men were constantly prepped and ready to deploy at the ring of a pager. Each man had unique skills, and Trace knew his absence made everyone’s work harder.

Thirty-three.

Thirty-four.

More sweat.

More pain. Muscles screamed, their boundaries reached and then crossed until Trace was lost in a haze of pure muscle memory and hints of his old, preambush strength.

His commanding officer appeared in the doorway. “Nice to see you have a good work ethic. Just the same, you should take it easy.”

Trace grinned. “I’ll take it easy the same day you do, sir.”

Wolfe Houston smiled faintly. “Point taken.”

All of the team had been by to see Trace in the past few weeks, offering dry humor and information about current personnel deployment or upcoming missions. Trace had reveled in the details of the job that was his life, the focus of his whole passion for nearly eight years.

It was a job he could discuss with few others, not even his brave, tough sister, Kit, who managed an isolated ranch northwest of Santa Fe, where she trained the finest military service dogs Trace had ever seen.

It was his sister Trace worried about now. But he kept his tone casual as he finished his last set of curls. “Have you seen Kit and the dogs? Is everything okay at the ranch? No sign of any more cougars, I hope.”

His commanding officer eased his long legs down, settling into a nearby chair. “Kit’s fine. So are the dogs. Damned if those four don’t get smarter every day. Last week we were running a bomb-detection scenario and the team figured out where I’d hidden the dummy device even before I’d let them off their training leashes. It’s a sad day in Red Rock when four puppies make a trained professional look bad.” But there was pride in the officer’s voice.

Wolfe Houston had good reason to know the state of the ranch. He had just returned from two weeks of canine assessment exercises—and a passionate homecoming with his soon-to-be wife. Although Kit never asked for details about where the dogs had come from, she had enough experience to know that they were special.

Of course Wolfe could never reveal the nature of the secret program that had produced such unusual animals.

Trace was relieved that things were fine at his family’s ranch. The unmistakable happiness in Wolfe’s face meant that things were fine with Kit, too. It was strange to think of his stubbornly independent sister getting married. But if she had to pick anyone, this man was the right one.

Trace put down his weights and dried his face with a towel. “So they’re as good as everyone hoped?”

Wolfe stretched his arms behind his head and chuckled. “Is the Pope Catholic? I’ve put in a recommendation to Ryker that the four dogs never be split up once they’re sent on military assignment.” A shadow crossed his face. “Kit is worrying about them already.”

“She’ll tough it out. By the way, has Ryker finally okayed your request to set a formal date? I’d like to be there to give away my sister, you know.”

Lloyd Ryker was a long-time government power broker at the highest levels; he kept his cards close to his chest and ruled the Foxfire facility like a medieval potentate. Because he got results, his foibles were overlooked.

Wolfe frowned. “One day it’s yes, the next day it’s maybe. When I pressed Ryker, he told me I’d have an answer this week. It might even be true,” the SEAL said dryly. “He’s not going to be happy when he finds out that I got the marriage license anyway, and our blood tests are already submitted.” His eyes narrowed. “Or what will pass for a specimen of my blood.” Rules were rules. Any scientific details relating to Foxfire were top secret and that included all team members’ medical reports.

“Give him hell,” Trace said wryly. “My sister deserves to be happy, and for some crazy reason she’s set her sights on you.” His shoulder had begun to ache with a low, dull throb.

Ordinarily he’d agree that marriages involving Foxfire team members wouldn’t work, but Kit knew the score. His sister could handle whatever fate—and the U.S. government—threw at her.

So Trace hoped.

It was Wolfe’s career choice that gave Trace some bad nights. Who knew better than a fellow SEAL how often work would intrude? Trace knew just how much uncertainty his sister would have to live with. He hoped she could learn to accept the unknown, because virtually every aspect of the Foxfire program required absolute secrecy.

He and Wolfe and the rest of the team had volunteered, and they knew the rules. But could Kit or any other woman—no matter how remarkable—live with the tight constraints that program security imposed?

Trace didn’t have an answer for that.

Ryker, the civilian head of Foxfire, had a rule against personal involvement, and for good reason, in Trace’s opinion. But Wolfe and a second Foxfire member had gotten involved up to their eyeballs. Now they were part of deep, stable relationships that had to be faced, not swept under the carpet. If Ryker couldn’t accept that fact, he would lose two of his best men, including Wolfe, their team leader.

Trace realized that Wolfe was staring at him. “Something wrong?”

“If you keep overdoing your workouts, I’ll put someone here to watch you.” Wolfe met Trace’s glare. “Take this one by the book, hotshot. Your body has been through hell and back. Give it time to recover.” He studied Trace through 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. Tell Ryker I’m ready for real action.”

“Tell him yourself. He’s out in the hall finishing a call to the head of the NSA.”

The men in the room stiffened. Lloyd Ryker’s presence usually had that effect on people.

“I went over your rehab reports,” Izzy continued. “I’d say you’re good to go. I’ve already conveyed that information to Ryker.”

“Appreciated.” Trace drummed his fingers on the pile of travel documents. “But I want a real assignment.”

“Better than pacing the floors of the medical wing and scaring all the nurses.”

“What nurses? Ryker pulled everyone but Foxfire staff as soon as my last surgery was done.”

“He’s just being cautious.” Wolfe looked around as the door opened again. Lloyd Ryker was shoving an encrypted cell phone into the pocket of his understated Italian suit while an aide zipped papers into an alligator portfolio.

He studied the SEALs. All were standing now, eyes forward. Ryker noted the disciplined response and nodded slightly at Wolfe. “You still say O’Halloran is ready to leave rehab?”

“Yes, sir. Ishmael Teague concurs.”

“I saw the reports. I want a guarantee your assessment is correct.”

“You have it.” Izzy crossed his arms, meeting Ryker’s sharp gaze. “The surgery went even better than planned.”

“Good. I’ll be holding you two responsible for any problems.” The civilian head of the Foxfire Unit made several quick marks on a form held out by his aide, then turned to study Trace. “Nice work in Afghanistan, O’Halloran. They found our hardware and were testing it within hours, congratulating themselves on a major success. For two weeks now we’ve been feeding them ‘secret’ updates. After our planted information is complete, their stolen equipment will start malfunctioning. The operation is a success.”

“Glad to hear it, sir.” Trace remained at stiff attention, certain that Ryker had more to say.

Ryker glanced around the room, then frowned. “I’m not convinced you’re ready for duty. I can’t have anyone on the team operating below full capacity, O’Halloran. You flatlined after that last round hit you and when you died—even briefly—your chips went haywire.” Ryker’s eyes narrowed. “You’re carrying expensive technology. As far as I can see, my only option is to shut everything down until you’re completely recovered and I have all the tests to prove it.”

Trace shoved his anger deep. Ryker was baiting him, probing for signs of weakness or anger, but Trace wouldn’t give any excuse to sideline him.

“Permission to speak, sir?” Trace kept his eyes forward.

“I’m listening.”

“I don’t like going out unarmed. I am trained and fully field capable, sir.”

“Speculation. While the medical team is still running tests, I can’t risk a foul-up. The chips are turned off.” Ryker’s eyes narrowed. “Anything to add, O’Halloran?”

“No, sir.” Nothing that wouldn’t get him into deep trouble.

Ryker glanced at his watch and then motioned his aide out of the room. “You’ll be working this mission with the help of the ship’s security director, who has been briefed on your arrival. In the event of problems, he will take orders from you.”

Trace kept his eyes forward. The day he’d joined the Navy, he had accepted the fact that working for the government meant twenty-four-hour days and no privacy. It also meant taking orders from SOBs like Lloyd Ryker, who made mental manipulation an art form.

No whining. Do the job or pack your bags.

“Are you clear on your orders?”

“Yes, sir…except for the exact nature of the threat and the contents of the items in transit.” In other words, everything important, Trace thought wryly.

His comment caught Ryker midstride.

As the head of Foxfire turned slowly, his cell phone beeped. He glanced at Trace and grimaced. “I’m expected in D.C. in four hours, so I’ll make this short. Foxfire has an off-site scientist down in Mexico working on a highly specialized project. I have a man on board the cruise ship who carries sensitive material back and forth for me when necessary. The procedure has always worked well in the past. Who in the hell would expect someone on a cruise ship to be a government courier?”

Ryker shoved his cell phone in his pocket. “But last week someone tried to penetrate security at the Mexican compound. Then we detected an attempt to bypass our scientist’s computer security.” Ryker picked up Trace’s discarded foam cast and stared at it for long moments.

When he looked up, his eyes were very cold. “I’m taking no chances with this transfer. If it was simply a question of data, we could send everything digitally, but there are tissue specimens involved, and their temperature stability is crucial. Your job will be to oversee security and provide backup.”

“May I have the name of my shipboard contact?” Trace asked. Leave it to Ryker to milk the intrigue for all it was worth.

“Izzy will pass that info in a briefing packet at the appropriate time.” Ryker crossed the room and opened the door. “Before you sail, you have one more assignment. Tomorrow a senator from California is hosting a cocktail party in your honor—4:00 p.m. at the Carlton Hotel. That means spit-shined and polished, Lieutenant. Wear all your medals.”

Trace hated social events where he was the cocktail centerpiece. Ryker used the events for friendly politicians seeking reelection. A crisp uniform and a chest full of medals never failed to impress prospective campaign contributors.

“I’ll be there, sir.” Hating every freaking second, but I’ll be there. Trace kept the irritation from his face. If the senator kept money flowing for Foxfire’s expensive research, who was Trace to complain?

I hope some lobbyist’s bored wife doesn’t fondle my ass, like that last gig in Georgetown.

The woman had suggested Trace join her in the garden for some down-and-dirty sex between cocktails. She’d been plenty miffed when Wolfe had shown up and spoiled her plans.

“A problem, Lieutenant?” Ryker turned, eyes narrowed. “You dislike attending the social events I arrange?”

“No, sir.” Hell, yes. Every one of Ryker’s team shunned social displays like the plague. But now was not the time for honesty.

“Let me remind you these parties provide the funds to keep our facilities viable. You may forget how expensive this project is, but I am reminded of that fact daily. I don’t want to hear a hint of a complaint.” Ryker shot a cold look at Wolfe. “Is that understood?”

“Absolutely, sir. May I offer to join Trace, sir? Sometimes two uniforms are better than one.”

Ryker’s eyes narrowed. “Excellent suggestion. You’ll have travel documents ready in an hour. Be sure to give the senator and his wife my regards.”

He gestured at his aide and strode out. The door slid shut behind him.

Silence filled the room. Then Wolfe Houston rubbed his neck and sighed. “Me and my big mouth. I swear, if another woman tries to grope my ass—”

“You’ll grin and bear it, sir. You are always the height of courtesy.” Trace grinned, glad that another one of the team was in the same boat. “That’s one reason you’re so popular with all the Beltway wives.”

Wolfe muttered a graphic phrase. “Don’t tell your sister that.” The SEAL’s expression turned serious. “Kit’s the one. As far as I’m concerned, no other woman exists. I hope she knows that.”

“You can do no wrong in my sister’s eyes.” The emotional force that bound the two was overpowering. For some reason Trace felt a little jealous when he saw how happy his sister and his friend looked when they were together.

A flicker of movement made him turn, staring at the door behind Izzy Teague. More like a shimmer than anything concrete, the phenomenon was damned strange. He caught a sweet scent…something almost familiar.

Trace moved swiftly, snapping open the door to the hall. He still couldn’t peg the elusive scent.

An alert security officer stared back at him. “Problem, sir?”

“No. None.” Except that I’m hearing, seeing and smelling things that aren’t there. Had the change in his chip status triggered a wave of sensory distortions?

Who the hell knew?

Trace closed the door carefully. Through the window he watched a black helicopter cut through the azure New Mexico sky.

Nothing moved in the quiet room.

“We’ll have to double-time it if we’re going to catch that chopper.” Wolfe picked up his equipment bag.

Trace grabbed his towel and sweatshirt. “I’m ready.” He ignored a dull pain at his shoulder. Rehab was over. That was all that mattered.