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SOMETHING WAS wrong.
The air was too clean, too calm. There was no acrid smell of cordite and no rumble of distant artillery.
White curtains danced slowly in a warm wind. The smells of bleach and floor wax filled his damaged lungs.
Wounded. Hospital?
“Nice to see you’re finally awake.” The voice was vaguely familiar. “You look pretty good for a dead guy.”
Trace cracked open one eye. Even that small movement hurt.
Hell, everything hurt, but he couldn’t remember why.
“Very funny.” Trace managed to lift his head. “You look like shit, Houston.” He smiled slightly. “Maybe life with my sister doesn’t agree with you.”
“Kit, hell. I wish I’d been home with her. Instead I flew overnight from Singapore to get here.”
Trace tried to sit up and grimaced. “Where’s here?”
His superior officer, Wolfe Houston, stared at him thoughtfully. “Military hospital. Germany. You’re in ICU, pal. Ryker has been spitting bullets waiting for you to come around.”
Ryker. The head of his top-secret government operations team. That much Trace remembered.
He didn’t move. His throat felt raw, as if he’d swallowed a convoy’s worth of gasoline fumes, which he probably had. Slowly the fragments began to return. He’d used all his grenades, and then he’d stumbled across the ridge in clear sight, drawing fire to the location of a second, cached body left where they were meant to be found. More false codes were planted on that second body.
As AK-47 bursts followed a blast from a shoulder-launched missile, Trace had gone down, knocked out cold. Duke had to have jumped the rocks, dragging him to safety while the helicopter drew fire. A second chopper would have shot in low to pick up Trace and Duke.
Otherwise the SEAL wouldn’t be here in one piece.
As the rest of his memories returned, his head began to pound. When he sat up, his left arm felt too heavy. “How’s Duke?”
“Your dog is A-Okay. He just ate two steaks and ran a mile before breakfast. I wish I could say the same for you.” Houston’s expression sobered. “You were in cardiac arrest, completely flatlined when our people got you aboard. It took almost two minutes to revive you. Duke didn’t leave your side once.”
Trace managed a lopsided grin. “Duke did good. He saved my butt after that last volley. I remember he dragged me to the extraction point, not much after that. But…something’s different.”
“You were dead, O’Halloran. Of course you don’t remember much.”
No, something else was wrong. Trace shook his head. “My reflexes are off. I can’t pick up any energy trails. Everything is quiet.”
“Your chips are all disabled. Precautionary measure, according to Ryker. He told the medical team to close down all your Foxfire technology until you’re fully recovered.”
Trace stared at the ceiling, trying to get used to the deafening silence inside his head. “I like knowing who’s behind me without having to look around. When will I be reactivated for duty?”
“Get well first.”
In war, soldiers fought with all kinds of ammunition. Recently the array of weapons had changed drastically. As part of the Foxfire team, the two men used focused energy as a tactical weapon. Thanks to mental training, physical conditioning and selective chips developed in a secret facility in New Mexico, their seven-member team had changed the definition of military combat.
Only a few people knew that the success rate of the covert Foxfire team was unmatched anywhere in special operations. Trace excelled at psi sweeps, spreading energy nets and reading changes made by anything alive in the area. The more difficult the terrain, the better.
Usually, he could have communicated telepathically with his commanding officer. Now there was only silence. Trace was stunned by the difference. With his extra senses closed down, he was locked within the narrow space of his body. The experience made him realize how much he had taken his Foxfire gifts for granted. Now he was flying blind, moving through a world that felt like perpetual twilight.
But chips took a toll on the nervous system, and even good implants could malfunction. Better that his hardware be disabled until his body recovered from the beating it had taken in Afghanistan.
As a test, Trace tried to set an energy net around the small room. Usually he would have succeeded in seconds.
But now nothing happened.
Wolfe Houston watched him intently. “Tried an energy net, didn’t you?”
Trace shrugged.
“You okay with this?”
No way. Trace felt out of balance and irritated, and he chose his words carefully. “I’m used to my skill set. Being without any energy sensation is damned unnerving. How do people live like this?”
“I’m told they manage pretty well,” Wolfe said dryly.
Trace shifted restlessly. “How bad was I hit?”
“Let’s just say you won’t make Wimbledon this year.”
“Hate tennis. Stupid ball. Stupid shorts.” Trace hid a grimace as pain knifed down into his shoulder. “Now how about you cut the crap? How bad, Houston? When do I get back on my feet, and when will my chips be reactivated?”
Silence.
He stared at Wolfe Houston’s impassive face. No point in trying to read any answers there.
“You’re here for a patch job, which you’ve received. Air evac will transport you to a specialized hospital stateside within the hour. If you do everything right, you’ll be back in action inside six weeks.”
Trace made a silent vow to halve that prediction. “What about the bodies? Did they take the bait?”
“Swallowed it whole. They’re already using the communications unit you secured inside the uniform. That hardware will generate permanent system deviation in the parent programs. Hello, major static.”
Trace smiled slowly. “Goodbye, security problems.”
“Ryker is thrilled. You’ve earned yourself some solid R&R. So what will it be, Vegas or San Diego?”
“Forget the R&R. Get a rehab doc in here. I need to start building up my arm.” Trace tried to sit up, but instantly something tore deep in his shoulder. He closed his eyes, nearly blacking out from the pain.
A shrill whine filled the room—or was it just in his head?
“Idiot. What happened?”
“I’m just—just a little dizzy, sir.” Trace blinked hard at the ceiling. Pale green swirled into bright orange. Did they paint hospital ceilings orange?
“…you hear me?”
The orange darkened, forming bars of crimson.
“Trace…hear me now?”
The room was spinning. Trace had felt the same sensation back in Afghanistan before Duke had roused him, licking his face furiously.
His vision blurred. He tried to stand up, biting back a curse as the whine grew. Chip malfunction? Can’t be. They’re all disabled.
Have to stand up. Have to find out what’s wrong.
The room spun faster. Trace didn’t see a medical team crowd around the bed, equipment in hand.
He was back in Afghanistan, fighting brutal cold and a hail of tracer rounds.
“DOES HE KNOW?”
“Not yet.”
Two men stood at the end of the deserted hospital corridor, their faces grim. In front of them a fresh X-ray was clipped to a light box.
Trace’s surgeon frowned. “He’s still groggy from the last surgery.” The tall Johns Hopkins grad tapped the black-and-white image. “Torn ligaments. Bone fragments—here, here, here. We cleaned up everything we found. After rehab he should recover full use of his elbow and wrist, which is a near miracle. You saw him on arrival. I’ve seen a lot of trauma cases, but nothing like that. What did you people do, shoot him out of a tank?” He didn’t wait for an answer, rubbing his neck worriedly. “If he’d lost much more blood, he wouldn’t have made it out of surgery.”
The other man took a slow breath. His dark, sculpted features bore a resemblance to Denzel Washington’s, except his eyes were colder, making him look older than his age. “Tell me about his shoulder, Doctor. I don’t like the bone damage here….” Ishmael Teague traced the gray lines radiating across the X-ray. “Will he regain full mobility in his right shoulder?”
“We don’t read crystal balls, Teague. With your medical training, you know how risky predictions can be. All I can say is that this man was in excellent shape before this happened, and we’ll give him the best support for his recovery. The rest is up to him—and to far higher powers than mine.”
Izzy Teague didn’t move, studying the network of lines spidering through the X-ray. “I want hourly updates on his condition and round-the-clock monitoring by your best people. Notify me at any sign of change.”
“All things considered, he’s recovering well. Give me a week, and he’ll be starting phase one rehab.”
Something crossed Izzy’s face. “You’ve got twenty-four hours, Doctor.”
“That’s impossible. This man needs rest, close observation and at least two more surgeries. Maybe after that…”
“You have twenty-four hours.” Izzy’s voice was cold with command. “I have a plane inbound. We’ll prep him for travel.”
“You won’t find a better medical facility anywhere in the country.” The surgeon scowled. “Don’t play politics with me, Teague. He could end up with a ruined joint if you move him now.”
“Not now. Twenty-four hours, Doctor.” Izzy pulled the X-ray down from the light box. “Orders are orders.” His voice was flat.
“You know this is wrong. Fight it. Pull rank.”
Izzy looked at the closed door down the hall. “My clout doesn’t stretch as far as you think. There are other…factors.”
The surgeon glanced at the unnumbered door, which was guarded by uniformed soldiers. The rest of the hospital floor had been emptied. Only this one room was occupied. “I knew something was up when you moved all my patients, but I won’t play along. By all rights this man should be dead, considering how much blood he lost. In spite of that he’s recuperating in minutes, rather than hours. I don’t suppose you’re going to explain how that’s possible.”
Both men knew it was a rhetorical question.
The surgeon made a sharp, irritated gesture. “You won’t let me in on your secrets, and you want me to risk a patient because of a whim.”
Teague’s handsome features were unreadable. “Orders, Doctor. Not whims. We’ll be sure he’s stable before he’s moved. At that point he’ll be out of your hands.” He rolled up the film and slid it carefully inside his briefcase. “And for the record, John Smith was never here. You never saw him, Doctor. You didn’t see me, either.”
“Is that an order?”
“Damned right it is.”
The grizzled military surgeon pulled a cigar from the pocket of his white coat and sniffed it lovingly. “Had to give the damned things up last year. I’ve got a desk full of these beauties, and this is the closest I can get. Life’s a real bitch sometimes.” He stroked the fine Cuban cigar between his fingers and then tucked it carefully back into his pocket. “Do what you have to do. I never saw either of you.” His voice fell. “And just for the record, Vladivostok is the capital of Michigan.”
“You never know. World politics are turning damned unpredictable these days.” Izzy looked down as his pager vibrated. “Hold on.” He pushed a button and scrolled through a data file, his eyes growing colder by the second.
“Is there a problem with John Smith?” the doctor asked.
Izzy slid the pager back into its clip. “Do you remember Marshall Wyckoff?”
“Senator Wyckoff’s daughter? Sure, we saw her—what, two years ago? I heard that she’d recovered from her kidnapping. She was an honor student, head of her debate team.”
“Was, Doctor. They just found her body floating under the third arch of Arlington Memorial Bridge. Three witnesses say she jumped.”
“Suicide?” The surgeon looked back to the guarded room down the hall. “Trace was the one who brought her out. What are you going to tell him?”
“The truth. It’s what we do.”
“Tough bunch, aren’t you? Never take the easy way.”
Izzy squared his shoulders. “Easy doesn’t get the job done.”
Neither man noticed the glimmer of light in the quiet corridor outside Trace O’Halloran’s door. When the scent of lavender touched the air, they were halfway down the hall, arguing about bone reinforcement techniques.
Neither guard looked up as a faint, spectral shimmer gathered near the door and then faded into the still air.
TRACE DRIFTED SOMEPLACE cold, halfway between sleep and waking, his pain kept at bay by a careful mix of medicines too new to appear in any medical reference books or on pharmacy shelves.
But his mind kept wandering, and none of his thoughts held. He was back in the frigid night again, waiting for an armed convoy to draw close. Distant gunfire cut through the air, and he felt the energy change even before he saw the first glow of illumination rounds.
Three trucks. Ten men. They had no clue anyone was watching them.
Trace strengthened the net, feeling the sounds and invisible movements in the night, his specially adapted senses humming on full alert.
Time to come out of the shadows.
Move fast. Head low, course uneven.
Present no stable target.
In sleep his body was tense, his breath labored. Eyes closed, he ran up an exposed ridge, drawing enemy fire beneath an orange-red fireball. His legs moved, carrying him into a world drawn straight out of nightmares.
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?
