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“What about you?”
“I’m staying. I’ll keep the radio alert squawking as long as I can.”
“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?
Spinning her over onto her side so she could breathe, he cut smoothly 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 opening, when she found it, was tiny. Whispering a prayer that she wouldn’t meet any snakes, Miki squeezed through and didn’t look back.
WHERE THE HELL HAD she gone?
Max stood on the beach, staring at the empty place on the sand where he’d left the woman from the plane. He’d called Truman away briefly when the strap on his tactical vest had broken, and before he had been able to give the dog the defective piece to hide, the woman had bolted.
Truman bumped his leg tensely. Well trained to make no noise, the dog was clearly excited. Max hefted the pilot off his shoulders, set him on the beach, then leaned down to pet the golden Lab.
Bump, turn, sit.
Bump, turn, sit.
The dog was giving Max a message to follow, indicating the direction by the way he sat. The interior of the island.
Max scratched Truman’s head and gave the two-tap signal to go. Instantly the dog shot across the sand, silent despite his size. Speed and keen intelligence were his specialties, and Max was glad to have him along as backup. Things were quickly growing messy in ways that no one had planned.
Not that Max had expected this mission to be easy.
The dog slowed, sniffing the ground. When he trotted back, he carried a soggy mass that might once have been white, but now was the color of day-old vomit.
Max studied the wad of fabric in Truman’s teeth. He remembered the white thing that had been tied around her shoulders when he’d lugged her out of the water onto the beach. When Truman bumped his leg again, eager to continue the chase, Max gave him the two-tap freeing command. Go.
