Code Name: Bikini

“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.

CHAPTER FIVE

HE HADN’T BEEN to San Francisco in six years, and he loved the chaos as much as ever. A bike messenger was blasting rap music. Two truckers argued over one parking space. A woman with purple hair blew him a kiss.

Trace had forgotten how the colors mixed, how the noise roared and ebbed. Standing on Kearny Street, he caught the drifting scent of Middle Eastern spices mixed with Chinese sesame cakes and fried ginger. His stomach growled. Too bad he didn’t have time to stop at the little Hunan restaurant with the blister-your-tongue chile.

But Trace was due to press the flesh at the senator’s affair in less than twenty-four minutes, and he still had six blocks to walk. His CO had stayed behind in the hotel to make a last-minute phone call to the Foxfire facility.

His uniform drew a few curious stares, but Trace ignored them, walking briskly. He enjoyed the sea-tinged air, the fog and the pleasant twinge in his legs from climbing steep streets.

At the busy corner of Sutter Street, he swung his shoulder carefully, testing for range of motion, pain and strength. The rehab process was a success. He wasn’t quite back to one hundred percent strength, but he was damned close. After ten days on the cruise ship, with as many gym sessions as he could schedule, Trace expected to be at full operational ability.

Behind him a taxi horn screeched.

A bus lumbered past, belching exhaust fumes. Trace sprinted across the street during a lull in traffic and re-checked the address Ryker had given him.

Three more blocks.

With a little luck he’d be there ahead of schedule.

Something shimmered at the edge of his vision. Through the noise, the bus fumes and the cooking smells he caught the bright tang of lavender, the third time that day.

He scowled at a passing Porsche.

The Phenomenon again. That was his word for the random sensations.