One question. You got the same woman in there as the one that’s crawling all over me? Platinum blond, probably five-seven?
What’s she wearing?
Nothing but oil and tattoos, looking damned fine.
Wolfe felt the brush of naked thighs. So the blonde wasn’t his own private fantasy. That meant she was one of the new training constructs, designed by Lloyd Ryker, the facility’s civilian chief, to test mental focus and physical response. No doubt Ryker’s sensors were picking up every detail of his team’s heart rates and body temperatures right now. The man had made surveillance a high art form.
Sounds like you’ve got her pegged, Trace.
I’d like to do more than peg her, boss.
Not allowed.
Wolfe felt the energy of Trace’s laughter. Hell, I’ve never seen tattoos on a woman’s nipples before. Wouldn’t that hurt? I mean, think about getting tattoos on your—
You know the drill, Trace. Put all the details in your report—nipples and everything else. Don’t leave anything out or they’ll ram it down your throat in the follow-up evaluations.
I always thought sex was supposed to be private.
Wolfe grinned into the darkness. Welcome to Foxfire, Lieutenant. In here your thoughts are noisy and sex is as public as it gets. Don’t tell me you’re complaining about having a knockout babe with her hands wrapped around your joystick while she test-drives your cruise control.
Complaining? Who, me?
Wolfe felt his thoughts blur. When his own illusory companion licked her way expertly toward his belt, desire sucker punched him hard. He knew there were no rules, no fouls, no time-outs when Ryker set up the game. Dark and twisted training scenarios were his specialty. Some people said they reflected Ryker’s own fantasies.
Wolfe didn’t have an opinion one way or the other.
Hell, boss, this one is too hot to handle. That mouth of hers is doing real damage.
Red lips closed with unerring skill. Wolfe felt his brain oozing out his ears. Closing his eyes, he slipped deeper into theta, blanking out the construct of the blonde with the velvet mouth.
You feel that, boss?
Wolfe picked up a faint vibration from outside the pit. The blond vision faded pixel by pixel as he shaped his concentration into a tight line and slammed it toward the distant intrusion.
I make it Sector Three, Trace.
That’s just what I’m reading.
Alarms on Levels Four through Seven. Ryker’s on his way down here right now.
Any idea why, Chief?
Not a clue.
Drifting in the darkness, Wolfe considered the images he’d just picked up. Training sessions down in the pit were never interrupted—not for any reason. To Wolfe’s knowledge, three men had cracked during their training because of too-abrupt transition. If Ryker was headed downstairs to interrupt a psi immersion, all hell must have broken loose.
Since hell happened to be Foxfire’s specialty, the team would be the first called out.
Wolfe assessed possible options and explanations. If the country was under attack, Foxfire would go active immediately—whether the team was in the pit or not. Ryker’s movement indicated that was a real possibility.
In war you fought with whatever ammunition was at hand. Some ops called for ICBMs; some used remote surveillance drones. Foxfire used human energy as a tactical weapon in highly controlled scenarios, and the success rate of the secret seven-man team was unmatched anywhere in special operations.
Wolfe intended to keep it that way. Trace, do you read me?
Loud and clear.
I need more data. Set up a level-two energy net while I follow Ryker.
Can do.
The silence rippled and grew heavier.
Done, Wolfe.
Ryker’s almost here. Do we have a threat situation upstairs or is this an exterior attack, something large-scale?
I’m picking up fear—lots of it. There’s something else, Chief. Hell if you’re going to believe it.
Hit me.
It’s Cruz.
Wolfe felt his hands clench. Impossible.
It’s Cruz, all right. I scanned up, down and sideways, and his energy signature is leaking everywhere I look.
Wolfe knew that Trace didn’t make mistakes when he spread a focused energy net. Each member of Foxfire had a different specialty, and Trace’s skill was to set energy nets and carry out controlled psi sweeps, with his mind rather than with his eyes.
Both men knew that Gabriel Cruz, the Navy SEAL who had paved the way for Foxfire, had snapped under pressure. But he couldn’t be anywhere near the secret New Mexico facility. He had died over two years ago, killed when his cargo plane crashed somewhere north of Juneau.
Trace and Wolfe had stood point together at Cruz’s military funeral. They had walked cold vigil as part of the honor guard that long night, and they had seen the casket lowered into the ground.
Negative, Trace. You were there beside me. Cruz is gone, so you must be reading something else up there.
The vibrations grew louder. Wolfe picked up the faint hammer of feet, along with the tense energy of shouted commands. Ryker was steaming about something, that was certain.
I’m dead right about this. Whatever’s going on upstairs has Cruz’s energy wrapped all over it.
Wolfe forced his body to relax, forced the anger and stabbing uncertainty from his mind. Be sure, Trace. That’s an order. Do you copy?
After a brief pause Wolfe felt an affirmative response. Then he sensed Trace’s thought flow change. It drew up hard, like a wire snapped tight. What?
Ryker’s right outside. You don’t think he’d be stupid enough to override the codes and burst in here, do you? Without time for psi terminus and transition, we’ll be fried. The last poor SOB they did that to….
O’Halloran didn’t finish. Both men had seen the mass of nerves and self-inflicted wounds carried screaming out of the pit after an immersion was cut short without warning.
No way. Wolfe managed to project total confidence. Ryker knows the rules. He wrote most of them. It’s too damned risky.
He had barely finished the thought when boots hammered above his head. Automatic weapon fire punched through the silence, and Wolfe realized that he’d been dangerously wrong.
Brace for containment breach, Trace. Open a net and send the order down the line immediately. Wolfe
