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
