Code Name: Baby

CHAPTER SIX

HE DIDN’T DO WINDOWS.

He knew how all right, but it wasn’t in the job description.

Wolfe glared down at the mess at his feet and shook his head. Apparently there was a time and a place for everything. If he didn’t clean up the glass all over the kitchen floor and replace the pane, one of the dogs could get hurt.

He rubbed his neck, remembering that Kit’s frugal father always kept panels of uncut glass for repairs. Unless she’d changed things, they would be neatly stacked, separated by particleboard, out in the shed near the kennels.

Ten minutes later, glass crunched beneath his feet. Baby whined, watching him from across the room while he worked.

The dogs sniffed the broken glass, but didn’t come closer. Was that normal, Wolfe wondered? He didn’t have a clue, so he’d list it in his report, along with everything else.

After he dug the remaining fragments out of the window frame, Wolfe ran his fingers over the inside pocket of his shirt, where the map was now carefully stowed until he could get it analyzed. Why had Emmett been carrying a diagram of the ranch, especially one that looked new?

The simple answer was that the map stemmed from the old local belief that a treasure was buried somewhere on the O’Halloran ranch. Every few months Kit’s father used to catch someone prowling around, digging in the deserted washes near the house.

But why a new map?

He stopped as Kit’s phone echoed somewhere down the hall. After two rings, her answering machine clicked in, and Wolfe went back to work lining the clean window frame with putty. The dogs watched him, absorbing every move, while the moon’s silver eye rose above the mesa.

Carefully he lifted a six-foot pane of glass over the frame and checked the placement. As a teenager he’d worked as a handyman for extra money, and one summer he’d learned the glazier’s trade. Now the techniques came back to him, putty moving smoothly under his knife. It felt good to watch something take shape beneath his hands for a change.

Not like running surveillance out of a filthy shack in the jungles of Paraguay while you tried to track a money trail that led to Mexico or Burma or downtown Chicago.

As he laid down the last line of putty, Wolfe saw his reflection, cool and silver against the new glass. There were deep shadows at his cheeks, and his eyes were the color of bitter coffee. He looked tough and aloof, as if he’d seen too much too fast—and he had. Those memories were carved into his face, leaving a distance that could not be crossed.

But Kit had crossed it. He didn’t frighten her in the slightest. He thought about how she had nearly decked him, then threatened him with her rifle, and a faint half smile crept over his face. No, she wasn’t the kind of woman who ran from hard problems.

He feathered his knife along the frame, sealing the glass with long, deft strokes. When he was finally done, he faced his own reflection once again.

He was a hard man, trained to have the hands and mind of a killer, but there in the moon’s cool light, Wolfe was reminded that he could also be surprisingly gentle.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE WAITRESS AT the Blue Coyote Truck Stop looked as if her feet hurt and she needed a smoke.

But there was no mistaking the interest in her eyes or the way she bent over the counter to expose the front of her low-cut uniform. “Want anything else with your coffee, honey?” She put one hand on her hip. As if she learned it in the movies, Cruz thought. “Anything at all, you just tell me right out.”

“More coffee will be fine, thanks.” The soup had been hot and filling, all he really needed. The coffee was an unthinkable luxury.

It was a Wednesday night, almost 2:00 a.m. She’d have cash from tips in her pockets and credit cards, too. But he wouldn’t touch the cards. Too dangerous.

“The praline pie is pretty good tonight. Lemon meringue’s fair. You look like you could use a couple slices.” The waitress topped off his coffee and pushed the worn metal canister of sugar toward him.

“No thanks. I don’t eat sugar.” He had to keep his body clean. Strength came first. With his strength restored, he could concentrate on revenge.

His eyes flickered through the quiet restaurant. There was no one else around except for a short-order cook bustling somewhere in the kitchen.

When the waitress leaned in closer, he focused and made her forget everything but that she was tired and ready for a smoke. Her eyes went blank and she stood behind the counter, motionless.

He cleaned out both of her pockets and moved around the counter, fishing through the purse she kept pushed to the back of the low shelf.

Ninety-seven dollars. Car keys, too. He’d risk driving for an hour, no more. He knew exactly where his brother would be waiting.

Wind howled across the floodlit courtyard. The rain that had been threatening all night finally broke loose, pelting the windows with small bits of gravel.

Time to go.

The cook yelled. Cruz released the waitress from the images he’d just constructed.

“No dessert.” The waitress looked dizzy for a second. Then she turned, frowning, her eyes predatory. “Hell, just what do you do for fun, honey?”

Cruz watched a layer of oil gleam on the surface of his coffee. Once he had trained for the sheer joy of being the best. He had laughed at danger.

But three years ago, something had changed. At first it was little details like reflexes off by mere seconds. After that had come the memory blips and subtle mood shifts. His handlers had told him not to worry, that the changes were to be expected. Stress, they said. The result of constant training.

Like a fool he’d swallowed their lies, one after another. He had never questioned what he was told, not even when the mood shifts became severe.

That’s when they’d increased his medicine, and the new surgeries had begun. He’d believed every lie they’d told him, despite the continued deterioration of his mind and body.

Cruz drank his coffee slowly, savoring its heat even though he knew it was a poor mix of bad beans and sloppy preparation. After months in captivity, fed from an IV with only enough nourishment to keep his heart and vital systems functioning, even bad coffee was ambrosia.

“Looks like you could use a little fun.” The waitress was very close now, her fingers on top of his. Cruz had a clear line of sight down the front of her dress, and there was no bra anywhere. The woman couldn’t have made her invitation any plainer.

He couldn’t have been any less interested.

“I’ll take my bill now.” His face held no emotion as he pushed away the empty cup and stood up. He’d taken a chance to come inside only because he’d needed food, cash, and little time to warm up. He’d already dismantled the single surveillance camera at the front door, and he’d handle the waitress in a moment.

“You’re leaving already? Honey, there’s no bus for another three hours, and I know you don’t have a car.”

His fingers shot around her wrist. “How do you know that?”

“I saw you walk in from the woods, that’s all. Kinda odd, I thought, but hey, it’s a free country. You ain’t one of those damned tree huggers, are you?”

“What else did you see?”

“You looked around everywhere and you didn’t go near any cars, so I figure you walked from one of those parks up north. We get hikers in here now and again. They look thin, the same way you do.”

He released her wrist. She’d made a lucky guess, nothing more.

He put a five-dollar bill on the counter—one of hers—and smoothed it with his fingers. He had forgotten what it felt like to have money of his own.

For too many years he’d let other people control him. He’d been an empty-headed killing machine pumped up with the certainty that he was some new, advanced kind of hero.

Now he knew better.

“Keep the change.” Cruz picked up the backpack that was never far from his reach, scanning the parking lot outside.

“Hell, honey, why not tell me to go suck exhaust and die? And where are you going at two in the morning anyway? If you ask me, you don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine.”

“Maybe you are, but the nearest town is fifty miles away, and that’s a damn long hike.”

He could walk twice that distance. He could run it easily, in fact, despite his long confinement. Good genes, Cruz thought wryly.

He studied the waitress’s face, sifting through the fairly boring mind beneath her straw-colored hair. “I’m catching a ride to El Paso. I’ve got friends waiting for me there,” he said calmly, pleased that all the old training was in place.

Never tell the truth when a lie will do. Never trust anyone outside the team.

She rubbed her wrist slowly as if it hurt. “You one of those G-Men working over at the New Mexico base?”

Nothing changed on Cruz’s face. “What makes you ask?”

“Don’t know. Your eyes, maybe. You don’t say much, but you don’t miss much either. And you sure don’t like the idea of anyone watching you.”

So she wasn’t as stupid as he’d first thought. “I’m FBI,” he said quietly. “And I’ve never been here, understand? If I hear you told anyone different, I’ll be back and that won’t be good for you.” As he spoke, he shaped the warning, driving it like a knife into her brain until she nodded, looking disoriented.

“FBI.” She rubbed her forehead as if it hurt. “Sure—never seen you,” she repeated.

He sensed that she was afraid of him now. Pleased, he tightened his knapsack over one shoulder. After reinforcing his warning and wiping her memory of him, he headed out into the night, but it was hard to focus. His head ached and the coffee left him a little dizzy.

He heard the rumble of distant tires and the blast of a truck horn. He needed to make contact with his brother as soon as possible.

Maybe he’d chance taking the waitress’s car and driving to Albuquerque. He had her keys now, and he’d picked up the model and color of her car. Cruz hesitated, considering the idea. He’d made a deep wipe of her mind, but he wasn’t sure how long it would last. In recent weeks his skills had become unreliable. Sometimes he could pull the faintest thought from a crowded room. Other times he could barely remember his own name.

And if the waitress reported the theft, the police would be watching for her car.

The truck horn blasted again and he swung open the restaurant’s grimy front door, smiling up at the nonfunctioning surveillance camera as he left.

The truck didn’t seem to be slowing down, and a second rig was straining up the hill maybe a hundred yards back. Cruz took in the Illinois plates and the muddy windshield. Long-haul trucker with no reason to stop at a crummy little diner three hours from anywhere.

He flipped up the collar of his stolen jacket. He liked the feel of the sheepskin lining and the soft suede body. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn a coat this nice.

Turning away from the well-lit parking lot, he melted into the trees while an owl called somewhere in the night.

An unmarked white sedan pulled into the parking lot from the other direction. Drawing back into the shadows, Cruz studied the two men who got out.

Hard faces. Concealed carry holsters.

If they hadn’t been sent by Ryker, they were sent by someone close enough that it didn’t matter.

The restaurant door opened. The waitress walked out, looking confused. She stared at the parking lot as if she didn’t know where she was, and the men from the white car started walking toward her—the last thing Cruz needed.

Somewhere the owl cried its two-note dirge and Cruz followed the sound, his eyes cold and focused.

The owl’s dark shape cut through the darkness, headed back toward the bright lights and the woman who was turning slowly, studying the parking lot. Like a sleepwalker, she crossed beneath the big mercury lamps, one hand shading her eyes.

“Ma’am, is something wrong?” The two men were walking faster now.

Cruz watched the owl with renewed intensity. He wasn’t going back into a cage.

Not ever again.

The owl circled, dropped. The second truck was up the hill now, motor racing as it picked up speed. Cruz focused, feeling pain behind his eyes, down his neck. But the pain brought power.

The owl folded its wings and plummeted, talons extended, striking the waitress, who covered her head vainly. Cruz focused on the attack as the owl surged upward and plunged again.

The men from the sedan were shouting now as they ran toward her.

The waitress stumbled and then ran out into the path of the oncoming lights….

And screamed.

MOONLIGHT CREPT SLOWLY across the old adobe walls. The kennels were quiet. A hawk cried somewhere in the night, and the long wings of a hunting owl hissed over the juniper trees.

Baby awoke suddenly, shooting to her feet and waking Diesel, who was curled up beside her. She sniffed the air, her body tense.

In the shimmering glow her fur looked like dark water beneath new ice. Only her eyes held the snap of heat and restless energy. Though she didn’t move, all the other dogs awoke.

Soon they were standing together, noses to the wind, painted in cold moonlight.

CHAPTER EIGHT

CAUGHT IN SLEEP, one foot in dreams, Kit heard a low, steady tap-tap on the roof, a rare sound in the desert.

Yawning, she burrowed back under the covers. During the last storm, Baby and Diesel had raced through the mud like creatures gone mad, scampering in circles, their heads raised to the sheeting rain. Butch and Sundance had simply lain down and rolled until they were completely encased in brown slime.

A dark nose rooted under her quilt, searched right and left, and then a second nose appeared.

“How did you guys get out of the kennel?”

Downstairs, pots clanged. Kit took a deep breath as she smelled the unmistakable aroma of coffee brewing.

Wolfe.

Hit with a sudden dose of memories from the night before, she closed her eyes. She’d heard the sound of breaking glass, armed herself with her father’s rifle and moved quietly down the hall….

And then Wolfe had knocked her weapon away, tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and dropped her in the closet.

Baby’s head appeared from under the quilt. Her tail banged loudly on the edge of the bed, signaling keen excitement. Diesel wiggled out next and laid his head at an angle over Baby’s.

“High-handed jerk,” Kit muttered. She didn’t care if the man was back or how he looked. She didn’t care why he’d come back either. She’d had a crush on Wolfe Houston for way too long, but it was over now. He was no good for her, and nothing was ever going to happen between them, so she’d packed up her memories and shipped them off to the same dead letter box that held her belief in Santa Claus and the tooth fairy.

He wasn’t swooping into her life again, no way. She was over him and that was final. Guaranteed. Definite. The thought made her feel good.

Kit frowned at what Wolfe had told her about Emmett’s return and break-in. The man was nuts as well as nasty, and she had called to report him to the local police before she’d gone to sleep. The deputy was the son of her father’s best friend, and he’d assured her that Emmett would be taken into custody the following day.

More pots rattled downstairs. Diesel took off at a run, clearly hoping for edible handouts.

What was the freaking man doing down there, cooking for the 75th Infantry Division? Sighing, Kit looked at Baby, who gave two quick barks. “Okay, I’m coming. After a quick shower, everything is bound to look better. But I’ve made up my mind. I’ll eat his food—assuming it’s edible—and drink the coffee I smell brewing, and then I’ll kick him out on his tight and very attractive butt. I don’t need his kind of trouble back in my life. Not for a second.”

She’d dreamed about him for ages and planned her future around possibilities that involved him. But somewhere in the last months working with these four special dogs, Kit had grown up and gotten over her fantasies. She had important things to do with her life and she wouldn’t go on looking over her shoulder, hoping for an illusion.

Baby’s tail thumped.

Pleased with her determination, Kit threw off the covers—and fell back with a groan.

Pain hammered at her back. Her knees felt frozen. She tried again to sit up and grimaced, wishing she could tell herself it was nothing. But she knew what her X-rays looked like. After fifteen months, she’d read enough online medical articles to be nearly as conversant with her illness as her family doctor.

But that was books, and this was real. Books didn’t capture how pain felt.

She studied the room dizzily. Something had made her worse. Something that she couldn’t remember.

She forced down deep breaths, trying to relax. More stress meant more tension.

For the first time Kit considered the possibility of getting weaker. Her doctor had warned her the disease might progress, but Kit had been resolutely optimistic. She didn’t want to hear about diminishing capability or limited strength.

She gripped her soft quilt, shivering. If she lost joint mobility, she couldn’t adequately care for her dogs, which meant giving them up to another trainer. Without strength, she couldn’t handle the constant demands of the ranch and that would have to go, too. She couldn’t ask Trace to come home and help. This was her world, not his.

She took a sharp breath. She wasn’t giving up. There were always new medicines, new techniques—

Tensely, she stared at the top of her nightstand. Her pills were exactly where she’d left them, each day’s dose carefully marked in her own handwriting. Last night’s compartment was untouched.

Relief blazed through her. In all the turmoil after the break-in, she’d forgotten to take her pills. She’d been watching Casablanca and dozed off, and then Wolfe had shown up. For some reason, that part was still a blur.

But there was no more worrying or wondering about why she felt so much worse.

She grabbed the container and gulped down two pills, confident that she’d be better in fifteen minutes, maybe less. Then she could get back to living her life.

With stiff legs, she stood up and tugged down her nightshirt. First, a shower. Second, coffee.

Third, kick Wolfe out of her house.

As the first hot spray of the shower hit her face, Kit sighed in primal pleasure. After allowing herself several long, indulgent minutes under the pounding water, she forced herself to face her situation honestly. Was she really going to throw Wolfe out?

It wasn’t that she didn’t find him incredibly sexy, because she did. It wasn’t that her gut response to his gorgeously chiseled body had changed, because it hadn’t. The man still spiked her awareness meter right up into the red zone.

But Kit refused to waste any more time mooning over a man who’d always be a shadow, slipping in and out of her life when he could fit her in around whatever covert mission he was on at the time.

Which brought her to question two: What was he doing here?

Kit glared at the steam covering the glass door. He said Trace had asked him to come by. A perfectly reasonable story, except that it didn’t ring true. Trace knew she’d always been vulnerable where Wolfe was concerned, and he would have made a point to tell her that his friend was dropping by, so she’d be prepared.

Wolfe couldn’t leave New Mexico fast enough all those years ago. He hadn’t been back once since he’d joined the Navy, and it wasn’t as if he had anything new pulling him home. So why did he appear now?

Either something was wrong with Trace, or Wolfe was lying. Since Kit didn’t think he would lie about Trace being fine, that meant he was lying for another reason. None of the possibilities looked good.

Frowning, she shut off the water and grabbed a towel. It was time to get a few answers from the man who was currently making free with her kitchen.

Which brought her to question three: why hadn’t her dogs shown signs of wariness or hostility, or attempted to warn her when he’d arrived? They’d never met Wolfe and had no reason to consider him a friend, but they’d all taken to him immediately.

The question kept gnawing at Kit as she dried her hair and pulled on her oldest, most threadbare jeans. No way was she going to fuss for the man who’d ruined most of her teenage years and a major part of her adult life.

Just by being gorgeous…and unavailable.

She took a quick glance in the mirror. Her hair was uneven from the last time she’d cut it. Her face was sunburned and there were faint lines under her eyes. That was A-okay with her, because she wasn’t getting dressed up for Wolfe Houston ever again.

Baby stayed one step ahead as Kit headed for the stairs, drawn by the heavenly smell of coffee. Had the man ground fresh beans? The scent seemed to be from a new bag of Jamaican Blue Mountain she’d stashed in her freezer because she hadn’t had time to grind it.

Now that was strictly hitting below the belt.

Irritated, she strode down the stairs, where more delicious scents assailed her.

Warm maple syrup.

Blueberries and cinnamon.

Pancakes sizzling in fresh butter.

What kind of sneaky pool was the man playing? He’d cooked her favorite things for breakfast. How had he remembered all that?

Kit stopped just outside the doorway, her senses on full alert as Wolfe moved easily around her kitchen. Today he was wearing some kind of tan camouflage pants and a simple white T-shirt, but his shoulders were rippled and his biceps stood out in perfectly cut lines.

Okay, he looked good. Maybe even fantastic. Mouthwatering, in fact. But it meant zip to her. Zilch. Nada. She wasn’t falling victim to him ever again. Pancakes and caffeine be damned.

With that thought firmly in mind, she yanked the last button closed on her flannel shirt and stalked into the kitchen, nearly tripping over Butch, who was lying across the threshold.

They were guard dogs. Alert, highly trained service dogs. Hel-lo?

“Are you still here?” Kit snapped, annoyed to see Sundance following every step Wolfe took, while Diesel perched in the spot where food was most likely to drop.

“Looks that way. The state police called. Someone should be here to take a report before noon. There’s a big pileup on the interstate, so that’s the best they can do.” He slid a stack of pancakes onto a plate and pushed it down the counter toward her. “Sit down and eat. You look like you could use something in your stomach.”

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