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 snapped out the command, determined to protect his unit. Ryker was going to get his ass chewed royally once this incident was over.
The containment unit shook, tilting sharply.
Trace, are you psi shielded? Do it now, because they’re coming in!
Metal grated on metal.
Light cut through the darkness. Instantly, Wolfe was slammed headfirst into an angry wall of pain.
CHAPTER TWO
Lost Mesa
Northeast of Taos, New Mexico
One week later
KIT O’HALLORAN STARED at the canine teeth inches from her throat. A low, throaty growl shocked her out of a lazy sunset swim in the warm waters off Belize.
Blast it.
Just once she’d like to finish a fantasy….
The growl stretched into rising notes and ended with a bark loud enough to snap the deepest concentration.
Kit pushed up onto one elbow and stared at the sixty-pound black Labrador puppy pressed against the sofa. “Drop, Baby.”
The next growl ended in a whine. The Lab dropped and went completely motionless.
So much for Kit’s nap. The dogs weren’t used to her taking a rest after the predawn chores were finished, and Baby, her smallest Lab, was especially relentless when it was time to play. And it was playtime right now.
Because they were smart and very determined, her puppies usually had the last word.
“Good girl. Good, sweet girl.” Kit reached to the floor for her treat bag and held out a pea-size liver snack, Baby’s favorite. “What’s all the fuss? Are you ready to practice?”
Baby downed the treat and turned her head toward the door, too well trained to rise from her down position until Kit gave the freeing command.
“Outside?” Kit fought a yawn. “You want to go outside and work?”
Baby’s keen chocolate eyes narrowed intently. As she had before, Kit had the singular sense of being probed, measured, almost trained.
Which was beyond funny, considering that she had eleven years of experience training service dogs for law-enforcement and military units. Never before had she felt one of the hundreds of dogs try to train her.
Fighting another yawn, she ran a hand down the Lab’s lustrous coat, pleased to feel its thickness. The feed mix she had developed seemed to be a success.
Kit wondered what new kind of chaos awaited her downstairs. With four puppies currently in training as military service dogs, upheaval was the norm, not that she minded. In her experience, dogs gave far more than they took.
“Up,” she said firmly. Instantly, Baby shot from the bed, twisted at the doorway in a blur of fur and skidding feet, then looked back. Kit could have sworn there was a silent command in those clever brown eyes.
Hurry up.
Of all the dogs she had trained, these were definitely the smartest and strongest. The breeder who had placed the litter with Kit had told her their parents were extraordinary, and from the very beginning, Baby and her littermates had run harder, jumped higher, learned faster. They were also larger than the average Lab puppy.
Kit ran a hand through her tangled