LITMIR.BIZ

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for a man who could never put down roots.

      It had been years since he’d been back, years since he’d stood on Lost Mesa. Her family’s ranch was as rugged and majestic as ever, offering forty-mile views of sage, mesquite and piñon in every direction. Coyotes still called from the high ridges, reminding him of long, lazy summer afternoons.

      Ancient history.

      Cutting off bittersweet memories, he scanned the hill, hidden behind a line of sage in full bloom. As coyote song echoed from a nearby wash, Kit vanished and returned with a pair of binoculars. Silhouetted in the sunlight, strong and tall, she sought the loping pack.

      Wolfe remembered the summer when she was twelve and he was a know-it-all high school kid on fire to save the world. Things had been black and white then, good versus evil. But the world didn’t get saved and life had taught him that softness was a trap, trust only a crutch. He’d learned how to live without either.

      Watching Kit focus her binoculars, he could sense her fierce determination to protect her ranch, and the dogs lined up beside her seemed almost an extension of that drive. He wondered if so much unspoken communication between dogs and trainer was normal. He also wondered if they had sensed his presence yet. It was only a matter of time before they did.

      As the coyotes howled and snarled their way across a neighboring slope, she followed their progress through her binoculars.

      She would never see him unless he allowed it. Thanks to his skills she could stand a foot away, yet swear she was alone. He’d implanted focused images on missions in Indonesia, Sri Lanka, and the Middle East, distorting the theta patterns of his targets until all they felt was a temporary dizziness. But in that moment of extreme suggestibility, Wolfe could shape and recreate reality—or what appeared to be reality.

      He smiled grimly. Once he’d made a trigger-happy potentate in Afghanistan see dinosaurs charging out of a cave. The man had fled, screaming orders at his men, allowing Wolfe and his team to stroll into the fortified insurgent camp, locate a pair of stolen Stinger missiles, and pack them out before anyone was the wiser.

      With time his skill had grown to be second nature. Sometimes he had to work at remembering where reality stopped and his own creations began.

      He spread his focus, noting wind direction, weather scenarios, and optimum surveillance points. Though he remained hidden, he missed nothing. As the current leader of the Foxfire team, he demanded two hundred percent from himself in training and in the field, and failure was not a word in his vocabulary.

      Unconsciously, his fingers rose, tracing the piece of metal buried in the skin above his collarbone. This chip was one of his first implants, allowing satellite tracking with precise accuracy. Other chips had enhanced his endurance and allowed him to monitor his own brain waves.

      Wolfe knew his skills came at a price few people would be willing to pay. For the team members in Foxfire, pain was a given and isolation was constant. Once you entered the program, you left your past behind forever.

      If not, you were summarily booted out of the program.

      He sensed the force of Kit’s restless gaze. Abruptly she bent double, painfully sick, and he felt a twinge of sympathy. One-on-one combat was a bitch, no mistake about it. The adrenaline rush afterward was almost as bad as the attack itself.

      He felt something strike his boot. When he looked down, he saw pieces of an old toy truck sticking out of the dirt beneath him. Blurred memories shot through his mind. Wolfe remembered the day he had dropped it. The beating he had gotten for losing it.

      But he didn’t want to remember.

      The mesa was silent now. The coyotes had drifted on without registering his intrusion on these rocks.

      Down the hill, Kit vanished, followed closely by two of her dogs. Behind them the smallest Lab hesitated, ears raised. For long seconds the puppy didn’t move, staring up the hill at the spot where Wolfe sat motionless.

      The power of the dog’s fierce intelligence felt like a physical touch.

      LLOYD RYKER HAD FINISHED searching the lab for the third time, and once again he’d come up with nothing.

      Staring at the blank gray walls, he considered his options. The facility had been on full alert since Cruz’s escape. Two hundred personnel—military and civilian—were being checked for possible involvement. With enough pressure and scrutiny, one of them would eventually crack.

      In the meantime Cruz was off the leash, and there was no way to calculate the damage he would cause if Ryker didn’t find him soon.

      The veteran of three presidential administrations frowned at the monitors above his desk. He had never felt completely comfortable with the full implementation of Foxfire. The program’s concept was brilliant, but its personnel were far more dangerous than conventional weapons, which could be tracked and quantified as needed—or stripped and scrapped completely.

      It wasn’t so neat with people.

      His eyes narrowed as he replayed the footage from the hidden lab camera—at least the rogue operative hadn’t disabled all their security. He watched Cruz move to the mainframe computer and type quick lines of code. Why had the man accessed Wolfe Houston’s service files, pulling up his training records and current duty assignment? Was there a covert connection between the two men?

      He couldn’t believe it. Foxfire’s current leader was a straight arrow, his loyalty tested and confirmed.

      Frowning, Ryker watched Cruz change screens, pulling up local topo maps and facility blueprints. After that he’d slipped past a million-dollar security system with three levels of password clearance and located complete medical data on all the dogs currently in the program. Now Cruz knew every animal’s location and unique potential. To the right bidder, that information would be worth a fortune.

      Coupled with the right trainer, of course.

      It was a security nightmare.

      Ryker shut off the surveillance tape and closed his eyes. He didn’t have to replay the final footage to remember how Cruz had smiled coldly before hitting the lights, plunging the room into darkness. There was still no clue as to what he’d done next or how he’d escaped. By the time the response team hit the lab, the room was empty.

      Ryker opened his eyes and sat forward slowly.

      Or was it?

      CHAPTER THREE

      SOMEWHERE ON THE HORIZON Kit heard a clap of thunder.

      Restless for no reason she could name, she studied the gunmetal sky. The dogs were jumpy, too, interrupting their usual play to shoot wary looks at the high ridges around the ranch. Right now Baby was standing motionless, her nose pointed into the wind.

      “Do you smell something up there, honey?”

      The puppy whined faintly, but didn’t move.

      One by one dark clouds began to billow over the mountains, blotting out the sun. Butch and Sundance sat nearby, panting. Only Diesel moved, his pure black coat streaked with dust as he sniffed furiously at a retreating gecko.

      Gravel skipped over the rocks, carried in eddies by the restless wind. After a last glance at the sky, Kit opened her backpack and took out Baby’s red collar. Strapping on the work collar always signaled a transition to focused commands, invaluable reinforcement for service dog training.

      Warmed up from a good run across the mesa, the dogs were ready to focus on training. Baby’s dark eyes probed Kit’s face, and the dog quivered with excitement, awaiting the first command. No one could say that these animals didn’t love to learn.

      Kit began by reinforcing simple stay commands, then followed up with a variety of heel and halt repetitions, alternating ten minutes of training with five minutes of play and copious amounts of praise. After Baby ran through her moves, Kit slipped collars on Butch and the other dogs in turn. Accustomed to working serially, the dogs seemed to compete for fast command

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