All these weeks later, and Mick was still blowing the stench of that fireball out of his nose. The trail he'd most recently been following, the one that had brought him to New Mexico to begin with, was part of the continuing effort to tie up the loose ends of the mission that had kept Eli and Rabbit in Mexico for months.
Three days ago, Mick had been in Carlsbad looking for the missing girl that Stella Banks, Eli's woman, had originally headed south of the border to find, when he'd picked up thirty seconds of a scrambled communication.
In a panic, he'd relayed it to Manhattan and to Tripp Shaughnessey at the communications desk in the SG-5 ops center. Tripp had only been able to narrow the broadcast to an area boxed in roughly by Fort Bliss, Alamogordo, Denver City, and Odessa.
SG-5 had hustled to get Mick in, get him outfitted, and done so quick-like-a-bunny once they'd narrowed down the location of the Spectra IT command center. Mick had taken it from there .. . and ended up here.
He eased from his stomach onto his side and let out two sharp bursts of a whistle. FM, the herd dog mix he'd picked up at the El Paso pound, trotted over on monstrous feet, shoulders rolling, tongue lolling inches from the ground.
The dog had been the final addition to Mick's cover, and so far man and beast had bonded enough that he'd stopped thinking of returning the mutt to his original fate. Then again, he didn't exactly see FM fitting in at SG-5's headquarters in Manhattan.
Hell, as it was, he barely fit in in Manhattan. He did a lot better making his way in and out of the Bronx, and figured if he kept the dog, he might get with Hank Smithson about retiring FM to the Smithson Group principal's Saratoga County horse farm.
After all, the mutt had been recruited as an SG-5 operative. Like Mick himself. And like the others—Christian, Tripp, Julian, Kelly John, Eli, and Harry. And, once this mission was done, if it all went down as planned, FM would've earned the doggie retirement.
"C'mere, F."
The dog plopped onto his belly, haunches raised and ready, tail busting a move like nobody's business. Mick couldn't help but grin as he slipped the flash card from his camera into one of several slots cut into the sturdy leather collar ringing FM's solid neck and disappearing into his thick ruff.
"Whew, dude. You are in desperate need of hosing down." The dog's mouth clamped shut, his ears perked as far as floppy triangles could, his bright brown eyes grew sharp. Once Mick had gotten a whiff of more than dog, he took the comeback to heart. "Yeah. You're right. Me, too."
At that, FM started in with the smiling panting thing he did, doing a belly crawl closer as if he couldn't get enough of Mick's love. And since Mick wasn't getting any love anywhere, he let him.
"Yeah, okay, that's enough. It's time to go." He rolled up into a sitting position and reached for his canteen, poured a good long pull onto a stone that was smooth and bowled in the center. "We've got a bloody long hike back to the truck, so drink up, mate."
FM lumbered to his feet like the old fart he was and lapped up the water. Mick, his bones feeling just as ancient and creaky, did the same, tilting back his head, tilting up the canteen, cooling off with what water he didn't swallow then capping the rest for later.
His eyes were closed and he was using his bandana to mop them free of water when the dog first growled. It was a fierce sound. A terrifying sound. A gut-curdling, ball-shriveling sound that he hadn't heard since recruiting the mutt. He'd be damn well happy not to feel it shiver through his bones again in this lifetime.
Bloody hell. "F, what is your problem?"
And then he heard it, too. He heard it long before he saw it. His ears were clear, his eyes still blinking away the salty sting of sweat and the clean wash of water. An engine. An ATV. Roaring as the driver guided the four-wheel-drive utility vehicle over the rough and rocky landscape.
Make that two drivers gunning two ATVs over the rough and rocky landscape.
He settled his sunglasses back in place, making sure the sports strap around his head was secure, then bent and snagged his backpack and khaki outback hat from the ground. As the dog moved to stand protectively in front of him, he jammed his hat into place.
Reaching to scratch between FM's ears with one hand, he held the strap of his pack with the other, lifting it onto the toe of one boot. His nape tingled in that way it had of telling him he wasn't going to like much of anything about to go down here.
The first ATV pulled up on his left, the second on his right. Both drivers wore ball caps pulled low, reflective lenses, Wranglers, hiking boots, and snap-front, short-sleeved, Western-cut shirts in hideously ugly plaids. They also wore weapons that didn't fit the theme.
Weapons he'd seen most recently on the streets of Kabul and Baghdad. Spectra thugs, he quickly determined. If not, he was a monkey bone's uncle.
"Howdy, mates." He raised a hand in greeting as they left their rides running and approached on foot. "Hard to believe having navigated my way around the world, but I'm bloody well convinced that I'm lost."
"Mr. Savin?"
Mick nodded, his nape itching and twitching fiercely enough now that he had to resist the urge to scratch at the bugs that weren't really there crawling over his skin. "That would be me."
"We located your vehicle back at the road, but you weren't on your lease." This from the first one's clone.
"Well, I'm damn glad you found us, or me and
