It was supposed to be an easy mission. An in-and-out job. A
one-day extraction.
His boss had fed him that line of bullshit, and Grayson
James had foolishly believed him. Upon first entering this
lushly green, sea-kissed land known as Atlantis, however,
Gray realized he would have had better luck trying to sell a
Frigidaire to a goddamn Eskimo. At a goddamn jacked-up price.
Atlantis.
Not a myth. Damn it. He'd hoped otherwise.
He scowled. In one hand, he held a beeping, miniature GPS
system programmed from coordinates found on a map. An
actual, honest-to-God map of Atlantis his boss had
discovered in a missing millionaire's stash. Right now, the
GPS signal bounced off the earth's magnetic core, helping
him navigate his way through this Atlantean jungle. In the
other hand, he gripped a machete. The sharp silver blade
hacked at the thick foliage blocking his path.
No, Atlantis was not a myth. It happened to be home to the
most loathsome creatures he'd ever encountered. And as an
employee of OBI, the Otherworld Bureau of Investigations,
he'd encountered plenty.
Made him wonder why he'd even joined the agency.
He knew the answer, though, and it wasn't because he'd
(secretly) watched Star Trek for most of his teen
years and knew how to speak Klingon. "Heghlu'meH QaQ
jajvam," he sighed. Today is a good day to die.
When he'd learned (to his horrified shock) that there
actually were other colonized worlds in the vast expanse of
the galaxies, he'd left his job as a detective with the
Dallas PD and began searching for a Men in Black-type
operation. When OBI finally contacted him he'd signed
on immediately. He believed fiercely in the need to learn
about these otherworlders and protect his own planet from them.
How could he have known that the most fearsome creatures of
all resided here, on his own planet? Simply buried beneath
the ocean, protected by some kind of crystal dome?
As he dodged a stray limb, he ground his teeth together.
"Atlantis," he muttered. "Code name, Hell."
After entering a swirling, gelatinous portal OBI had
discovered underwater in Florida, he'd found himself inside
an enormous crystal palace guarded by huge, sword-wielding
men. Luck had been on his side as he stealthily maneuvered
his way past them, unnoticed, and entered this jungle.
That's when he kissed that fickle bitch Lady Luck goodbye.
For the past two nights, a blood-sucking vampire, a
fire-breathing dragon, and a hungry, salivating winged
demon, aka the Welcoming Committee, had chased him, each
sharpening mental forks and knives.
The memories made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
He knew the routine now. In less than one hour, night would
fall and those…things would emerge again. They would hunt
him. They would attempt to fucking eat him. And not in a
good way.
His blood ran cold at the thought and not even the hot,
humid air could warm him. For fifty-eight hours he'd been
stuck in this seemingly never-ending maze, and for fourteen
of those hours, he'd followed the exact same pattern:
creatures track, Gray evade.
The first night, he'd tried to shoot them with his Beretta.
He managed to nail the dragon between the eyes, but his
other pursuers dodged the bullets, quickly and effortlessly
gliding out of range.
The second night, when the two remaining creatures appeared,
Gray utilized his combat skills and slit the vampire's
throat. A pleasure, he had to admit, but he hadn't emerged
unscathed. Five deep, raw scratch and bite wounds adorned
his neck and thigh, throbbing constantly. Not festering, but
never quite healing.
How he'd escaped the demon after that, he didn't know.
Injured and weak as he'd been, he would have been easy to
overpower. Hell, his bleeding body would have made a
delicious dinner buffet. Many times he'd wondered if the
demon had purposefully let him go, enjoying the thrill of
the hunt a little too much.
Well, the demon wasn't the only one who was going to enjoy
himself tonight. An anticipatory smile lifted Gray's lips.
Smarter now, he wouldn't be caught off guard. Plus, he'd
already worked up a plan affectionately dubbed Operation
Kill the Bastard. If KTB unfolded successfully, the demon
would soon join his bloodsucking friends in hell. If it
didn't, well, Gray would resort to Plan B: Operation Oh
Shit. He'd sprint like a madman and hide until light glowed
once more from the seemingly alive dome above.
His gaze flicked to said dome. There was no sky here, only
mile after mile of iridescent, pearlized crystal. Waves
constantly washed over the outer side, and multiple-sized
and colored fish swam in every direction. He like the naked
mermaids best.
A twig slapped his cheek, snagging his attention, slicing
skin and adding one more item to his growing shit list. He
lost all remnants of his good humor. At least the insects
had stopped swarming him. A real silver lining, he thought
bitterly. He never should have taken this job.
He veered left just as his wristwatch vibrated. He stopped
abruptly. "Just what I need," he muttered. If it wasn't one
thing, it was another, and now it was time to check in with
home base.
He dropped his backpack, dug inside, and withdrew a small
black transmitter, switching it to On. If he failed to check
in at least once a day, the cavalry would sweep in and
finish his job. He'd never failed a mission, and he wouldn't
fail this one.
"Santa to Mother," he said, cringing when he spoke his code
name. His unit had thought it was funny as hell, saying he
swooped into other worlds and left little presents (like
bombs and dead bodies), so the name had stuck. "Do you copy?"
A few seconds of static, before he heard, "Go ahead, Santa."
He recognized the voice of his boss, Jude Quinlin.
"I'm still without the package, but all is well."
"Copy that."
"Over." He ended the transmission and stuffed the receiver
into his backpack, then kicked into gear again. All was
well, his ass. To survive Operation KTB himself, he needed
to find a small clearing with ample room to sprint, dodge,
and dive for cover. So far, no luck. And he was running out
of time, his hour ticking away unmercifully.
When a wall of trees blocked his path, he pivoted right, but
the GPS erupted in a series of erratic, high-pitched beeps,
a sign he'd taken a wrong turn. Growling low in his throat,
Gray spun around and backtracked until the miniature device
calmed. Sweat trickled from his temple and dripped onto his
military fatigues.
He'd been due a vacation, damn it, a chance to see the
brothers and sister he hadn't visited in over two years. He
called them regularly, of course, but that wasn't the same
as hugging them, laughing with them. Being with
them. He wanted to play with Katie's children, wanted to
make sure her husband Jorlan was treating her like the prize
she was.
Working for OBI—which translated into constant
planet-hopping through inter-world wormholes—didn't allow
for frequent trips home. Hell, working for OBI didn't allow
for trips anywhere except alien planets. And now underwater
cities. It sure as hell didn't allow for dating and getting
laid. Unless he wanted to have a one-night stand with a
three-eyed, blue-skinned, slimy alien female. He didn't.
1. He'd never liked one-night stands, preferring instead
multiple nights with multiple orgasms.
2. Three eyes? Slimy skin? Uh, gross.
3. Did he mention that he liked to take his time with a
woman, lingering over every nuance of her body, savoring her
scent, her taste? That he liked to hear her shout about his
unbelievable sexual talents in English?
He grinned at the thought of "unbelievable sexual talents."
Another branch bitch-slapped his cheek, and he lost his
grin. Your fault, man. You shouldn't have let your mind
wander into the gutter. How true. Now was not the time
to be thinking of sex and women. Or having sex with women.
He blamed the heat for his wayward mind. That, and the fact
that he hadn't gotten laid in a long, long time.
Too long.
Way too long.
Why else would he have lost focus on what was important—his
survival—in favor of picturing a naked woman. A naked woman
with long, velvet-soft legs that wrapped around his waist and—
Yet another twig popped him, in the eye this time. How many
would he have to endure? "Concentrate, boy." It's not like
he suffered from ADD. You're here for a reason, James.
Think of nothing but that.
One moment of distraction could cause a mission to fail. He
knew that, and was surprised at how easily his mind
kept veering. Perhaps being hunted by a cannibalistic demon
wasn't exciting enough for him. If that was the case, he
needed a total body probe and psych exam ASAP.
"The mission. Think only about the mission." As they had a
thousand times before, his boss's departing words drifted
through his mind. We found a book, Gray. The
book, actually, titled Ra Dracas. It tells of dragons
and vampires and other such nonsense, but the true message
is hidden between the text, written in code.
"The text about dragons and vampires is nonsense," he
mocked. Hindsight sucked major ass.
Once we broke that code, his boss had added, we
learned about the Jewel of Dunamis, a jewel so powerful it
can be used to predict the future. A jewel so powerful it
can show who's lying and who's speaking the truth. Whoever
holds it will have the ability to destroy any enemy. Conquer
any army.
Small wonder his government wanted so desperately to own it.
Gray was to find and steal this precious jewel, then bring
it home. If his mission was compromised in any way, he was
to destroy it so that no one else got their greedy hands on it.
It was that simple.
Simple? Yeah, about as simple as routine brain surgery. Gray
paused briefly and sipped from his dwindling canteen of
vitamin-enhanced water. The cool liquid slid down his
parched throat, offering a much-needed burst of energy
before he jolted back into motion.
For an eternity he pushed himself onward, never slowing,
ever conscious of what awaited him if he didn't find a spot
to enable Operation KTB. His gaze darted to his wristwatch,
the digital red light barely visible under the dirt and
grime covering him. Twenty minutes until showtime, so he had
to find a workable patch of land now. He scowled and—
Watch out for the quicksand.
His eyes jerked swiftly across his surroundings as he
searched for the speaker, a woman. He didn't duck for cover,
didn't stop walking, preferring instead to be mobile. Plus
he didn't want to scare her with any surprising movement.
That's how trigger-happy fingers were created.
He did tighten his grip on the machete. The odds were
fifty-fifty the woman had a weapon, and even higher that
she'd actually use it. Still. A man couldn't be too careful.
Are you listening to me? I said, watch out for the
quicksand!
The husky, heavily accented female voice slammed into his
mind once again, so richly sensual and commanding he
acquired an instant, unwanted, and surprising hard-on—before
he promptly began sinking into a large pool of quicksand.
"What the hell?" Instinctively he attempted to raise his
legs, which only caused him to sink farther and faster. He
stilled and glared at the ground, watching it slowly rise,
covering his feet… his ankles.
Now you've done it. Exasperation clung to the edges
of her words. She might even have added, Dumb ass,
but he wasn't sure. I tried to warn you.
"Where are you?" he asked, using his gentlest, most
reassuring tone as he eyed the lush green bushes circling
him. The leaves here were thicker than any he'd ever
encountered, barely moving in the gentle wind.
There was no hint of person or clothing peeking from the
shrubbery, still no rustle or snap to indicate movement.
She'd tried to save him from the quicksand, so she hopefully
meant him no harm. God knew he needed all the help he could
get right now.
"You can come out," he said. "I won't hurt you. You have my
word."
Think for a moment, Gray. You don't hear me with your
ears, but with your mind.
"How do you know my name?" he asked sharply. Then he
blinked, shook his head, blinked again. The voice remained,
echoing from each corridor of his brain. She was right. Her
words were actually inside his mind.
How was that possible?
How the hell was that possible?
"I'm schizo." The statement burst from his mouth, too
shocking and surreal to keep inside. "I've finally jumped
over the ledge of sanity with thousand-pound weights tied to
my ankles." He'd seen some weird shit in his lifetime, and
it had finally caught up with him.
He should have known it would come in the form of a split
personality. A sexy as hell female personality, at that. Her
whisky-rich voice…he'd never heard anything quite so erotic.
Down, down he sank as the sand covered his calves with its
gooey wetness. The scent of stagnant water and decaying—he
wrinkled his nose. He did not want to guess what
was decaying.
Insane or not, he hadn't survived two days and nights of
torture to die by stinky sand. No matter what he had to do,
he'd save his life—or rather, lives—from this mess.
God, this sucked.
Unwilling to lose a single supply, he tossed his GPS and
machete to dry ground. Careful not to jostle too much or too
quickly, he removed his backpack and tossed it beside the
blade, wishing to God his propel wire hadn't been lost
during a battle with the Welcoming Committee.
He scowled for, what… the thousandth time in as many hours?
The expression well represented his views of Atlantis.
Meanwhile, he continued to sink, slowly, slowly, the wet
sand working its way past his knees, up his thighs. The
thick liquid grains were cold, and his body temperature fell
a couple hundred degrees. His blood pressure was the only
thing on the rise.
Amid the popping and gurgling of wet suction, he searched
his surroundings again, this time looking for a lifeline. No
branches, no vines were nearby. Only a large white rock, but
it was too far away to reach with his hands.
Take off your shirt,the sensual,
I-want-you-naked-and-in-my-bed voice said.