Hot & Heavy (Viking II. #5)

Chapter Five

The best-laid plans …

“Houston, we have a problem,” Ian said into his mike.

“I copy you,” Geek said.

“Son … of … a … bitch!” Pretty Boy added.

“ Mon Dieu! ” Cage offered.

“My God!” JAM repeated.

Omar said something in Arabic that Ian assumed was an expletive.

Slick made a growling sound, then, “Let me at ’em.”

Sly made the crude observation, “The Big Rat is one sorry motherf—”

“Shhh,” Ian cautioned.

The eight of them were lying on their bellies about thirty feet apart, balaclava hoods in place. High-powered scopes on their weapons were trained on Jamal’s hideout, a good half mile away.

The object of their consternation had just come out of the largest tent and slumped against a tree. A young Arab girl, no more than sixteen, Ian would guess. She wore only a tattered man’s shirt. One eye was blackened shut. The stains on her outstretched thighs could only be blood. She had obviously been raped … repeatedly.

“Riyad’s granddaughter,” they all guessed at once. A month ago, the son and daughter-in-law of the Iraqi Ambassador to the United States, Musa Riyad, had been brutally murdered by terrorists. Their daughter Altaira Riyad had simultaneously disappeared, and Aljazeera television had claimed, since there had been no ransom demands, the teenager must be dead. Instead, it appeared that Jamal was taking a particularly cruel form of revenge against Riyad, his sworn enemy. There would probably be pictures, horrible pictures, sent to Riyad sometime soon.

As they watched, a man in a turban and long white robe walked up to the girl and grabbed her by the upper arms, shaking her. He seemed to be yelling something at her. Then he let her drop back down to the ground, like a rag doll.

Eight sets of teeth could practically be heard grinding with frustration. The SEALs would like nothing better than to rush in and save the girl, whether it was Altaira or someone else. Impossible. Not yet. A civilian in the rats’ nest changed the whole game plan.

For one blip of a second, Ian remembered Yasmine’s scars. Is this brutal treatment what she’s running from? Or is she like those women terrorists you see on CNN with bombs strapped to their bodies?

“This changes everything,” he said into his inter-squad head phone. Moving quickly but carefully, he crawled over to Pretty Boy, who carried the radio satellite equipment. Pretty Boy already had General Adams at CentCom on the line.

“Garfield, this is Cat One,” Ian said.

“Garfield here. Cat Five briefed me. What’s your take?”

“Tricky situation. Depending on how we play it, it could be a hallelujah mission or a major goat fuck.”

“I read you. We must assume you’ve caught a bird.” Ian didn’t know much Arabic, but he did know that Altaira was the Arabic word for bird. “Do not … I repeat, do not … go in with the original ‘Shock and Awe’ plan.”

“I copy.” The second Ian had seen the girl, he’d known a new strategy would have to be developed. The original plan had been to go in with stealth from seven different directions, taking the tangos out one at a time, except for Jamal.

“There’s always the danger of crossfire,” the general reminded Ian, as if he didn’t already know that. They all did. “Too dangerous to the bird.”

Aside from the basic human concern for an innocent victim, the U.S. already had an image problem in the Arab world. Killing that girl, even accidentally, would be a colossal mistake. “I hear you,” Ian said.

“Stand down,” the general ordered.

“Delay the mission?”

“Correct. Do not engage. I repeat, do not engage.”

“Roger.”

“Retreat back to your prior location.” Ian read that to mean the cave. “Leave two cats behind, to be relieved every three hours. Keep this line open for further directions. Wait for final orders.” Ian suspected that it would be a nighttime raid now. “Big Bird will be alerted and on standby for extraction.” That meant the chopper, of course.

“Yes, sir. And our priorities?”

“Number one, the Big Rat. Two, the safety of all you cats. Three, taking out as many of the other rats as possible. Four, the Big Rat’s cheese.”

Even though he’d already known what the general would say, his heart sank a bit. Yasmine, aka the cheese, would be sacrificed at the least notice, that’s what the general was saying.

Once they disconnected, Ian ordered Geek and JAM to stay behind for first shift. There would probably be two more shifts before they attacked the site.

Ian was point man, leading the way back to the cave. It was mid-afternoon now. He’d been gone since that morning.

It took them more than an hour to get back to the cave, because they had to take care they weren’t spotted along the way. Once they got to the site, Ian raised a halting hand. The bush was still in place in front of the cave, but that didn’t mean anything. “No firing,” he said into his headset, “no matter what she does.”

He pulled the bush aside and tried to see inside, without actually entering. She was lying on the floor in the same place, except she was facing the wall. Her body, under her hooded robe, was deathly still. Something wasn’t quite right. He could sense it.

He took out his pocket flashlight, shone it inside as he entered. And was attacked by some whirling dervish with a raised knife. Ian made neat work of stepping aside, but still the knife hit his chest … or rather his assault vest and body armor. It could have been worse … much worse. When he didn’t fall to the ground—dead, for chrissake, if this idiot had her way—the whirling dervish threw herself at him, pummeling him about the chest and head as he lifted her by the waist so that her bare feet dangled off the dirt floor. He lowered his hands to get a better grip.

“Oh, my God!” With a gasp of surprise, he stared at the now screaming dervish in utter astonishment. Because the dervish was butt naked … and said butt was in his hands. He smiled. He couldn’t help himself.

Glancing to the far end of the cave, he saw on closer inspection that her robe was covering piles of leaves and sticks. Ergo, she had to be naked to attack him.

“Listen, sweetheart, you’d better stop squirming and scratching so I can go over and pick up that robe to cover you. Otherwise, you’re going to be doing the full monty for not one but eight men.”

She drew her head back from where she had been attempting to bite his shoulder and yelped, “Eeeek!” on seeing him in the balaclava hood. All he could think of, though, was the view he got of her breasts when she leaned back. I am not looking. I am not looking. They are not pretty. Nope. Not even close. Hell, who am I kidding? We’re talking Pamela Andersons here. Practically. He didn’t even care that she had B.O. out the wazoo.

But then, the harridan with practically Pamela Anderson breasts looked over his shoulder toward the cave entrance and did a double eek, “Eeeek! Eeeek!” at all his squad mates in full military gear gawking at the picture of him holding a squawking, naked shrew. She yanked his hood off his head and glared at him, as if he were at fault. “Get my robe, you lackwit. And stop leering at my breasts. I’m not a cow.”

No, baby, you are not. He walked her over to her robe, her sweet breasts pressed against him; he could swear he felt their firmness all the way through his vest and body armor. He leaned down, with her clutching his neck and her legs wrapped around his hips so that he wouldn’t turn and show her to the rest of the guys. It was clumsy work easing down to a squat and pulling her robe over her head. Thank God for all those duck squats in PT.

“Can we come in now?” Cage asked. “Or is this a private party?”

All five of them were pulling off their hoods and taking off their weapons and vests as they walked in. And they were all grinning.

“You are a beast,” she said and punched him in the arm.

“What did I do now?”

“Bringing all your troll friends here.”

“Hey, it’s not your cave.”

“I was here first.”

“So that’s the cheese, huh?” Pretty Boy remarked. To Yasmine, he said, “Pleased to meet you, pretty lady.”

Someone made a snorting sound of disbelief at the pretty-lady observation. It might have been Yasmine.

“I’m Lieutenant (jg) Zach Floyd, but you can call me Pretty Boy. Everyone does.”

It was definitely Yasmine who snorted with disbelief now. This time at Pretty Boy’s conceited self-assessment.

Pretty Boy extended a hand to shake with her, but she backed away.

Ian grabbed her forearm and pulled her back. “This is Yasmine, fellows. Yasmine, these are my fellow Navy SEALs.”

She rolled her eyes and muttered something like, “The seal business again!”

One by one, he pointed to and introduced Pretty Boy, Cage, Sly and Omar. They all nodded at her.

Omar said something to her in Arabic, and she replied in the same language. She turned her back to them all and walked a short distance into the back tunnel of the cave and plopped down to a sitting position.

“What did she say?” Ian asked Omar.

“I asked how she was doing, and she pretty much told me to ‘Drop dead!’”

“What’s with the Phyllis Diller hair?” Cage asked.

“She sure is a mess. Poor thing!” Slick observed.

“Are you nuts?” Ian rubbed his chest as if it hurt. “She tried to kill me.”

“With your own knife, I noticed.” It was Pretty Boy who pointed that out to him. The jerk!

“Did you get a whiff of her B.O.?” Sly asked. “Phew. Even the street people in Harlem smell better than that. Bet she hasn’t taken a shower in a month.”

“Hey, we smell a little ripe about now, too,” Ian pointed out. Even though they’d all probably showered this morning, the stress of a mission in all this heavy gear in the hot sun brought on a lot of perspiration. But, hell, why am I coming to the shrew’s defense?

“Her hair does look like a haystack,” Omar said. “Sort of like my ex-wife on a bad-hair day.”

They all laughed at that.

“She reminds me of my old girlfriend, Lisette,” Cage said and sighed. Cage had more old girlfriends than God had angels.

Five sets of eyes turned as one to look at Cage. Ian wasn’t sure if he meant there was a resemblance because of her wild appearance or the breasts from outer space.

“Man, did you see those knockers?” Cage whispered.

Yep, that was what he meant.

“That’s enough, guys. We have plenty of serious business to discuss.” They pulled the bush back to the entrance, built a small fire for light, then sat in a circle discussing today’s events and what they should do next. A call from General Adams or Commander Harding back at Special Operations Command in Coronada would seal their final plan.

They decided to have one man stand guard outside the cave, and alternate every hour till the call came. Slick took the first shift. With Pretty Boy, Sly, Omar and Cage settling in for short naps, Ian walked back to their “prisoner.”

“Are you all right?” he asked Yasmine. “Do you need to … uh, relieve yourself … or anything?”

She looked up at him and said, clear as a bell, “Drop dead, troll!”

“Okaaay,” he said, then turned and went back to the fire. He lay down on one side, head on his backpack. He’d slept in far worse situations.

Pretty Boy, across the fire from him, said, “Shot down, eh, lover boy?”

“She couldn’t have done better with an AK-47,” he responded with a laugh. “Can you see my tears?”

Despite his lighthearted words, Ian did feel something for the wretched woman. And he wasn’t sure what it was. There was a very strange connection between them.

More important, Ian realized suddenly, I’ve seen her face before. But where?

Then he slept, one of the short catnaps SEALs were taught to take on a moment’s notice, often in the oddest places, like in a tree, or in between PT evolutions. And he dreamed, too. Of Yasmine, of all things.

You snooze, you lose …

Madrene sat for a long time in the back corridor of the cave. She was thoroughly disgusted with herself.

She had awakened several hours ago and, after much work, had managed to reach the knife and to cut her bonds. If only she hadn’t wavered in her decision to flee, she could have been long gone by now. But nay, she kept thinking about the troll and his promise to take her to Baghdad. Should I leave? Shouldn’t I leave? Over and over she’d argued with herself. Now it was too late.

“Why are you scowling?” Ian said, slipping down to the ground to sit beside her.

“I always scowl.”

“I noticed.”

“Troll.”

“But you look particularly annoyed now. Is it because you failed to kill me?”

“Nay,” she said with a sigh. “If I had really wanted to kill you, I would have used a rock again … and ambushed you from a hidden spot outside the cave. I have not trained to be a soldier for naught. Some skills, I do still have. Alas, I wavered, and that puts a soldier at peril.” She could tell that her words surprised the oaf. He probably thought all women were helpless, cow-eyed maids.

“You would not have been able to trick me this time.”

She shrugged. “Little did I know that you would come back here with a hird of troll-soldiers.”

“We are not soldiers; we are sailors,” he corrected her.

How like a man to home in on the most irrelevant facts. Soldier, sailor, same thing. “But you are trolls, eh?”

“I have been known to behave like a troll on occasion,” he admitted.

“You had to bring all those other trolls along, didn’t you? You, I could have handled, but eight trolls! I am not that good a she-warrior.” She folded her arms over her chest with disgust. “And all of them carrying those exploding clubs and enough weaponry to fill a king’s armory.”

“You sure do talk funny,” he said.

“I thought we already established that you are the one who talks funny.”

“Female illogic is an amazing thing. You hear only what you want to hear. There’s an old saying that goes—”

“Oh, spare me from your meant-to-be-inspiring sayings. We had a skald one time who did that all the time till everyone was nigh asleep from boredom. Did anyone ever fall asleep whilst you were pontificating endlessly?”

“Has anyone ever called you a shrew?”

“Plenty of times. You say shrew as if it is a bad thing. I say a shrew is a woman of intelligence.”

“Amazing!”

She almost smiled at him, but caught herself in time.

He did smile at her, though, and her stomach clenched. It was probably a reaction to the food he had left for her. Or hunger pangs. Other than the bar of grain and nuts, she had not eaten all day.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

Did he hear my belly talking? Ah, I am too tired … and, yes, hungry … to be embarrassed. But what she said was, “Nay.”

“You’re lying.”

“Why would you care?”

“I like to fatten up my captives.”

She considered arguing the notion that she was a captive, but decided to wait till later for that. “Is that why you left me that bar of grain and nuts?”

“Your stomach was rumbling louder than your snores, so I took pity on you.”

At first, she just stared at him. “Are you teasing me?”

He waggled his eyebrows at her.

“I have not been teased since my brothers …” She shook her head to stop painful memories. “ Do you have food?”

“Yeah. Just MREs but they’re filling.”

“What kind of food is that? If it’s anything unrelated to a camel, I would eat it.”

“MREs are portable provisions. You know, quick food on a mission.”

“Like dried lutefisk?”

“Huh? No, things like beef ravioli, chicken cacciatore, jambalaya.”

It was her turn to say, “Huh?”

“Listen,” he said, rising to his feet and extending a hand to help her up, “are you hungry or not?”

She ignored the hand. “Yea, I am a mite hungry.”

He made a snorting sound.

“But I do not want to go by the fire. Bring it back to me.”

“Why don’t you want to … oh, is it because you’re embarrassed ’cause the guys saw you naked?”

“You really are a dumb dolt, aren’t you? I was led naked through my great hall by a neck tether before two hundred enemy warriors. If I could survive that, I can certainly survive snickers from a few trolls.”

Ian’s jaw dropped practically to his chest. “You are making that up,” he accused, but then he glanced at her neck, and wrist and ankles, and said, “I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”

“Then why do you avoid my teammates?”

She looked at him as if his head must be particularly thick. It was a look she’d perfected years ago with the men in her family. “Because I smell, you lackwit. I would not want to expose others to my stink.”

His jaw dropped again. “But you don’t mind exposing me to your stink?”

She stood up. “You deserve it.”

Women! Go figure! …

Ian couldn’t figure Yasmine out.

Okay, he’d obviously not been a rocket scientist in the past when it came to women; otherwise, Jennifer wouldn’t have been screwing her personal trainer behind his back. But Yasmine was something altogether different.

First of all, she behaved like a bleepin’ shrew, nagging and complaining about every little thing. And she looked and smelled like an old hag. Cripes, you could build a bird’s nest in her hair. Yet he felt an odd attraction to her. And, no, it had nothing to do with his glimpse of those world-class breasts … or almost nothing.

Second, she was childlike in her ignorance about everyday things. Like thinking a rifle was a club. Like believing he was talking to himself when he was communicating on his radio headset. Like being ecstatic over MREs—she had eaten three of them before her hunger was satisfied, not to mention two fudge brownies, a handful of hard candy, peanut-butter snack crackers, and a dairy shake. You would have thought the barely palatable rations were a gourmet meal.

She was wide-eyed with wonder at all the things she saw or was told about. Cage especially had made a big impression when he talked to her about his Cajun people. He even sang her a freakin’ Cajun song. The dolt!

Ian reminded himself how sheltered some women still were in the Arab lands. Wearing the traditional chador or burqa, which covered them head to toe except the eyes. Rarely leaving their homes. Not exposed to TV or radio. But Yasmine didn’t strike him as the type who would tolerate that kind of life. And she sure as hell wasn’t meek.

Third, she was mean enough to be a terrorist. Hadn’t she tried twice to kill him? Hadn’t she punched him several times? But did that mean she really was a terrorist, or in cahoots with them?

Fourth, she continued to call them all trolls. At first, he had thought she meant that they—he, in particular—behaved like trolls. But he was beginning to think she believed they were actual trolls … part of some troll society or something. Geeesh! Which must mean she was a mental case.

Fifth, it was hard to tell under all that grime, but Ian did not think she was Arab. At least, she didn’t look like any Arab woman he’d ever seen. Not that he was an expert on such things. But Omar had remarked on the same thing.

They were still waiting for final orders from CentCom, although he’d spoken to his contact several times since leaving the tango site. Cage and Omar had gone back to relieve JAM and Geek. After taking a short nap, JAM came out to relieve him from guard duty outside the cave. Coming inside, he saw that Yasmine was still talking with Geek and Pretty Boy in her stilted English. He might not be sure if she was Arab, but it was clear that English was not her first language.

“Tell me again why you need to get to Baghdad, darlin’?” Pretty Boy lay on his side in front of the fire with his head propped on a braced elbow.

Yasmine, from the opposite side of the fire, sat on crossed legs. “Do not call me dearling. I am not your dearling.”

“Sorry,” Pretty Boy said with a smile that said he couldn’t care less if she objected to his endearment, which he didn’t mean anyhow.

“In Baghdad, I might be able to find a ship traveling to my homeland. Once there, my people will give me aid.”

“Where is your homeland?” Geek asked. He looked up from the mini-laptop he was studying with logistical information about their mission.

“Norsemandy,” Yasmine said.

“I thought you said you were from Russia,” Ian said.

Yasmine jumped, not having realized he’d come up behind her. “Must you always sneak about like a … a …”

“Troll?” he inquired.

“Yea, a troll.”

“Normandy, huh?”

Under all that dirt on her cheeks, he detected a blush.

She was lying through her teeth. “What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive,” he remarked, almost to himself.

Her response was to raise her chin haughtily. “What matters it to you where I go once you take me to Baghdad?”

“Uh … about Baghdad,” he started, easing down to his haunches beside her.

“What?” She was immediately alert.

“There’s been a change in our original plans. We expect to have an additional person on our flight back. And our extraction site might have to be closer to the terrorist hideout. There’s a chance we will have to leave you behind.”

She gasped in outrage, then turned and shoved him backward. Climbing over him, she began to pummel his chest and face. “You … will … not … abandon … me,” she shrieked, punctuating each word with a punch.

He put his hands over his face, laughing. Geek and Pretty Boy were laughing, too. “You hit like a girl,” he accused her, which was a silly thing to say.

“A girl, you say?” Rising up on her hands, she hit him in the balls with her right knee. “Do I kick like a girl, too?”

He saw stars before he rose to his full six-foot-four and glared down at her. He barely restrained himself from cupping himself to ease the pain. “If that’s the way you try to get your way, no wonder you’re lost in the middle of camel nowhere. Big mistake, sweetheart!” With those words, he picked up his backpack and walked down the back corridor of the tunnel. Throwing it to the ground, he lay down, facing the wall. He was so angry he probably wouldn’t be able to sleep, and he needed all the rest he could get before they started out again.

He sensed her following him before he actually heard her.

“I am sorry,” she said, standing at his back.

“Go away.”

“Sometimes I let my temper get the best of me. Hah! I always let my temper rule. My father used to say …” He could swear she gulped then.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about your temper or your father or any other bloomin’ crazy thing you say or do. Just leave me alone.”

“I cannot.” Now she dropped down to her knees.

“Look, I don’t hurt women, but I’m afraid I’ll give in to the urge to throttle you if you keep bugging me.”

“I have a proposition for you.”

“This oughta be good,” he muttered, turning over to face her. “You are a piece of work, lady.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“What’s the proposition?”

“If you and your men will get me to Baghdad … and from there to my homeland … I will reward you generously.”

He gave her a once-over survey which pretty much said she had nothing he wanted.

“Don’t be a lackwit,” she said. “I didn’t mean that . I meant that I would pay you in coins … gold coins … chests of gold coins. All you have to do is deliver me back to my people. My fighting men will come out of hiding to help me rid my estates of Steinolf and his evil warriors.”

Ian rolled his eyes.

She stared at him expectantly.

“Where did you say you come from?”

“Uh, Jorvik.”

“Jorvik?” Liar, liar!

“Yea, the Saxons call it York.”

He burst out laughing. “So far, you’ve said you live in Russia, Norsemandy and England. Which one is it?”

She waved a hand airily. “It does not matter which. I can get home from any of those places.”

“And then you will hand over a pigload of gold. Just like that.”

“Yea. Now you understand.”

Delusional, that’s what she is. Or a scheming witch who will change sides as it suits her in the war on terror, regardless of ethics. “No, you understand this. I will take you to Baghdad if I am able to . But it won’t be so you can fly off to Leningrad or London town. You will be considered a terrorist suspect, subject to the interrogation of my superiors.”

Her mouth—the mouth he’d been trying hard to ignore—formed a perfect O of surprise. “You think I am a terrorist?”

“Damn straight I do.” Maybe.

“What is a terrorist?”

He rolled his eyes again. “A person or group who uses violence, usually in a cowardly way, for political or ideological purposes.”

She frowned, as if she still didn’t understand. “What kind of violence?”

“Like 9/11. Like those Islamic terrorists who’ve killed thousands of men, women and children, even their own people.”

She gasped. “You think I would kill innocent women and children?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “For a cause, yes.”

“You vile troll! Even to get back to my beloved Norstead, I would not kill innocents.”

He was saved from further discussion, or her punching him again, by a soft signal from Pretty Boy’s satellite phone. They all rushed forward to get the news.

Except Yasmine, who stood in place, tears in her eyes.