Even Vampires Get the Blues: A Deadly Angels Book (4 page)

Chapter 3

Date with a vampire? . . .

“W
ell, that was humiliating,” Harek said once he and Trond were seated in the command center’s conference room, where several dozen military types, mostly male, milled about, waiting for the meeting to start.

“Humiliating for whom? You or Camo?”

“Me, of course. I behaved like a pathetic moron.”

“Yep. Lost your Viking charm somewhere along the way. Probably frozen in a Siberian tundra. Do they have tundra in Siberia?”

Harek ignored Trond’s question, musing that he would probably have to apologize to the woman. He wasn’t exactly sure what he had said while in that rose-infused haze, but he was fairly certain he’d said something about her not being suitable as life mate for his far superior self, or some such thing. Which was true, but not what one said to a woman. Even he, Viking to the chauvinistic core, knew that. Besides, he hadn’t meant “suitable” precisely. More like not now, not in this place, not with a female warrior woman. Not ever.

Well, that was better.

Not.

He took his laptop out of its case, along with some printouts he’d made of his BK findings, in addition to Cnut’s initial assessment. Harek loved modern technology, and he was good at it. Passionate to always learn more. Luckily, it was one passion that wasn’t deemed sinful.

Meanwhile, Trond’s wife, Nicole, who was also one of those WEALS, came in and sat on Trond’s other side. Harek had stayed with them last night in their Coronado apartment, which was one night too many. With his years of forced celibacy, he did not need to hear energetic bedplay from down the hall,
all night long
. It was a wonder the two of them could stand without toppling over. When Harek had remarked just so to Trond this morning and said he would be looking for a hotel room for the remainder of his stay, Trond had just graced him with a lackwit grin. In fact, all five of his married brothers—Vikar, Trond, Ivak, Mordr, and Sigurd—walked around with the selfsame lackwit grins all the time. It was disgusting, really, and pitiful for Viking men who were accustomed to excessive bedsport. Leastways, they had been in the old days, especially during the long Norse nights, which were almost as cold as bloody Siberia.

His reverie was broken as Camille walked in with two other women—a tall, majestic-looking black beauty, and a shorter blonde with the biceps of a weightlifter. They all wore similar workout attire: T-shirts, shorts, and boots. Camille had changed to a clean shirt, scrubbed her face, and pulled her shoulder-length hair into a ponytail in the short time since he’d met her.

He no longer smelled roses, thank the Lord. Of course, the woman was across the room from him, but still he didn’t feel that odd, magnetic pull he had earlier. Trond was wrong about the life mate crap. Harek must have overdeveloped olfactory senses, like his sharp intellect, and the floral scent must have emanated from some distant flower garden, carried on the breeze. Leastways, that was his theory, and he was sticking to it.

Besides, she was not at all his type of woman. Not that she was bad-looking, now that she was somewhat cleaned up. But she was plain. Harek, on the other hand, was an exceedingly good-looking Viking man in his prime. Because of his appearance—and his wealth, he had to admit—he’d always had the pick of the litter when it came to women. Even his first wife, Dagne, had been a spectacular beauty before she’d turned fat and shrewish. Women had a tendency to do that, lure a man in with outward glitter, sweet as honey in the beginning, which ended up being mere brass, not gold, and sour as pickles. Bait and switch, in modern terminology. Mayhap a plain woman would make the better life mate, if a man were dumb enough to be looking for a partner locked to his side forevermore.

No, no, no! I am not looking for a partner, plain or otherwise. This is my chance to prove myself with Mike, to get my stupid arse out of freezing Siberia, for good. If I start getting carnal thoughts, and acting on them, heaven forbid, I’ll be growing ice crystals on my testicles forever.

Not that he was having carnal thoughts about Camille, who sat down in one of the front rows with her female companions.

Yet
, he thought he heard a voice in his head say.

It was probably his conscience. He hoped it was his conscience.

If he was going to have carnal thoughts, it wouldn’t be about a female whose goal in life was to prove she could do everything a man could. It would be about someone like that Lagertha, the Norse princess in the History Channel’s
Vikings
series. Now, there was a woman! Actually, Lagertha was a female warrior, too, but when she leaped into the bed furs with Ragnar, she was all woman. Betimes a woman being the aggressor was a good thing. A very good thing!
I wonder if Camille . . .

No, I am not wondering anything about her.

Anyhow, forget Lagertha. Harek much preferred a wench with a body like that singer Jennifer Lopez. He liked a well-formed woman with an ample—but not too ample—arse.

There was another worrisome thing. Harek’s deadly sin was greed, and he had come to accept the truth of his dark compulsions. He was indeed greedy about all things, not just wealth or stature or physical trappings. What if he were given free rein with a woman—a life mate, for cloud’s sake!—how might his greed manifest itself in sex after all these years of being reined in? He could only imagine the kinds of things he would do.

“Harek!” His drifting thoughts were interrupted by a man in a dull beige military uniform, seated at a table on the low dais at the front of the room, waving him forward. It was Navy SEAL Lt. Darryl “Geek” Good, whom he’d met on several occasions in the past.

He and Darryl had much in common, in addition to both being geeks of a sort. Geek, once an insult, was now modern slang for “very intelligent person.” Darryl had the face of a baby, or untried youthling, but the brain of a genius, which was deceptive. The “boy” had not only been around the block a time or twenty, he knew things the average man did not.
Like me
, Harek thought with a shameless pat on his own back. Darryl’s IQ was almost as high as Harek’s and his computer skills on a par with Harek’s, too.

In addition, Darryl was probably a millionaire due to his invention of something called a penile glove, which he sold on the Internet. Enough said! Unlike Harek, Darryl’s entrepreneurial skills were not impeded by celestial interference. Talk about unfair! Truth to tell, Harek had hidden assets that . . .

Harek immediately tried to wipe that last thought from his mind, just in case you-know-who was “listening” in. He was not in the mood for yet another “Life Is Not Meant to Be Fair” lecture. Gathering up his laptop, paperwork, and carry bag, he walked up to the dais to join Darryl, who stood and shook hands with him. “Good to see you again, man! Did you get that rough draft I sent you last night?”

“I did. Thank you. Did my BK slides convert into your system?”

“Like a wet dream. Where’d you get that Powerfont program?”

“Developed it myself. Couldn’t find anything on the market that combined dimensional PowerPoint with subtext and algorithms.”

“Ah.” The gleam in Darryl’s eyes was pure geekful. It took a geek to understand how another geek could get turned on by a new technological invention. Darryl added, “I could show you how to market that program if you want.”

Like Mike would ever allow that! Besides, I do not want to know what he’d have to say about Darryl’s penile glove enterprise.
“No time for that at the present, but thanks for the offer.”

He opened his laptop on the table next to Darryl’s and pointed out some new information, which the SEAL immediately began to copy to a flash drive. He and Darryl had been working together, via e-mail, the past few days, trying to combine and collate Wings International Security intelligence with that of the Navy SEALs, related to Boko Haram.

While Darryl was busy tapping away on his computer, Harek glanced around the room and noticed Camille staring at him with raised eyebrows. Apparently, she was surprised to see him here, participating in a mostly SEAL meeting. She’d probably thought he was on the base just visiting his brother.

He winked at her.

Whaaat?
Why he would do such an asinine thing in a professional setting, he had no idea. But then he was behaving like an ass today.

She blushed and shook her head, as if he was a hopeless idiot. Which he was. Today, leastways.

Commander Ian MacLean called the meeting to order. “We are here today to discuss a new mission. Deadly Wind.”

Everyone sat up straighter, interested.

MacLean paused for dramatic emphasis, then explained, “The Islamic extremists in Nigeria are spreading, like an ill wind, to use a poor cliché, and it will be our job to not only rescue the victims already in their captivity, but to destroy the tangos, once and for all.”

Applause greeted his words, and a communal shout of “Hoo-yah!” That was SEAL talk for “Hell, yeah!” or some such thing.

“You’re probably wondering, why now? Everyone expected SEALs to come to the rescue, guns blazing . . . as if that’s ever the case, or hardly ever.”

Laughter greeted those words. Everyone in the world had heard about that incident in Mosul last year.

“But thus far our government’s stance has been to provide only technical assistance. In other words, consultants,” MacLean continued, that last word said with a sneer. “Now, they want our help, especially because of the international outcry at the BK group’s atrocities. Many Muslim sects practice Sharia law, but BK carries it to an extreme not seen, at least in the public eye, for centuries.”

Sharia was an ultraconservative interpretation of Islamic law that included, among other things, honor stonings of women for adultery, and harsh punishments of even small children. One little boy accused of stealing bread had to have his hand crushed by holding it under the wheel of a moving dump truck. Mostly, Sharia was anti-women to an extent that females were considered nothing more than possessions. No wonder they could justify kidnapping schoolgirls!

“This will be a joint JSOC effort of SEALs, Rangers, Delta Force, AFSOP, and Wings International Security, a private security firm we’ve worked with in the past,” MacLean said. “Wings has crucial and credible intel on BK’s current location and plans.” He nodded toward Harek at that last remark. “We will be boots on the ground in Africa in two weeks. In the meantime, you operatives will be working your butts off in preparation. If you’re in this room now, you are Chosen.” The commander grinned.

To their credit, not one of the three dozen or so SEALs or WEALS appeared reluctant at being called to duty. In fact, they were excited, if the expressions on their faces were any indication, including Miss Dumaine, who smiled widely, exposing rows of even white teeth, a sharp contrast against her lightly tanned skin.

(Harek had been yearning for
even
teeth for many years, by the by. Fangs got in the way, even when retracted, for lots of things, like eating corn on the cob, sipping through a straw, blowing up a balloon, going down on . . . Never mind. Even kissing, an activity sorely lacking in his life for a looong time.)

Harek noted that Camille wasn’t so plain when she smiled. Not that it mattered. Just . . . interesting.

The commander called Lieutenant Luke “Slick” Avenil up to the dais and deferred to him as leader of this mission. Avenil, whose dark hair was sprinkled with strands of silver on the sides, was older than most of the SEALs, at close to forty. Aside from being a highly decorated military man, Avenil was street-smart from a young age. A good man to have at your back. As Harek recalled from talks with Trond, Avenil was a long-divorced man whose ex-wife’s sole goal in life seemed to be taking him back to court for more and more alimony.

Once the commander left the stage, Avenil introduced about a dozen of the non-SEAL folks in the room. Two CIA agents, a Department of Defense deputy secretary of something or other, reps of Army and Air Force special forces, a member of the ruling council of Nigeria, and then Harek, who would be the liaison with Wings, which already had “boots on the ground” in Nigeria, meaning Cnut, although his name wasn’t mentioned specifically. Avenil also introduced Lieutenant Darryl Good, and motioned for both Harek and Darryl to stand and present the initial data for the mission.

Darryl used a remote device to lower a large screen from the ceiling. On it, the two of them began projecting graphics from their high-tech computers, a running slide show of geography, including thermal imaging, where the terrorists were believed to be hiding out, places they had targeted in the past, new sites they were believed to be aiming for in the future. There were also photographs of some of the leaders, with bios. A short lesson on the history of the Boko Haram organization, how it had started as a religious fight against encroaching Western culture, such as educating girls, and escalated into an all-out bloody insurrection of terror.

Harek and Darryl worked well together. While one spoke, the other operated the computers, then vice versa. For more than an hour they gave the attentive audience all the data they needed to begin to plan their mission. Questions were tossed out intermittently and answered as best they could. When the two of them were stumped, the commander or some of the government folks spoke up. Sometimes there were no answers. This vile group, Boko Haram, wouldn’t have managed to continue with its atrocities for so long if they weren’t able to maintain secrecy.

When one man complained, “I’ll never remember all this crap,” Avenil interjected, “You better remember, F.U., or you could drop off this mission.”

Avenil wasn’t being crude, or out of order, when he told the SEAL to F.U.; it was actually the nickname for the man who’d spoken up, Frank Uxley, Harek recalled now. A highly skilled soldier, but with the personality of a toad.

“In any case, printouts of all this data will be in folders at your seats by this afternoon. However, you are to study them here. Nothing leaves the command center. Is that clear?” He was speaking to the entire room, not just Uxley. “Secrecy is essential. Paperwork has a way of getting lost or stolen.”