Sandra Hill (10 page)

It had been one of the moments SEALs live for. Ian would never forget the moment he’d entered the big tent and leaned over the sobbing girl to say, “Lieutenant Ian MacLean here. U.S. Navy SEALs. We’re here to take you home, baby.” She clung to JAM now, arms clutched tightly around his neck, as they raced toward freedom.

“The package is secured,” Ian said into the satellite phone as he ran. “And the bird is in hand.”

“Good work, Lieutenant,” General Adams responded. “Casualties?”

“None on our side. At least two dozen of the tangos are down and dirty. No time to collect or destroy
weapons and munitions. Some of Jamal’s men escaped and are heading this way with reinforcements from another terrorist cell. They’ll be on our tail soon. Time is of the essence.” Ian was breathing hard when he finished his report.

“Be careful, Lieutenant.”

“Over and out.” He handed the phone back to Pretty Boy, who ran beside him.

Soon a Skyhawk chopper was hovering over the small clearing where they’d inserted and would now extract. Rappeling ropes were dropped. The SEALs would free-climb up on their own, but harnesses had to be lowered, first to raise Altaira, and then Jamal. They had twenty minutes, max, before the tangos caught up.

“I’ll be right back,” Ian told Cage, squeezing his shoulder.

“No!” Cage shouted at his back. “Don’t do it. We have Jamal. She’s not worth it.”

I beg to differ. Shit! Where did that thought come from?
Heart hammering in the oddest way, as if it were chanting, “Go … go … go,” Ian waved without turning and ran toward the cave where they’d left Yasmine hours ago. He saw her running toward him, apparently having heard the gunfire and the whup-whup-whupping of the chopper blades. He’d ordered her not to come out, no matter what. Surprise, surprise, she hadn’t listened to him.

“You came back,” she said, smiling at him.

With utter idiocy, Ian registered the fact that it was the first time the shrew had smiled at him … and he liked it. “Yeah, but we’ve got to hurry.” He grabbed her hand, and they raced toward the chopper.

“Oh … no!” Yasmine wailed and dug in her heels once they got near the site.

Jamal and Altaira were already in the aircraft, along with Pretty Boy, Omar, Geek and Sly. JAM and Slick were rappeling up one of the ropes now, with Cage on the ground, beckoning him wildly with shouts of “Hurry, hurry, hurry!”

“Please don’t tell me you are going to fly away on a bird? No, no—”

Ian picked her up like a sack of flour and tossed her over his shoulder, running. “No time to panic. Just shut the hell up and do what I say.”
Like that’s ever going to happen.

They got to the site. Cage was already climbing up, faster than a monkey up a tree. Ian pulled the harness over on the other rope, secured a screaming Yasmine into the leather straps, then held on to the ropes above her head and wrapped his legs around her body. As soon as he gave the signal, the rope was lifted upward.

Yasmine buried her face in his neck just as the tangos arrived and began shooting wildly, luckily from some distance yet. Despite the noise of the chopper blades and the sound of gunfire, he could still discern Yasmine’s words against his neck, “I … am … really … going … to … kill … you … now!”

“Yeah, yeah!”

They no sooner crawled inside the chopper than it was flying away, not even waiting to close the doors. As darkness settled over the land, Ian secured Yasmine and himself in seat belts. Jamal was unconscious but still alive, thank God. Altaira, realizing
that she was finally going home, smiled tentatively through a cracked lip at Slick, who had his arm over her shoulder. He and his fellow SEALs looked at each other and yelled, “Hoo-yah!”

After they’d settled in for the short trip, Ian turned to Yasmine and asked, “Cat got your tongue?”

She muttered something under her breath that sounded like “bloody idiot proverbs.”

“Are you all right?”

She wouldn’t look at him, just stared straight ahead, her white-knuckled fists clutching the hand rests. In the dim interior light, he saw that her face looked white as a sheet. “Nay, I am not all right, you dolt! You’ve put me in a bird the size of a longship, for the love of all the gods! I’m flying. Flying, do you hear me?”

Everyone from here to Afghanistan heard you.
“Hey, I saved your life. You could at least be grateful.”

“Grateful? Grateful?” she sputtered. “More like you
risked
my life. Oooh, does it have to go so fast? My stomach is churning.”

Ian put a paper bag under her chin.

She shoved it away. “Where are we going, by the by?”

“Baghdad. I already told you that.”

“Oh.” She thought a moment and said, “I thought we might be going to your troll kingdom. If we are going to Baghdad in this thing, we may as well go all the way to my homeland.”

Troll kingdom?
“And where might your homeland be … this time?”

She hesitated … which showed him that she would lie, once again. “Birka.”

“Where the hell is Birka?”

“The Danish lands. Don’t you know anything? Birka is a well-known market town. Even dumb Scotsmen know that.”

Okay. Russia, Norsemandy, England … and now Denmark. You are a real pistol, lady.

After that, he turned to his other side, where Omar was tugging at his sleeve. “Uh, Mac, I think we might have a problem.”

He raised his brows in question.

“Have you noticed that Yasmine hasn’t looked at Jamal … not even once?”

“She’s probably doing that deliberately.”

“Maybe. But look at Jamal.”

The terrorist had opened his eyes and was glaring at them all. Except Yasmine.

“He hasn’t given Yasmine a second look.”

“What’s your point?”

“I’m thinking she’s not who we thought she was.”

Uh-oh!
“Who else could she be, here in the middle of Jamal country?”

“I don’t know.”

He should leave her interrogation to the experts in Baghdad, but still he couldn’t resist asking her, “Is Jamal your lover?”

“Who is Jamal?”

He and Omar murmured at the same time, “Uh-oh!”

“Is your name really Yasmine?”

“Of course not!”

I think I will pull out my hair. No, maybe I will pull out her hair. No, I wouldn’t want to touch that flea nest.
“What is it, then?”

She hesitated.

Another lie incoming.

“Ailine.”

“Yikes!” Omar said.

Ian said something way more explicit, but it amounted to the same thing. “We are in big trouble.”

“Whoa! What’s this
we
business?
You
are in big trouble.”

Welcome to the Magic Kingdom …

The magic bird landed on a large field where there were many other birds at rest. Madrene could finally unclench her fists and let out the breath she had been holding.

I just flew. Holy Thor! High up in the air. Holy Thor!
Now that they were on the ground again, Madrene was able to smile at the experience she’d just had. Not that she ever intended to do it again.
I wish my family were here so I could tell them about this. Torolf and Ragnor would be so envious.
It was sad, really, that there was no living person with whom Madrene could share her excitement.

Except for the troll.

How exciting is that?

Ian and the other “seals” jumped out of the bird onto the field, where they were hugging other similarly attired men and clapping each other on the back. Just like men in her country. On return from battle, they liked to boast of all their feats of bravery. Male exaggeration flowed like mead at a Frigg’s Day feast.

Madrene gazed out the window of the bird. The skies were dark, but the field was well lit, almost like daylight. Everywhere she looked, she saw people in uniforms, men and women alike. Some of the
uniforms were made of the same woodland fabric as Ian’s and his fellow “seals.” Others were a drab light brown or all blue. And the women … by Odin! … many of the women wore
braies
.

She had to admit that she’d half expected the metal bird to land in the cold north seas where Ian and his men would then turn into the seals they claimed to be. She was not disappointed that they hadn’t.

None of these people had blackened faces like the “seals” who’d brought her here. Were they a separate clan of fighters?

Jamal, the now cursing terrorist restrained at wrists and ankles, was handed down to stern-looking, stiff-postured soldiers in brown, carrying magic clubs—guns, Ian had called them. They walked him slowly toward a large building to one side of the field.

Altaira, the poor Arab girl, was put on a rolling bed by white-clothed men and women. They also headed toward the building, which apparently housed a hospitium.

Madrene was the last person to exit the bird. Ian held out his arms to help her down the short ladder.

“I can walk myself,” she snapped, and almost tripped over herself getting down.

Ian snickered.

The troll!

“Come this way,” he said, taking her by the elbow, even though she would have liked to shrug him off. “That’s General Adams up ahead. And those are the CIA boys who will have a few questions for you.”

“What is a general?”

Ian groaned. “A general is a high-ranking military officer.”

“Higher than you?”

He laughed. “Way higher.”

“And the see-eye-aye?”

“CIA is Central Intelligence Agency. You know, um, information gatherers.”

“Spies?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“Why did you not just say spies, then?”

He squeezed her elbow in punishment for her sass. “Settle down and behave yourself. Don’t speak until you are addressed first.”

“What kind of male jest is that?” She mimicked his deep voice, repeating, “Don’t speak until you’re addressed.” The man was too full of himself by half. Then she said, “Ha, ha, ha!”

“Believe me, there’s nothing funny about this.”

The seriousness of his face and tone forewarned her. She looked from him to the group ahead. Of a sudden, she understood. This was not a welcoming group about to offer her hospitality. They regarded her as an enemy.

“Stay with me,” she said. Almost immediately, she regretted pleading st with the man.

“I can’t,” Ian said.

She shot him a sideways look. “You are going to abandon me?”

“It’s not my call. You’re an alleged terrorist, and as such I’ve got to turn you over to the authorities.” To give him credit, he did look sorrowful. But sorrowful counted for naught if her life was in peril.

“Are they going to lop off my head?”

His eyes widened with surprise. “Of course not.”
Then he grinned and teased her, “They might lop off your tongue, though.”

Now he makes a jest.
“You brought me here,” she accused him, refusing to yield to his mirth. “Why did you not leave me behind if this was your intention?”

“It’s my duty.”

“Your first duty is to yourself. What honor is there in giving a mere woman over to enemy forces?”

“Are you questioning my honor?”

“Oh, go away. I will fight my own battles … as I always have.”

Ian looked as if he wanted to say more, but all he said was, “I’ll see you later, if I’m able.”

“Do not do me any favors.” Raising her chin high, she walked up to the leader, leaving Ian in her wake. For some reason, her heart felt crushed at his betrayal, but she could not think of that right now.

Ian came up to stand next to her. She’d thought the traitor would have scooted off. He gave the general a sharp salute from the forehead and said, “Lewd-tenant Ian MacLean of Force Squad, Eighth Platoon, SEAL Team Thirteen, reporting as ordered, sir.”

The commander did the same salute back at Ian and said, “At ease, Lewd-tenant.”

Ian, who had his hands linked behind his back, stood just like the commander, as if he had a lance up his arse. Which looked really silly with that black face paint.

“Why are you all standing like you have lances up your arses?” she said under her breath.

“Shhhh!” Ian said.

She would like to shhhh him.

“Good job, Lewd-tenant,” the general said. “I will
expect a full report in my office in an hour. That gives you time to shower and settle in.”

“Yes, sir.”

Then the leader turned to her and asked in a stern voice, “Yasmine Bahir?” His body remained rigid as he stared down at her.

“Nay.”

“Oh, shit,” Ian murmured beside her.

“Nay?” he and the men beside him asked.

Thick-headed lackwits!
“That’s what I said. Nay.”

“You are not Yasmine Bahir?” the leader said, his voice a trifle shrill with distress.

“I already said I was not. Dost have a hearing problem?”

“
What?
”

Definitely shrill.

She heard a tsk-ing noise beside her from the troll. She reached behind him, discreetly, and pinched his buttock.

“She just pinched the lieutenant’s ass,” one of the spies remarked to the general with a smirk.

Apparently, she hadn’t been as discreet as she’d intended.

“Will they lop off my hand for that sin?” she asked Ian sweetly.

“Get serious,” he warned.

“Your name, young lady?” the general demanded.

I have not been called young in many a year. Should I laugh or kiss the man?
Instead, she decided it was time to be truthful … or somewhat truthful. “I am Madrene Olgadottir.” In the Norselands, women took their last names from their mothers, and she was the daughter of Olga.

Ian muttered something that sounded like, “Another friggin’ name!”

She muttered back at him, “Turn so I can pinch the other side of your arse. Methinks you need matching cheeks.”

Ian burst out laughing.

The general and his spies frowned at him … and at her. Apparently, laughter was not allowed in this country’s military.

“Ensign Wilson. Ensign Baxter,” the general said loudly.

Two women dressed all in brown came forward. They looked as if they had poles up their arses, too.

“Take Ms. Badir—”

“I told you that is not my name.”