Sandra Hill - [Vikings II 04] (21 page)

He was right.

Blind man’s bluff …

Ian was stomping down the hallway of the medical center searching for the blight on his life when a utility-closet door swung open. To his shock, out stepped his sister and the idiot-from-hell. They were pretty freakin’ shocked to see him, too.

His sister’s hair was mussed and her uniform was wrinkled. In fact, he could see sprinkles of sand in various places, and there were a half-dozen runs in her stockings. The dodo bird was no better. He had a bite mark on his bottom lip, and the look of a man who’d just had his ashes hauled.

“Sonofabitch!” Ian exclaimed.

“Now, Ian …” his sister started to say. She, at least, had the good sense to be blushing.

“Chieftain, it is not what you—” dodo bird started to say.

Ian raised both hands to halt the two of them. If he reported this incident, and he should, his sister would lose as much as the dodo bird … everything she’d worked so hard for as a woman in the military. He couldn’t do that to her. Not without giving her a second chance. “Don’t say anything. Either of you. I did not see this. I am a blind man as of five minutes ago.”

“Thank you, Ian,” she said in a shaky voice.

He nodded his acknowledgment of her thanks. They both knew how difficult it was for him to bend military rules, no matter what was at stake.

“Thank you, Chieftain,” the dodo bird added.

“Shut up!” The dodo bird probably didn’t have a clue how much personal integrity he was sacrificing to remain quiet.

To both of them, he warned, “Next time, I won’t be so blind.”

Meanwhile, back at the commune … bikers’ commune, that is …

“How’s your head today, Tor?” asked Serenity Morgan, a middle-aged woman with blond hair accented by black roots, which hung down to her leather-clad butt. She had eight rings in each ear, two gold studs in her nose, and tattoos up one arm and down the other. Not surprisingly, she was a tattoo artist.

Her husband, George Morgan, also known as Spike, a former Microsoft engineer who now sold classic Harley parts on the Internet, was equally long-haired, pierced, and tattooed. While Serenity did body art in her spare time, George did body piercings. They lived in a remote commune of thirty-some bikers somewhere in northern California. Actually, it was a cozy trailer park called Hog Heaven. Sort of a commune for bikers.

Torolf shrugged. “My head doesn’t hurt anymore, but my memory is still a blank. I sense that I’m running away from something, and that I’m angry, but I have no clue what that might be.”

The only way he knew that his name was Torolf Magnusson was because of his driver’s license. When they’d found him and his Harley Road King along the side of a rural road two weeks ago, the bikers had decided that his shaved head bespoke a background in the military or prison. They doubted whether it was Hare Krishna or some such cult, because that didn’t jibe with the expensive vehicle he’d been driving. In addition, he’d sustained some kind of head
wound, which had been stitched and treated, and there was an odd bruising about his neck. Could it be from a prison garroting, or from a neck chain being yanked from his neck by a burglar, or an accident while engaged in some clandestine military op?

The only other items in his wallet were three hundred dollars in cash, a credit card, and a photo showing an older blond-haired version of himself, an older black-haired woman, and a pigload of kids of various ages. Was this his family? If so, he didn’t recognize a one of them.

Respecting his privacy, no one in the motorcycle community had tried to contact anyone at the Sonoma address on his license, nor did George use his Internet expertise to do a search on him or that address; these were people who felt a person’s past was his or her own business. Thus far, Torolf hadn’t felt inclined to call Information for a telephone number attached to the address, either, fearing what he would find out about himself. The memory loss itself and what physical ailment it might signify scared him, too. Also, he’d been having strange, strange dreams the last few nights. In some, he was a Viking in some Dark Age wooden castle, almost instantly morphing into some guy tending a modern-day vineyard, then switching to a sailor in a military-type rubber boat bobbing out at sea, or was it a longship? Every time Torolf tried to reason it out, his head wound started to throb.

For now, he did mechanical work on motorcycles for various residents around Hog Heaven to earn his keep, especially for the Morgans, who’d opened the second bedroom of their RV to him. He didn’t know where he’d learned the skill, but somehow he could
break down and put back together a Harley with ease. Maybe he’d learned how on his own, as a Harley owner, or maybe he’d been a mechanic.

“You are not to worry about anything,” Serenity said, patting him on the shoulder. He was in the process of repairing the trim on one of the RV windows. “Take your time, and everything will eventually fall into place. God has a plan for all of us.”

Or the gods
, he thought.
Now, where did that idea come from?

“It’s sad that no one has come looking for you, though,” Serenity added. “And that’s all I’ll say on the subject.”

Torolf thought it was sad, too. “Perhaps I’m all alone in this world, and no one cares about me.”

“We care,” Serenity said, tears brimming in her eyes.

He smiled, and it was his turn to pat her on the back. Serenity and Spike had been married for thirty years and had never had any children. He suspected his dropping into their lives fulfilled some need of theirs … and his, too.

“What say we go have a beer?” she suggested, swiping at her wet eyes.

“A horn of mead cures many an ill,” he replied with forced cheerfulness.
A horn of mead? I really am losing my mind.

Son of a gun! …

“Has that son of mine lost his mind?” Magnus Ericsson raged at his wife Angela for the hundredth time in the past two weeks. “Torolf may be twenty and
seven years old, but I swear he is as insensitive as a boyling.”

“Now, Magnus, I’m sure he is all right. He’ll call when he is able.”

“I think I should call him.”

“Don’t you dare. Torolf specifically said he is not able to take calls. He will contact us when he gets a chance.”

“But it is unlike him to go more than two weeks without—”

“No!” she said emphatically. It was one of the things that had attracted him to her from the beginning—her take-no-nonsense attitude.

They were in the Blue Dragon vineyard, checking the status of their latest crop of grapes as they talked. It would be one month till harvest, but every day some new catastrophe might swoop down on them … a sudden frost, too much heat, wind, worms, fungus, just about anything.

But the catastrophe he feared most at the moment involved his son Torolf. He had the oddest premonition that all was not as it should be.

“ ’Twas a demented idea to begin with, his wanting to become a Navy SEAL. Did he not learn from his Uncle Jorund how hard the fighting life can be? Why could he not be content to be a farmer, as I was most of my life, or a vintner as I am now? ’Tis a good life. Bloody hell, even his brief stint as a smoke jumper putting out forest fires was less nerve-wracking than this.”

“He has to find his own way, honey,” Angela said, reaching up to kiss him fondly on the cheek. Ten years they had been wed now, and he loved her as
much or more than when he’d first seen her. In truth, that was what he wished for all his children—love.

She looped her arms around his neck and smiled, as if having read his mind. “You always said that your grandmother believed every man had a woman he was destined to love. Maybe Torolf has finally found his destiny, and he has been too busy to think of us.”

“Dost think so?” Magnus asked, hope ringing in his voice. “Yea, that is what it is. Torolf’s destiny has finally caught up with him.”

When brothers become a bother …

By the time the security specialists, the police, the FBI, a private detective, telephone reps, and Lillian had left her apartment late that afternoon, Alison was ready to pull out her hair … or what little her brother had left.

“This was not necessary, Ian,” she insisted, fixing herself a cup of herbal tea—the soothing-the-nerves kind. Security lighting that would make Lillian’s residence resemble a Wal-Mart parking lot, a new unlisted telephone number and caller I.D., triple-bolt locks, a movement-detection system … holy moly, she feared entering her own apartment. She wouldn’t be surprised if Ian had called in Henry Lee to double check for fingerprints.

Meanwhile, Ian was chowing down on a plateful of Lillian’s white chocolate macadamia nut cookies.
“Yes, it was necessary. And before you protest that you can take care of yourself, I’m aware of that. But I’m still your brother. And by the way, thanks for the wallet, even if my birthday’s not till tomorrow.”

She made a face at him.

He grinned at her.

“Listen, Allie, it’s always better to be safe than sorry. I can take care of myself, too, but the title for my home in San Diego is listed under an alias, I use a secure cell phone only when in my home, and I have protective devices throughout the structure. Doesn’t mean I’m a scaredy-cat. It means I’m smart.”

She exhaled with disgust. “You did all that stuff when you were an active SEAL working on covert antiterrorist ops. Hiding your identity and location was essential then to keep the tangos from infiltrating intel in this country.”

“It still is essential. When are you gonna learn? You are a Navy officer with security clearance to a military base. You are the daughter of an admiral and sister to a SEAL, a pilot, and a midshipman living on important Naval Academy grounds. Hell, those Middle East terrorists whose plot was thwarted by David’s team five years ago may still be looking for revenge, and what better way to get it than through his fiancée? Or me.”

He blinked several times to stem the tears that welled in his eyes. Sometimes Alison forgot that Ian had been on that Lebanese op, as well … the only SEAL survivor. Once he got his emotions under control, he continued, “You are a potential target, whether you like it or not, whether you ever become a SEAL yourself.”

He was probably right, but she’d heard the lecture
many times before. “Go home, Ian. I need to take a nap for fifteen hours or so … until tomorrow at least … to recover from you.”

He still grinned. Then his face went sober. “Are we going to talk about you and Magnusson?”

“No, we are not. Definitely not.”

“You are treading dangerous waters, sis.”

“Professionally or personally?”

“Both.”

“Let me just say one thing on the subject, then drop it. It’s been five years since David died. I haven’t been involved with anyone in all that time. Not one single man. I just haven’t been interested. If I’ve finally found a man who catches my eye … well, would you deny me that?”

“Does it have to be a subordinate? Does it have to be the goofball of SEAL Class 500? Does it have to be the number-one splinter in my behind?”

She shrugged. “I certainly didn’t choose him.”

“Can’t you unchoose him?”

“Unchoose?” She laughed and grabbed for one of the sinfully delicious cookies. She sighed and closed her eyes with delight.

“Yeah, unchoose him.”

“Don’t make too much of this thing with Max. Just because a girl, or woman, surrenders occasionally to the temptation of a cookie, it doesn’t mean she is dumb enough to suddenly maintain a steady diet of sweets.”

“That’s a helluva analogy, sis. Some women have been known to let themselves go because they get addicted to sugar.”

She laughed. “You’re right. It was a bad comparison. Not to worry, though. I can control my appetites.”

“Oh, God, I wish you hadn’t said that. You’re starting to scare me. Surely it hasn’t gone so far that you can’t end it here. Call it a blip on your hormone screen and move on to someone more suitable. A different cookie, so to speak.”

Her eyes went hard. No longer in sugar heaven or amused by the analogy game, she said, “Lay off, big brother. I’m a big girl. It’s my life. Whether I make the right choices or mistakes, they’re mine to make.”

“Oh, shit! It’s too late, isn’t it? You now have a sugar craving.”

Alison feared that was true. But then she smiled to herself. She couldn’t wait to indulge again.

If wishes were fishes, they’d all be whales …

Ragnor had been on San Clemente Island for one sennight, engaged in war games. Thor’s teeth! War was too serious a business to call it a game, but that was what these lackwitted military men did here.

He now knew how to shoot a rifle at both a stable or moving target with some precision. That was fun.

He now knew how to plant an explosive device that blew away everything within five hides, including buildings, trees, birds, and human eardrums. That was fun.

He now knew how to employ escape-and-evade and search-and-rescue tactics at night, with a team of instructors and other sadists hot on his heels. That was fun.

He also now knew how it felt to be captured by the enemy, subjected to endless grilling questions, forced to live with one’s own less-than-aromatic unwashed body, squeezed into a small bamboo-cage prison too
small for a grown man to stand upright, and nigh starved to death, except for eating roots and loathsome grubs, which did not taste like chicken no matter what anyone said. That was not fun.

The only thing that could be worse, in Ragnor’s opinion, would be jumping out of sky machines called arrow-planes and floating to the ground under canvas tents, which was to be an upcoming “evolution” for the SEAL trainees. Demented, that’s what it was. He chose not to think about it, lest he shiver in his boots … an ignoble thing for a Viking to do.

They were seated in a small building waiting for a large motoring boat to take them, and a large number of other teams, back to Coronado. He’d tried to call Alison on her tell-a-fone before they left the base, but he kept getting a message that her number had been disconnected. Her brother Ian, who’d been along on the trip-from-Nifhelm, had told him to stop worrying about her, that she was in safe hands now. Hah! As if that would reassure him! The chieftain had also told him to bug off where his sister was concerned. He’d had the poor sense to tell the chieftain where he could put that bug, which had earned him several dozen more running punishments. By the time this time-travel nonsense was over, Ragnor was going to have limbs of steel … and a very nice arse, too.