Chapter Three

Playing possum …

Ian blacked out for only a second, but he remained still, flat on his stomach, arms stretched forward, one hand holding his assault rifle. He deliberately kept his eyes closed to bare slits.

He waited while the woman circled him tentatively, checking for signs of life, he would guess. First, she toed him in the side to see if he would move, which he didn’t. Then the nutcase pinched his buttock … as if that would cause him to move. He barely felt a thing.

He’d only got a brief glimpse of her before being struck, but, man, she was some kind of wild thing. She would scare the bejesus out of someone in the dark, for sure. Plus, she reeked to high heaven.

He could easily jump her now, but decided to wait and see what she was up to. More important, who she was, out here in the middle of Arab nowhere.

“Cat Two to Cat One. Contact? Contact? Cat Two to Cat One.” Cage kept saying into Ian’s earphone.

When in hostile territory, real names were not used over radio lines which could be intercepted. Since this was Operation Rodent, the members of Ian’s squad had named themselves Cat One, Cat Two and so on. The upper chain of command had names of well-known cats, such as Garfield and Sylvester. It was a joke among the teams that none of the flag ranks would take the name Puss, as in Puss in Boots.

When the woman moved to his legs, he whispered into his throat mike. “Cat One here. Do you read? I’m okay.”

“Roger. I’m watchin’ your six. Need help?”

“Not yet. Woman here. Watch for others. Alert team.”

“Did you say something?” the woman shrieked, coming back to his head area.

He made a soft groaning noise to cover up. Then went back to silence.

“Bloody hell, I’d best hurry afore he wakens,” the woman said in an odd accent.

Ian decided to play possum for a while to see what was up.

My cave is your cave, honey …

Madrene started to drag the man farther into the cave by his outstretched arms. He was still face-down.

“Loki’s lips!” she swore under her breath. “He must weigh as much as a warhorse. Must be I am weakened by my escape … and lack of food.” In the end, it took her a considerable time to pull and shove his large body, huffing and puffing the whole while.

The villain appeared to be as tall as the men in her family. Lean, but well muscled. Instead of Arab garb, an odd fabric covered his wide shoulders, narrow waist and long legs. It was a mixture of browns, green and blacks … a combination that would blend well in a wooded area. His hands were covered with fingerless gloves. In one of those hands had been a strange, molded object made of iron or some similar product; it had slipped from his fingers when she’d started tugging. Was it a club?

I should just kill him, one part of her said.

Yech! the other part countered.

It would be done in self-defense … of a sort, her hardened side argued.

Hmpfh! Killing is killing.

Mayhap I will kill him later.

Yea, later is good.

Madrene had no idea why she hesitated. She had killed in the past. She was not proud of the fact, but it had become a reality of her life after being left alone to safeguard Norstead. Fighting men needed a leader, and she’d been forced to take on that role. But usually it had been done to save her life or that of one of her hird of soldiers. She sighed with resignation. She needed to know more about this man before dispatching him to the afterworld.

Was he one of Fakhir’s men, come to take her back for punishment? If so, he would merit death. Or some other man with ill intent? Then, too, he would merit death.

What a fool I am! I should have killed him outright. But she could not bring herself to do so until she discerned his intent. It was a weakness of hers, she supposed. Her father and brothers would not have hesitated.

I should turn him over and see if he has any hidden weapons. Nay, I must needs restrain him first lest he awaken. With quick efficiency, she removed the large cloth pouch with shoulder straps off the man’s back. Then she tore two long strips from the hem of her robe, thus leaving it only mid-calf length. Wrenching the man’s arms behind his back, she bound his wrists tightly. She did the same for his ankles. After that, she went outside the cave to survey the area for any of his comrades that might be lurking about. There were none. She swept the ground with a leafy branch to hide his footprints.

When she came back inside, she saw that he still lay face-down in the same spot. She rolled him over with a bare foot.

“Eeeeek!” she screamed. It was a monster she had captured. Not only was his face black, with only his eyelids and lips showing white, but there was an appendage coming out of his ear and around his face to rest in front of his mouth, like a grasshopper. A man-beast, that was what he must be. A troll. She had heard of such in the sagas spun by the skalds of old, but never believed in them. Till now.

Bending over, she touched a fingertip to his cheek and saw that some of the black came off. Ahhh. Face paint, like the Scottish warriors wear when going into battle. So, this must be a soldier of some sort. A troll-soldier. Hmmmm.

Just then, his eyes shot wide open, which made his appearance even more bizarre, with the whites of his eyes surrounded by all that black. He tried to lurch upward but soon realized that he was restrained hand and foot.

She jumped backward, just in case.

He let himself fall back to the ground and looked up at her. He seemed just as surprised and repulsed at her appearance as she was at his. “Jesus, who are you?” he asked.

English. The troll-man spoke the Saxon English. Just my luck to be saddled not only with a troll, but a bloody Saxon as well. “Nay, I am not Jesus,” she replied. The man’s head wound must have rendered him senseless.

“Jes … what?”

“I … am … not … Jesus,” she said, very slowly, so he could comprehend her meaning.

“Holy hell! I know you’re not Jesus. Who are you?”

“Madrene,” she said, before she could hold her tongue. ’Twas not wise to give the enemy too much information.

“Yasmine?” he repeated, mishearing her. His eyes went wide with wonder.

“Yea, that is who I am. Yasmine.” What a dolt!

Narrowing his eyes, he reverted to the Arabic tongue and asked, “Are you Yasmine?”

“I already said I was,” she snapped back, also in Arabic. A double dolt, that is what I have here.

“You speak Arabic.” The troll-man smiled then, which made him look almost appealing, and at the same time ridiculous in that black face with white eyes and teeth. “Sonofabitch! Talk about wandering in a field of shit and landing in a gold mine,” he muttered to himself.

“What is your name?” she inquired in English, a language which came easier to her tongue than the Arabic, since it was more like her own Norse.

He hesitated, then disclosed, “Ian MacLean.”

“A Scotsman! I should have known,” she said, throwing her hands up with disgust.

“What’s wrong with a Scotsman?” he asked, working himself into a sitting position, then wiggling his arse back so his head rested against the cave wall, his long legs outstretched.

“Hah! Sneaky thieves, that’s what they are. Always stealing cattle and such. And they eat that horrible haggis.”

He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what she was saying. Betimes she had that effect on men. “Are you the one who knocked me out?”

She nodded.

“Why?”

Questions, questions, questions! Does everything have to have an explanation? She shrugged. “Every soldier knows to take the offensive. Attack before being attacked.”

“You, a soldier?” he scoffed.

“Betimes.” I should have knocked him harder. She could tell that her answer surprised him.

“What makes you think I would have attacked you?”

Now, that is a silly question. “You were carrying a club.”

“Huh?”

She pointed to the iron object.

“That’s a weapon, for chrissake. An assault rifle, to be precise.”

Madrene hadn’t a clue as to what he’d just said.

“Let me go,” he demanded.

Does this man truly not understand that I am the one in charge here? “Are you demented? Nay, I will not release you. In fact, I am thinking about killing you.”

He arched his eyebrows. “What’s stopping you?”

How do I know? “That is not for you to know.”

He seemed to accept her answer … for now.

The man is extremely calm, considering his position. “Are you not fearful of death?”

He pondered her question a moment. “I’m not afraid to die … but I don’t want to.”

A logical answer, she decided.

“Your English sounds … odd,” he remarked.

“Nay, your English sounds odd.”

“Now that we have established that we’re both odd, what is that ungodly stink in here?” He sniffed several times, then looked pointedly at her.

Her face heated with embarrassment. “Well, you would smell, too, if you had not bathed in more than a sennight, especially in this heat,” she said indignantly. In truth, her underarm scent was enough to turn her own stomach.

“A sennight? What’s a sennight?”

“Seven days.”

“Why didn’t you just say a week?”

“Huh? Were you sent by Fakhir?”

He frowned in confusion and repeated back to her, “Was I sent to fuck her?” Then, “Fuck who?”

“Oh, you vulgar beast! I said Fakhir, not … that other word.”

He smiled again.

And Madrene felt an odd flutter in her stomach, not unlike butterfly wings. She supposed it must be hunger pangs.

Just then, she could swear she heard talking coming from his ear/mouth appendage accompanied by a sort of buzzing noise. Rather like a bee buzz, she decided. He really was not human, then. “Are you a bug?” she blurted out. The buzzing, as well as the talking, stopped.

“No, I’m a SEAL.”

“That is ridiculous.” I’d better watch him closely. The blow to his head must have turned him barmy.

“No more ridiculous than asking me if I’m a bug.”

Should I just humor the man? “Where is your glacier? Did it melt in this excessive heat? Ha, ha, ha.”

“I am not a bug. I am a SEAL,” he said, not at all amused by her little jest.

I have had enough of this nonsense. The lackwit is trying to make me out the fool when it is clear that he fits that description better than I. “You buzz like a bee. You have a buglike appendage sticking out of your ear. You’re ugly as a … bug.”

“Are you for real?”

“What? You think you are dreaming me? Methinks you might be an idiot.”

“There’s only one idiot here, and it’s not me.” He exhaled with a whoosh as men are wont to do when women have outwitted them. “Have you ever heard the proverb ‘Silence is golden’?”

“Are you saying I talk too much?”

“If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, it must be a duck.”

“Is that another proverb? If so, it is lackwitted.”

“I like proverbs, and that’s a very good one. By the way, how long have you been living in this cozy cave?”

“Since this morn,” she answered.

“Are you alone?”

“Dost see anyone else here?”

He bared his teeth at her sarcasm. “Does anyone else know about this cave?”

“I hope not.”

“Why are you here?”

“I am running away.” Now, why did I tell him that? Why am I telling him anything?

“From whom?”

“That bloody Arab who calls himself my master.” My tongue must have a mind of its own.

“Really? That’s interesting. So, you’re not with him by choice?”

“Of course not. Do I look like a harem houri?”

“Not like any whore I’ve ever seen.” He gave her a sweeping head-to-toe scrutiny, and it was not complimentary. Her grimy feet and exposed calves got special attention.

“I do not appreciate your insult.” She put a hand to her head. Her hair must look like a haystack.

“What insult?”

“Calling me a whore.”

“Hey! I’m not the one who mentioned a whore first.”

She tilted her head before understanding came to her. “You halfbrain! I said houri, not whore.”

He grinned then. “Someone tried to make you into a harem girl?”

The oaf! Apparently he’d known what a houri was all along.

“Pfff! Nine men tried these past three years. None succeeded. I have developed a knack for making a sultan’s manpart wilt. So, best you not try any of that bedplay with me.” If I had a needle and thread, I would sew my mouth shut. Be quiet, Madrene. He is quite possibly an enemy. Stop giving him information.

His jaw went slack with astonishment. “This is the most incredible conversation I’ve ever had with a woman. Let me get this straight. You escaped from some Arab sultan, and—”

“The last one was a sheikh.” It was a flaw in her personality that she always needed to correct mistakes.

“You escaped from an Arab sheikh, in fact nine different Arab sheikhs—”

“Three were sultans, two were caliphs.”

“Stop interrupting.”

“Interrupting is one of my talents, or so the men in my family always complained.”

She could swear she heard laughter coming from his appendage.

He exhaled with exasperation, just like her father used to do when she nagged him endlessly. “You escaped from nine different Arabs who tried to make you their harem girl, and you were passed from one to the other because you can make their cocks wilt.”

“Precisely.” She smiled at him before she caught herself, then frowned some more.

“How did you wind up with the first … sultan?”

“Ah, that is a long and painful story.”

He glanced at his bound legs. “It doesn’t appear as if I’m going anywhere soon.”

“I am a noblewoman in my own country.”

“You’re not Arab?”

“Nay.” Why he was surprised she could not say. Surely she did not resemble Arab women, not with her light hair and fair skin. Mayhap her complexion had darkened during her sojourn in this land.

“Where do you come from?”

Once again, she cautioned herself not to disclose too much information. She thought a moment and then said, “The Rus lands.”

“You’re Russian?” Shock showed on his face, and he muttered something about the Pent-dragon going to be interested in that information.

One thing stood out in his mutterings. The word dragon . Yea, he must indeed be a troll who lived in the land of dragons.

Just then, there appeared to be a lot of chatter coming from his appendage.

“Lower the volume on my headset,” he ordered her.

“Huh? Who are you to give me orders?”

“My headset—turn it down, dammit.”

“Why do you want me to turn down the set of your head? Does it hurt?”

“Adjust the frickin’ volume, here, near my ear.” He jerked his head, indicating the part of the appendage that came out of his ear.

Peering closer, she decided it might not be a part of his body, but a part of that thing in his ear. But she was taking no chances. “Nay. It might bite me.”

“Bite you? I have landed in a loony bin. No, bite me!” he said with chagrin. If his hands were free, he would probably be tearing at his hair as her father had been wont to do on occasion when exasperated with her. She guessed she knew what his expression meant. ’Twas like Askil the Angry, who used to say “Eat my nose!” when he was especially angry.

“Bite me? Is that another of your ridiculous sayings?” She raised her chin haughtily and said something she never in her old life would have dared say. “Nay, I will not bite you. Bite me! ” She felt herself blush like a young maid.

His brown eyes—and, yes, she could see in the dim light from the cave’s opening that they were brown as clover honey—almost bulged with astonishment. She was astonished herself and wished she could take the words back, especially since she belatedly suspected a different meaning to those words. But she was ne’er one to back down once she’d taken a stand.

“You are priceless, sweetheart,” he said and began to laugh … and laugh … and laugh.

“Mayhap I will kill you after all,” she said.

The brute continued to laugh.

Caving in …

Ian took one last look at the screwball in front of him, then turned his attention back to his headset, which was staticky for a couple seconds more. That was why he’d wanted her to lower the volume.

“Cat One here. I say, Cat One. Do you read me?”

“Damn, where’ve you been?” asked Pretty Boy, who carried the satellite radio equipment. From his hushed voice it was obvious he was in a position where stealth was required. In fact, Ian could hear gunfire in the background.

“What’s your position?”

“We set up a perimeter about half a mile from the target. Cat Three and Cat Four”—meaning JAM and Sly—“went in for a look-see. There are hostiles coming and going … at least three dozen. No Big Rat yet, but he’s there. I’d bet my … uh, tail he is.”

“What’s the gunfire I hear in the background?” Ian recognized the stuttering sound of an AK-47 and other rifle fire.

“A couple of jerk-offs doing target practice. Guess they’re bored. They appear to be waiting for something … or someone.”

“How about munitions?”

“A stockpile. Everything from Uzis to rocket-propelled grenades.”

“Hmmm. Did you alert Garfield?” General Adams at CentCom was Garfield.

“Yep. Will fill you in later.” Which meant, in person, or when they had a more secure line. “Seems there’s some intel that a big-time roach is coming in, even bigger than the Big Rat.” Roach was code for Al Qaeda. “They figure we can nab the whole bunch at one time.”

“That’s just sweet. Rats and roaches. What do they think we are? Supercats?”

“Nope. Just frogs.” SEALs were traditionally known as frogmen from the old days.

Ian grinned. “Same thing. Both super.”

“Yeah,” Pretty Boy agreed. Ian guessed he was smiling, too.

“Should we come rescue you?” Pretty Boy asked, laughter in his voice. Apparently, not just Cage, but all the guys had been listening in on his conversation with the wild woman, or as much as they’d been able to overhear.

“In a while. For now, tell the other cats to hold their position till I tell you to come back here to the bat nest for further orders.” He hoped that Pretty Boy understood that he meant cave when he mentioned bat nest. “Tell Cat Three to continue as point man in my absence.”

Pretty Boy must be wondering why Ian, leader of this squad, wasn’t planning to join them immediately. Instead, he asked, “What bat nest?”

“The one I pointed out to you cats near our drop.”

“Ahhhh. Are you sure you’re not in any trouble?”

“I am in a little bit of trouble.”

“A little bit?” Yasmine exclaimed from across the cave. He’d almost forgotten she was here, but there she stood, hands on hips, tapping her filthy foot on the dirt floor. You’d think she was some kind of friggin’ princess, instead of a straggly-haired harridan. “You are in big trouble, I assure you.”

“What’s going on?” Pretty Boy asked.

“I’m in the bat nest near our drop zone, like I said, and I’ve got a … um, friend here.”

“Are you referring to me? I beg to differ. I am not even close to being your friend,” Yasmine squawked. The woman did like to talk a lot.

“Are you sure you don’t need backup?” Concern resonated in Pretty Boy’s voice.

“Nope. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“You’d better not be planning to handle me. Dare to touch me and I will lop off one of your body parts.” Her voice was getting shriller and shriller.

Man, she is a bloodthirsty wench. No wonder she and Jamal are lovers.

Not surprisingly, Yasmine continued to prattle on. “Why are you talking to yourself?” She stepped closer, but not too close, to see what he was about. “I knew a man once who talked to himself … Dar the Dumb. He was demented. Are you demented? Huh? Huh?”

“So what’s with the pussycat?” Pretty Boy inquired.

“That’s debatable … whether she’s a pussy … cat, or not.” Ian chuckled.

“Oooh, I am getting closer and closer to killing you,” she said.

“Get this,” he told Pretty Boy. “She just might be the Big Rat’s cheese. And she speaks Arabic.”

“Oh, my God! You hit paydirt?”

“In spades.”

“Is she as beautiful as the intel said?”

He looked over at the glaring woman, who seemed to think he was talking to himself. She must have been totally cloistered all her life not to recognize a headset … or kept in some harem, like she claimed. But no, no way was this chick ever selected for a harem. She was tall, probably five-ten. Her long, dirty hair, which stuck out every which way, was a nondescript color because it was so stringy and greasy … probably a mousey brown. Her eyes were pretty, though, sort of an icy blue. And her mouth … holy shit! … why hadn’t he noticed her mouth before? Angelina Jolie had nothing on her in that department. But even with that mouth, she was not a babe by any means. He laughed and answered Pretty Boy, “Beautiful is not the word I would use.”

“Are you talking to yourself about me?” she demanded to know. “If you are, stop it.”

He just waggled his eyebrows at the shrew.

“I could put a gag on you,” she warned.

“Sonofabitch!” Pretty Boy said. “Did I just hear her say she was gonna put a gag on you? How could she do that?”

“Because she knocked me out with a rock and tied me up … ankles and hands.”

Pretty Boy must have heard the amusement in his voice because he laughed.

Ian still had the K-Bar in his boot and could slit his ties at any minute. He preferred to wait for the right time.

“You’re going to get laid tonight, aren’t you?” Pretty Boy accused him. “That’s not fair.”

“I don’t think sex is on this puss’s agenda.”

“You can be certain of that,” Yasmine said hotly. “And remember what I said about my talent.” She waved her fingers toward his crotch.

“Wait till I tell the other guys about this,” Pretty Boy said. “You’re the only one on this squad who isn’t horny enough to bang any babe in sight … well, almost the only one … and of course you’re the one who gets the prize.”

“Listen, she’s no prize. In fact, she says she’s been kicked out of nine harems because—”

“ Harems? ” Pretty Boy sputtered.

“—because she claims to have a talent for turning hard-ons into wet noodles.”

“Hasn’t anyone told her it’s supposed to be the other way around?” Pretty Boy chuckled and said something to one of the guys who must have come up beside him. “You won’t believe …” was all Ian heard.

He glanced over at Yasmine, who was crouching down and fiddling with his backpack, unable so far to undo the clasps. There were things in there he did not want her to see. “Gotta go,” he said hurriedly. “Tell Garfield and Sylvester who I have and ask for further orders. She says she was being held against her wishes. Maybe she can be offered asylum in return for some information. On the other hand, she might be lying through her teeth.”

“Got it. Over and out.”

“So, sweetheart,” he drawled out then, causing her to stand quickly and look down at him suspiciously, “wanna play a game?”