Chapter Six

Time to get out of Dodge …

Ian and his squad were running as fast as they could just before nightfall, dragging a bound and wounded Jamal and carrying the terrified Arab girl. They were headed toward the extraction site.

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.”

“Take Ms. Olgadottir to the women’s quarters for a shower, then bring her to my office, and call General Assim and Commander Kelly to be present as well. Do not let this young lady out of your sight.”

“Are we ever going to eat?” Madrene asked as her stomach growled.

“After our … meeting, you will eat. But before that, you will have to go to the women’s quarters for a shower.” The general sniffed dramatically. “I don’t think the cooks would let you near their food.”

She felt her face heat with embarrassment. “You would smell too, if you were covered with camel spit.”

The general fought a smile, though what mirth he found in her words, she could not tell.

The women came forward, walking stiffly, then flanked her on either side. When they put a hand on each of her elbows to lead her forward, she shrugged out of their grip. “For the love of Frigg, I can walk myself.”

“They want to prevent you from escaping,” Ian told her. He had stepped aside to make way for the women.

“I am not such a halfbrain that I would attempt to flee in the midst of the troll kingdom. I will wait till later.”

Ian rolled his eyes, then turned to the general. She followed the two women to whatever fate held for her.

The last thing she heard Ian tell his commander was, “With all due respect, sir, don’t hurt her.”

That made her feel a mite better; so she asked the women warriors, “Perchance, could I have a horn of mead? My throat is drier than a dragon’s tongue. No doubt it is due to the ride I just had in a bird up in the sky. Son of a god! That would dry the spit out of even a hardened warrior. Is that rouge on your lips? I like it. Better than the harem houris who rouge their nipples. Oh, mayhap you rouge your nipples, too. Do you two need to use the privy? I only ask because you walk just like Baldr the Blacksmith when he has the roiling bowels and must needs find a bush quickly. Leastways—”

“Ms. Olgadottir,” the woman on her right said. “Shut up!”

Can’t Get You Out of My Mind …

Ian took a long, hot shower.

And thought about Yasmine.

He thought about shaving, then didn’t bother.

And thought about Yasmine.

He put on a clean camouflage uniform.

And thought about Yasmine.

He spent an hour with his squad in the routine after-mission briefing with the general, his staff and half a dozen CIA ops. They would do a more detailed critique once they returned to SpecWar Command at Coronado.

And he thought about Yasmine.

The general complimented them on their good work. “You men have done the world a favor bringing in Jamal. We hope to get intel out of him, but be prepared. We’re going to announce his capture to the news media tomorrow in hopes of scaring more of his scum-of-the-earth comrades to turn themselves in.”

“Will we in Force Squad be required to deal with the media?”

“Yes.”

All eight of them groaned. Dealing with the press was a SEAL’s nightmare. One female reporter from AP was particularly hard on the SEALs. Every single time, she tried to bait them with stereotypical questions about elite commandos. If they had done half of what she’d asked them about, they would have to be Supermen.

“I also want to commend you on the skill with which you rescued Altaira. Ambassador Riyad is on his way from D.C. and will want to thank you personally. Good job!”

“Now for the bad news.” The general turned to Ian. “What were you thinking, to leave your team? I’m sure your commander will have more to say about that, but, good Lord, man, it could have been a disaster.”

“But it wasn’t,” Ian interjected, unwisely, then added, “sir.”

“Next, what were you thinking, going back for that woman during the final extraction?”

Ian thought about explaining why but decided that nothing he said was going to make any difference.

“No matter your good intentions and no matter how successful the outcome, those were risks a SEAL leader should not take. You know better. It will go in your record.” He scowled at Ian, who was biting his tongue. Then the general relaxed and smiled. “But luckily, the good accomplished on this mission will far outweigh the bad. Congratulations.” The general came around from behind his desk and shook each of their hands in turn.

It wasn’t the first time Ian had screwed up and probably wouldn’t be the last. And, actually, this mission would probably mean a medal for him, and promotions for him and all his men. Jamal was one of the most hated terrorists in the world. His capture was important to the United States and its allies.

“The CIA has Jamal in one of the interrogation rooms as we speak,” the general told them just before they left. “I expect to talk with the female any minute now. Lieutenant MacLean, are you sure she’s Jamal’s lover?”

Ian felt his face heat up. “Pretty sure … sir.”

“I beg your pardon, Lieutenant. ‘Pretty sure’ is not a term we accept in this Navy, as you well know.”

The admonition annoyed Ian, especially since it came on top of the criticism. Bristling, he defended himself. “The woman was in Iraq … in a remote region known to be Jamal’s hiding spot. She said her name was Yasmine … at that time. She spoke Arabic. With all due respect, General … sir, I would have been remiss if I hadn’t assumed she was the tango’s … uh, cohort.”

“That remains to be seen.” The general hadn’t cared for his tone, any more than Ian had cared for his superior’s. But the Navy was not a democracy, and Ian had to remind himself to pay the proper respect to a higher-ranking officer.

After they left the briefing and headed toward the mess hall, he was still thinking about Yasmine.

What the hell is wrong with me?

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Cage elbowed him in the side to get his attention. “It’s Yasmine, isn’t it?

“Yeah. Crazy, isn’t it? She has Phyllis Diller hair. She nags so much she give shrews a bad name. She smells. She talks funny. She freakin’ tried to kill me. Twice.”

“Beauty’s only skin deep,” Slick said, throwing a proverb at Ian for a change.

“Yeah, if you’re drunk out of your mind and willing to dig down to her liver,” Ian countered.

Cage put a finger in the air as if to interrupt him. “She does have nice breasts, though, bless her heart.”

“Breasts aren’t everything,” Ian observed, with a straight face yet.

Cage and the other members of his squad exploded with laughter at that remark. Ian laughed, too.

“To some people they are,” Geek pointed out.

“Oh, yeah?” Pretty Boy said. “You got statistics on that, Mister Brainiac?”

“Actually—”

“Don’t let him needle you,” Ian advised Geek. To the rest of them, he explained, “I know it’s crazy, but I feel guilty about turning her over.”

“Maybe it’s a bit of Stockholm Syndrome,” JAM offered. “You know, where the captive falls in love with the captor.”

“I am not in love with that witch. Besides, I was the captor, not the captive,” he protested.

“Stranger things have happened. Besides, they say that ugly women try harder to please.” It was Slick speaking and waggling his eyebrows at him.

“There is that,” Sly said. “Maybe she’s the Avis of the female species.”

“Actually, I’m getting kinda tired of beautiful women,” Pretty Boy commented.

They all stopped and gaped at him.

“Gotcha!” Pretty Boy said with a laugh.

JAM said something as they entered the mess hall that got Ian thinking. “I wonder what Yasmine looks like under all that grime.”

“Before, she looked like a dirty witch who swallowed her broom,” Omar said. “I suspect that after her shower she will look like a clean witch who swallowed her broom.”

Ian thought a moment, then said, “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

She was no swan, but …

In some ways, Madrene felt as if she’d died and gone to Asgard, so heavenly was her experience in this new world.

Her robe had been tossed in a basket to be taken out later to their midden. The two lady soldiers, whose names turned out to be Amber and Dough-lore-ass, took her to a bathing chamber where she enjoyed the most bone-melting all-over wash. Without even sitting down in a tub! Madrene had thought the bathing pools in the Baghdad harems were luxurious, but even they could not compare to the showers of hot water that came out of a metal sprayer in the wall.

And the soap! The hard bars of rose-scented soap were a luxury she would have thought reserved for the highest royalty. For the hair, there was a scented liquid called sham-poo. Amber and Dough-lore-ass claimed even the lowest classes had access to such special soaps and sham-poos. If the scented soap and sham-poo were not enough, they also gave her an object called dee-odor-ant to apply in her armpits. She would smell like a bloody rosebush by the time they were done with her.

Afterward, they stood her before an enormous mirror, a luxury most kings could not afford in her country, and helped her comb all the tangles out of her waist-length blond hair. Her hair was the same color as it had been when she’d left the Norselands three years ago, but her skin had darkened somewhat because of her exposure to the hot Arab sun.

Amber had helped her in the bathing chamber. Dough-lore-ass, on the other hand, stood with a weapon in her hand the entire time, guarding her. As if she might run off naked to the gods-only-knew-where!

“I like the name Amber,” Madrene remarked. “My father and my brothers traded in amber.”

The two women just stared at her. Then Amber said, “You told the general your name was Madrene. Do they call you Maddie for short?”

Madrene had forgotten that she’d divulged her real name. That had been careless of her. She blinked several times, then said, “Yea, they call me Maddie.”

“I don’t think we have a bra that would fit you, Maddie. You’ve got to be at least a 34C, maybe even 34D,” Amber said, once they were out of the bathing chamber and in the sleeping chamber known as a bare-racks. Other women in the room or passing by gazed at her with interest, but they did not intrude.

“What is a bra?” Madrene asked. She had a large, plush towel wrapped around her body, covering her from chest to thighs.

Amber and Dough-lore-ass looked at each other, then at her.

At the same time, Amber lifted her shirt , revealing the oddest garment. Made of an almost transparent lace fabric, it covered the breasts and had straps over the shoulders and a band around the chest.

“Well, hell fires, what is the purpose of that attire?”

“To hold up the breasts,” said Amber, who had no breasts to speak of.

“Like a harness?”

The two women laughed.

“You could say that,” Dough-lore-ass replied. “Plus, they make a woman feel sexy. And they turn men on.” She raised her eyes meaningfully.

“If by ‘turning on,’ you mean what I think you do, well, I doubt me that the men in my country would turn lustsome over that skimpy attire. If given a choice, methinks they would prefer the udders bare and hanging in the wind, though I am no expert on the subject.”

Amber helped pull a green, collarless, short-sleeved shirt over Madrene’s head. The letters U.S. Navy were on the front. Like most women in her country, Madrene had never been taught to read, but she was able to make out some words and letters.

“Going bare-chested in public is not an option, Maddie, especially here on a military base,” Dough-lore-ass pointed out with a smile.

“I know that. Bloody hell, didst think I would ever consider such scandalous behavior?” Madrene shook her head at their foolishness. “I referred to your remark about men liking … what did you call them? … bras. Besides, judging by my brothers’ past conduct, men’s staffs rise at the least provocation. And if they have been imbibing too much mead, they need no provocation at all. Their dangly parts have a mind of their own. Leastways, that is what Ragnor used to say.”

Both women were staring at her, slack-jawed with amazement. She affected people like that on occasion.

“I talk too much betimes,” she admitted with a shrug. “And I tend to be blunt of tongue. I do not mean to offend, though often that is the case.”

Amber patted her on the shoulder. “No, no, that’s all right. You just surprised us.”

“And you talk oddly,” Dough-lore-ass added. She was still guarding Madrene but did not seem to consider her a real threat.

“Hah! Why does everyone say that my speech is strange? It is all of you who talk in an odd fashion.”

“What country are you from?” Amber asked as she pulled out a flesh-colored bra from a chest. She held it up in front of Madrene and nodded her opinion that it would fit.

Madrene considered telling them the truth, but decided that caution was the better path. After all, she had been taken from her homeland and forced to stay in the Arab land for two long years. And she was still in the Arab lands, for all she knew. Best to be careful of how much she revealed, she decided. “North of here,” she said.

“Syria? Turkey?” Dough-lore-ass inquired with seeming shock. She and Amber exchanged looks again.

What was it about this land that everything has something to do with animals? Seals, birds and now turkeys. I am certainly not a turkey, last time I checked. She was about to tell them just that, but another woman soldier came up and told them, “General Adams wants to see the prisoner as soon as possible.”

“Which prisoner?” Madrene asked. Then realized that the woman was referring to her. “I am not a prisoner,” she started to say, then realized that perchance she was.

Quickly, Amber found her braies made of the woodland fabric that the “seals” had worn, dark calf-length hose, and heavy boots. But first, they showed her how to put on an undergarment called panties. They were flesh-colored, like the bra, and barely covered her belly, buttocks and nether hair. She giggled at the feel of the garment on her body.

Soon, flanked by the two women soldiers, she was walking toward the general’s chamber. She could not wait to get this meeting over with so she could eat, her stomach being nigh empty.

“Those SEALs from Force Squad are going to get a rude awakening when they get a look at this babe,” Amber remarked to Dough-lore-ass.

“Oh, yeah! I can’t wait to see their faces,” Dough-lore-ass replied. “I heard Seaman LeBlanc refer to her Phyllis Diller hair.”

“Are you speaking of me?” Madrene asked.

“Yep. You are beautiful, and I’ll bet my stripes they didn’t have a clue,” Amber explained.

“I am not beautiful,” Madrene said with consternation. She hated it when people felt the need to pay false compliments.

“Maybe not beautiful exactly,” Dough-lore-ass said. “More like knock-’em-dead attractive.”

“Tsk-tsk! What nonsense you spout!”

“Honey, you’re tall, you’re slim, you have to-die-for hair, and you have breasts that would stop even a gay guy in his tracks.”

“Gay guy? Why would my breasts make a happy man stop?”

Amber and Dough-lore-ass erupted with laughter. When they explained what “gay” meant, she laughed, too. Thus the three of them were laughing as they entered the general’s chamber.