The Valkyrie's Guardian (14 page)

Yesterday they had brought in a parachute malfunction victim. They called it “dirt poisoning,” and she didn't find it very funny. He was dead. There was nothing she could do.
I'm a doctor, not a necromancer,
she told the hopeful medics. Cassie put on her ER face and went through the procedures and paperwork. There was no crying in the Navy, but once it was over she hid in the stairwell and bawled her eyes out. Nineteen, never earned his SEAL trident, never married, only began to live, now dead. It always affected her, and she never forgot the ones she couldn't help.

Chief Hanson had watched her handle the oxygen poisoning patient last night, a Team operator, not a BUD/S candidate. He stood silently in the corner until everyone else left. “Want to be a SEAL?”

“Wrong plumbing,” Cassie shot over her shoulder, wondering what on earth he meant. Females weren't allowed in the SEALs, of course.

“There's a way. How bad do you want it?”

“I saw G. I. Jane. Didn't go so well for Demi Moore, so I don't have high hopes.”

“Go through CIA recruiting. Be a field agent. Then a contract agent. Everything is classified, and the SEALs can hire you on attachment as a specialist.” He crossed his arms over his chest and nodded. “It's not official. Most of it is so classified I have to deny you even exist. But in every way that counts, you'd be on Team Three.”

Wow, he was serious.
Cool!
was her initial reaction. Then, wariness. Still, Chief watched her with eagle eyes. He didn't mind the long stretches of silence. He seemed to hear her thoughts, perceived her hunger to do something that mattered. He knew she thrived on high-stakes situations and he recognized her grit. Uncanny discernment for a non-extra-sentient.

“I doubt the boys want pigtails on the team.” She looked him in the eye and he met her stare with laser intensity. Hard to believe this shrewd interrogator was the same man from the cafeteria prank.

“You're damn good, and they'd want you. It'd be an honor.”

Cassie had shuffled paperwork for a while, willing her soaring heart to calm so she could play it cool. She'd already failed twice at a normal human life. Kyros meant to keep her locked up like a museum piece. Jack was dead set on them being star-crossed lovers. Chief's idea was perfect. Until she screwed it up too. She always did.

“I'll give it to you straight, Chief. That sounds good, but I should save you the headache. I'm more trouble than I'm worth. For starters, my paperwork from the National Board of Medical Examiners isn't exactly in order, if you catch my meaning. Thanks but no thanks.”

“You're like Jack, right? Look, we don't ask questions here so you don't have to say. Trouble I can handle. And I doubt you're a bigger pain in the arse than MacGunn.” He waited, letting her consider — Negotiation 101. “I get there's some weird supernatural shit with MacGunn, and you got it too. Fact is, he saves lives, and so could you. Think about it.”

He left, and Cassie couldn't have been more shocked. He knew she was abnormal and wanted her anyway. He reported to Captain Russo the CO, who was an extra-sentient himself, who had been rubber-stamping everything she did this week. The SEALs would be disappointed if they thought Cassie could perform like Jack. He was one of a kind. But here, she was a kickass doctor and an even better healer.

And Jack was reckless. She knew one day he would go to battle and not come home. But the chance to be there and do her best to save him: irresistible. If she couldn't be on Kyros' team, she would be on Jack's. And it seemed she had a way in even if Jack didn't like it.

Speak of the devil, and he will appear.

Jack's revved thoughts preceded his thunderous footsteps. He came running as fast as he dared in public, and Cassie scrambled to fling open the screen door before he punched right through it.

“Wheels-up. It's happened.”

“What happened?”

“He made his move. We gotta go. Now. Anything important here that can't wait?”

“Just finished.”

He grabbed her hand, and Cassie had to toss her stethoscope onto the counter over her shoulder. He jogged her through the doors of team headquarters and down a maze of hallways. Rows of metal mesh compartments blurred past, the SEALs' version of a cubicle office. Jack ignored the startled expressions of the men inside gear lockers. In various states of undress, they appeared to expect news that hell had frozen over since there was a girl inside their testosterone Mecca.

Jack yanked a giant padlock off the door of the locker labeled
Operator 245
in the same motion he threw the gate open.

“Who's Operator 245?”

“Me.”

“Nice to know you're not B&E, those guys back there looked a little tense.”

“I'm not exactly welcome here at the moment. Just stay cool, okay?”

Cassie glanced at the equipment inside the cage. The Bat Cave looked like Santa's workshop in comparison. She first noticed a wall decorated with an inspiring variety of over-under assault rifle/grenade launcher combos. Jack snatched a modified Bushmaster ACR and slung it across his back.

Does this mean I get the bazooka?

Jack's mind was clamped shut, and he was already in the zone. “I can't believe I'm getting you into this.” His combat vest already fastened, he strapped on small-handled throwing knives, serrated combat knives and one nasty-looking machete between his shoulders.

“Okay, Rambo, you still haven't said what's going on.”

“I'll brief you in a sec. Here, put this on.” Kevlar, in size huge.

She put it down. If Jack expected to need a grenade launcher, then a bullet-proof vest would do her no good.

He huffed irritably and strapped it on her with rough movements. He flared his nostrils and complained in a growl, “You smell like heaven, Cass. It's torturing me.”

She had no idea what to say to that. She'd been in a medical clinic all night and needed a shower.

Behind rows of climbing gear she saw him unlocking fireproof cabinets piled with C-4 and other components for plastic explosives. She sat on stacked cases of ammo stamped
7.62x39mm
, his rifle caliber. In an attempt to be useful, she found the magazines and loaded talon-looking bullets the size of her finger into the clips. Jack grunted in approval, pushed aside his diving gear and rifled through a drawer of nondescript black electronic devices. James Bond stuff.

When Jack smeared camo paint on his face, Cassie couldn't stand not knowing. “So, which third-world army are you taking on single-handedly?”

“
We
. Bastard that I am, I am taking you. Because I can't leave you here. That's what he wants, it's a trap. I can feel it in my gut.”

“I am somewhat capable, Jack.” She stood and inserted a loaded magazine into the rifle slung on his back, then slid the bolt to load the chamber. It made an impressive
sha-shook!
noise, punctuating her statement. She switched the safety on for good measure.

He cursed under his breath and pointed the tube of gooey face paint at her, which she took obediently. “This isn't sparring. No one plays fair. It will be chaos. Don't go in cocky, okay?”

“Jack! I have no clue what you're talking about! You're scaring me. Info, please?”

“Landslides, just north around Torrey Pines. Kyros got us a bird, t-minus ten minutes.”

That was the last thing she expected to hear. “Landslides? Those happen every year in California. You're taking a grenade launcher to handle a landslide?”

“Not a coincidence. Not so close, and not timed like this. It's his move. I know it.”

“So, he sends you a landslide as a message?”

“Yeah, I guess you could say that. It's all a game for him. He's set the chessboard and invited the players. We have to go. The National Guard is handling the slides near the residential areas, but we're taking the other side of the range, in the state reserve. That's where he'll be. It. Them. Whatever. Damn! I wish I had the slightest clue what's going on.” Jack loaded what had to be hundreds of pounds of extra ammo in his combat vest and filled the pouches on his pants with even more.

“I don't like it, Jack. Smells real bad.”

“I know, but what else can we do? Let him take potshots until he kills us? No way. Even Kyros agrees.”

Cassie's eyes went wide. “He does?”

“Yes, but he thinks you'll be safely away from the combat, holed up with the admiral's private guard.”

Cassie made no comment. Kyros would kill them both, then, if they didn't manage that misfortune on their own.

Another floor-to-ceiling cabinet revealed Jack's pistol collection. He had been scrambling since the moment they arrived, and if he didn't wear his impeccable soldier façade, and if his hands weren't so steady, she would think he was panicking. He tossed her a holster. It looked like bad lingerie, with black straps hanging at odd angles, but she didn't dare ask —

“Thigh holster — biggest strap around your waist. You okay with a forty-caliber, honey?” He racked the slide of a Springfield XD, grabbed its magazines and swore again, in Gaelic. “I wish I'd taken you out shooting more. Just point and click, okay?” He finally smiled, but only for a moment. He thrust a box of ammo and the pistol magazines into her hands and took over installing the complicated holster, cinching straps and touching her in ways that would normally get him thrown in jail.

She loaded the clips with menacing hollow-point bullets, thinking about the purpose of the weapon. It was usually an abstract concept for her, that the slug punched through the target, disintegrated as it spun, grinding a grapefruit-sized hole out the back. Somehow she'd always imagined hay bales and milk jugs, not a human body. Her throat closed and her blood chilled, washing her with a shocking paralysis before she wrestled it under control. No time to freak out.

“Five minutes,” Jack breathed. He nodded at the ammo in her hands. “Those are personal defense rounds, meant to be used in close range. Don't bother unless you have a clear shot within thirty yards.” He posed her arms in a shooting stance then palmed her head down near the sights. “In combat there's no time to sight. You aim with the barrel, okay? Three rounds into center mass, make a little triangle.” He pantomimed shooting the air, “Boom-boom, boom. Like that.”

Center mass, the opponent's heart. He really thought she was going to have to kill people with this gun. In five minutes. She almost dropped the pistol and crawled into a corner to hide. Surreal. Jack didn't seem to care that she was on the verge of freaking out.

Yes, actually he did. He stroked the back of her neck a few times, easing the tension there, then rubbed across her shoulders. “Stay with me, lass. Focus. Don't think about anything but what you have to do, okay? You take out the closest attacker first and sweep left to right, working your way to the back of enemy lines. Stay behind cover if you can.” He shoved the loaded gun in her holster and showed her how to open the snap by flicking her thumb.

He kissed her once, short and rough but hot. “I don't want it to come down to hand-to-hand, but if it does you stay behind me, okay? Don't let an enemy inside arm's length.” His jaw tightened as he ground his teeth together. Maybe he was nervous. “You have long legs, and you are strong. Use lots of kicks. Stun with hits to the groin or solar plexus, then disable with a hard strike to the throat or temple. Hit to kill, okay? You hit him, and he doesn't get back up. Don't hesitate.”

“Drop and mop,” came Chief's voice behind them. Cassie spun around to see SEAL Team Three gathered outside the locker, decked out in battle gear just like Jack, arms crossed over their chests and looking like they'd eaten bullets for breakfast. “Drop them with a blow to a vital area, then one shot between the eyes for insurance. Sounds like Jack gave it to you in a nutshell. Should we see how the rookie does, boys?”

“Hooyah!”
Wow, twelve angry men could sound like a Roman legion. The bloodthirsty sound gave her goose bumps, as though the shout summoned the ghosts of ancient warriors.

Jack furrowed his brows. “I thought you deployed?”

Pops shrugged. “Turned out it was just a training op. In freaking
Bolivia.
It can wait.
CO tipped us off that you called in a bird. Captain Russo thinks you're up to something. We figured if you know where the real party is, you should share the love, Doolittle.”

Cassie watched Jack war with himself, then decide. Relief wafted from everyone as Jack barked, “Squad wedge formation — keep her flanked, okay? Pops, you're point. Chief, you're her shooting buddy. Let's get to the helo pad.” Cassie was grateful for the identical mental image each soldier flashed, an arrow-shaped diagram she understood. She really needed to learn to speak
soldierese
.

The men agreed with another blood-curdling
Hooyah!
and two minutes later, Cassie found herself grasping a loop, peering out the open door of an SH-60 Seahawk. She understood why Jack had been in a hurry to dump all that info into her brain, because between the helicopter engine and rotor blades, she wouldn't hear Armageddon if it landed in her lap. She was too crazy-anxious to retain anything she heard now anyway, even if he spoke in her mind. Jack's mind was sealed shut and he was as inscrutable as ever in soldier mode. She tried to emulate his cool patience, but she'd have to settle for not wetting her pants.

For all that she talked tough and dreamed of going on missions, the reality was terrifying. There, she admitted it. Right now she wanted to crawl under the seat. Too late, and here was her chance to put out after years of bitching. Already she decided being a superhero wasn't all it was cracked up to be. She couldn't quit looking around at all the powerful metal weapons cradled against warm vulnerable flesh. What a stupid idea to mix the two.