Sandra Hill (9 page)

More important, Ian realized suddenly,
I’ve seen her face before. But where?

Then he slept, one of the short catnaps SEALs were taught to take on a moment’s notice, often in the oddest places, like in a tree, or in between PT evolutions. And he dreamed, too. Of Yasmine, of all things.

You snooze, you lose …

Madrene sat for a long time in the back corridor of the cave. She was thoroughly disgusted with herself.

She had awakened several hours ago and, after much work, had managed to reach the knife and to cut her bonds. If only she hadn’t wavered in her decision to flee, she could have been long gone by now. But nay, she kept thinking about the troll and his promise to take her to Baghdad.
Should I leave? Shouldn’t I leave?
Over and over she’d argued with herself. Now it was too late.

“Why are you scowling?” Ian said, slipping down to the ground to sit beside her.

“I always scowl.”

“I noticed.”

“Troll.”

“But you look particularly annoyed now. Is it because you failed to kill me?”

“Nay,” she said with a sigh. “If I had really wanted
to kill you, I would have used a rock again … and ambushed you from a hidden spot outside the cave. I have not trained to be a soldier for naught. Some skills, I do still have. Alas, I wavered, and that puts a soldier at peril.” She could tell that her words surprised the oaf. He probably thought all women were helpless, cow-eyed maids.

“You would not have been able to trick me this time.”

She shrugged. “Little did I know that you would come back here with a
hird
of troll-soldiers.”

“We are not soldiers; we are sailors,” he corrected her.

How like a man to home in on the most irrelevant facts. Soldier, sailor, same thing.
“But you are trolls, eh?”

“I have been known to behave like a troll on occasion,” he admitted.

“You had to bring all those other trolls along, didn’t you? You, I could have handled, but eight trolls! I am not that good a she-warrior.” She folded her arms over her chest with disgust. “And all of them carrying those exploding clubs and enough weaponry to fill a king’s armory.”

“You sure do talk funny,” he said.

“I thought we already established that you are the one who talks funny.”

“Female illogic is an amazing thing. You hear only what you want to hear. There’s an old saying that goes—”

“Oh, spare me from your meant-to-be-inspiring sayings. We had a skald one time who did that all the time till everyone was nigh asleep from boredom. Did anyone ever fall asleep whilst you were pontificating endlessly?”

“Has anyone ever called you a shrew?”

“Plenty of times. You say shrew as if it is a bad thing. I say a shrew is a woman of intelligence.”

“Amazing!”

She almost smiled at him, but caught herself in time.

He did smile at her, though, and her stomach clenched. It was probably a reaction to the food he had left for her. Or hunger pangs. Other than the bar of grain and nuts, she had not eaten all day.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

Did he hear my belly talking? Ah, I am too tired … and, yes, hungry … to be embarrassed.
But what she said was, “Nay.”

“You’re lying.”

“Why would you care?”

“I like to fatten up my captives.”

She considered arguing the notion that she was a captive, but decided to wait till later for that. “Is that why you left me that bar of grain and nuts?”

“Your stomach was rumbling louder than your snores, so I took pity on you.”

At first, she just stared at him. “Are you teasing me?”

He waggled his eyebrows at her.

“I have not been teased since my brothers …” She shook her head to stop painful memories. “
Do
you have food?”

“Yeah. Just MREs but they’re filling.”

“What kind of food is that? If it’s anything unrelated to a camel, I would eat it.”

“MREs are portable provisions. You know, quick food on a mission.”

“Like dried lutefisk?”

“Huh? No, things like beef ravioli, chicken cacciatore, jambalaya.”

It was her turn to say, “Huh?”

“Listen,” he said, rising to his feet and extending a hand to help her up, “are you hungry or not?”

She ignored the hand. “Yea, I am a mite hungry.”

He made a snorting sound.

“But I do not want to go by the fire. Bring it back to me.”

“Why don’t you want to … oh, is it because you’re embarrassed ’cause the guys saw you naked?”

“You really are a dumb dolt, aren’t you? I was led naked through my great hall by a neck tether before two hundred enemy warriors. If I could survive that, I can certainly survive snickers from a few trolls.”

Ian’s jaw dropped practically to his chest. “You are making that up,” he accused, but then he glanced at her neck, and wrist and ankles, and said, “I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”

“Then why do you avoid my teammates?”

She looked at him as if his head must be particularly thick. It was a look she’d perfected years ago with the men in her family. “Because I smell, you lackwit. I would not want to expose others to my stink.”

His jaw dropped again. “But you don’t mind exposing me to your stink?”

She stood up. “You deserve it.”

Women! Go figure! …

Ian couldn’t figure Yasmine out.

Okay, he’d obviously not been a rocket scientist in
the past when it came to women; otherwise, Jennifer wouldn’t have been screwing her personal trainer behind his back. But Yasmine was something altogether different.

First of all, she behaved like a bleepin’ shrew, nagging and complaining about every little thing. And she looked and smelled like an old hag. Cripes, you could build a bird’s nest in her hair. Yet he felt an odd attraction to her. And, no, it had nothing to do with his glimpse of those world-class breasts … or almost nothing.

Second, she was childlike in her ignorance about everyday things. Like thinking a rifle was a club. Like believing he was talking to himself when he was communicating on his radio headset. Like being ecstatic over MREs—she had eaten three of them before her hunger was satisfied, not to mention two fudge brownies, a handful of hard candy, peanut-butter snack crackers, and a dairy shake. You would have thought the barely palatable rations were a gourmet meal.

She was wide-eyed with wonder at all the things she saw or was told about. Cage especially had made a big impression when he talked to her about his Cajun people. He even sang her a freakin’ Cajun song. The dolt!

Ian reminded himself how sheltered some women still were in the Arab lands. Wearing the traditional chador or burqa, which covered them head to toe except the eyes. Rarely leaving their homes. Not exposed to TV or radio. But Yasmine didn’t strike him as the type who would tolerate that kind of life. And she sure as hell wasn’t meek.

Third, she was mean enough to be a terrorist.
Hadn’t she tried twice to kill him? Hadn’t she punched him several times? But did that mean she really was a terrorist, or in cahoots with them?

Fourth, she continued to call them all trolls. At first, he had thought she meant that they—he, in particular—behaved like trolls. But he was beginning to think she believed they were actual trolls … part of some troll society or something.
Geeesh!
Which must mean she was a mental case.

Fifth, it was hard to tell under all that grime, but Ian did not think she was Arab. At least, she didn’t look like any Arab woman he’d ever seen. Not that he was an expert on such things. But Omar had remarked on the same thing.

They were still waiting for final orders from CentCom, although he’d spoken to his contact several times since leaving the tango site. Cage and Omar had gone back to relieve JAM and Geek. After taking a short nap, JAM came out to relieve him from guard duty outside the cave. Coming inside, he saw that Yasmine was still talking with Geek and Pretty Boy in her stilted English. He might not be sure if she was Arab, but it was clear that English was not her first language.

“Tell me again why you need to get to Baghdad, darlin’?” Pretty Boy lay on his side in front of the fire with his head propped on a braced elbow.

Yasmine, from the opposite side of the fire, sat on crossed legs. “Do not call me dearling. I am not your dearling.”

“Sorry,” Pretty Boy said with a smile that said he couldn’t care less if she objected to his endearment, which he didn’t mean anyhow.

“In Baghdad, I might be able to find a ship traveling to my homeland. Once there, my people will give me aid.”

“Where is your homeland?” Geek asked. He looked up from the mini-laptop he was studying with logistical information about their mission.

“Norsemandy,” Yasmine said.

“I thought you said you were from Russia,” Ian said.

Yasmine jumped, not having realized he’d come up behind her. “Must you always sneak about like a … a …”

“Troll?” he inquired.

“Yea, a troll.”

“Normandy, huh?”

Under all that dirt on her cheeks, he detected a blush.

She was lying through her teeth. “What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive,” he remarked, almost to himself.

Her response was to raise her chin haughtily. “What matters it to you where I go once you take me to Baghdad?”

“Uh … about Baghdad,” he started, easing down to his haunches beside her.

“What?” She was immediately alert.

“There’s been a change in our original plans. We expect to have an additional person on our flight back. And our extraction site might have to be closer to the terrorist hideout. There’s a chance we will have to leave you behind.”

She gasped in outrage, then turned and shoved him backward. Climbing over him, she began to
pummel his chest and face. “You … will … not … abandon … me,” she shrieked, punctuating each word with a punch.

He put his hands over his face, laughing. Geek and Pretty Boy were laughing, too. “You hit like a girl,” he accused her, which was a silly thing to say.

“A girl, you say?” Rising up on her hands, she hit him in the balls with her right knee. “Do I kick like a girl, too?”

He saw stars before he rose to his full six-foot-four and glared down at her. He barely restrained himself from cupping himself to ease the pain. “If that’s the way you try to get your way, no wonder you’re lost in the middle of camel nowhere. Big mistake, sweetheart!” With those words, he picked up his backpack and walked down the back corridor of the tunnel. Throwing it to the ground, he lay down, facing the wall. He was so angry he probably wouldn’t be able to sleep, and he needed all the rest he could get before they started out again.

He sensed her following him before he actually heard her.

“I am sorry,” she said, standing at his back.

“Go away.”

“Sometimes I let my temper get the best of me. Hah! I always let my temper rule. My father used to say …” He could swear she gulped then.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about your temper or your father or any other bloomin’ crazy thing you say or do. Just leave me alone.”

“I cannot.” Now she dropped down to her knees.

“Look, I don’t hurt women, but I’m afraid I’ll give in to the urge to throttle you if you keep bugging me.”

“I have a proposition for you.”

“This oughta be good,” he muttered, turning over to face her. “You are a piece of work, lady.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“What’s the proposition?”

“If you and your men will get me to Baghdad … and from there to my homeland … I will reward you generously.”

He gave her a once-over survey which pretty much said she had nothing he wanted.

“Don’t be a lackwit,” she said. “I didn’t mean
that
. I meant that I would pay you in coins … gold coins … chests of gold coins. All you have to do is deliver me back to my people. My fighting men will come out of hiding to help me rid my estates of Steinolf and his evil warriors.”

Ian rolled his eyes.

She stared at him expectantly.

“Where did you say you come from?”

“Uh, Jorvik.”

“Jorvik?”
Liar, liar!

“Yea, the Saxons call it York.”

He burst out laughing. “So far, you’ve said you live in Russia, Norsemandy and England. Which one is it?”

She waved a hand airily. “It does not matter which. I can get home from any of those places.”

“And then you will hand over a pigload of gold. Just like that.”

“Yea. Now you understand.”

Delusional, that’s what she is. Or a scheming witch who will change sides as it suits her in the war on terror, regardless of ethics.
“No, you understand this. I will take you to Baghdad
if I am able to
. But it won’t be so you can fly off to Leningrad or London town. You
will be considered a terrorist suspect, subject to the interrogation of my superiors.”

Her mouth—the mouth he’d been trying hard to ignore—formed a perfect O of surprise. “You think I am a terrorist?”

“Damn straight I do.”
Maybe.

“What is a terrorist?”

He rolled his eyes again. “A person or group who uses violence, usually in a cowardly way, for political or ideological purposes.”

She frowned, as if she still didn’t understand. “What kind of violence?”

“Like 9/11. Like those Islamic terrorists who’ve killed thousands of men, women and children, even their own people.”

She gasped. “You think I would kill innocent women and children?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “For a cause, yes.”

“You vile troll! Even to get back to my beloved Norstead, I would not kill innocents.”

He was saved from further discussion, or her punching him again, by a soft signal from Pretty Boy’s satellite phone. They all rushed forward to get the news.

Except Yasmine, who stood in place, tears in her eyes.

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.