Kiss of Surrender (20 page)

“Tsk, tsk, tsk! I’m not that picky. Overall, since you’ve been here for the past eight and a half days?”

Zeb’s eyes widened at Trond’s knowledge of the demon presence here in Davastan, down to the exact day they’d arrived.

“Seventeen souls,” Zeb admitted, “but not to worry, you would not have been able to save any of them.”

“And that’s all you want . . . the already committed sinners?”

Zeb nodded, but his eyes did not meet Trond’s.

They both ate another apple in silence.

Finally, Zeb broke the silence. “So, is she the one?”

The fine hairs stood out on the back of Trond’s neck. “She who?” he asked. Then, “The one what?”

“The one you danced with.”

“Are you still harping on that dance thing?”

“We demons do not harp. That is an angel thing.”

“Pfff! What is it with you and the jokes today?”

“I get my jollies wherever I can.”

“Jollies? Are you going over the edge, Zeb? Jollies?” he mocked.

“My friend, I went over that edge a long time ago.”

“I am not your friend, Zeb. Nor am I fool enough to mistake your strange behavior as a sign of friendship.”

“Methinks you are wrong. Methinks we could be comrades if you came over to our side. Let me fang you. I’d bet my tail your blood is more potent than aged Damascan wine.”

Trond laughed. “Now you’re a wine connoisseur?”

“Just because you Vikings prefer beer does not make it the superior drink. Actually, I had a small vineyard at one time. Very small, but it served the needs of my small family. It was in the hills beyond Jerusalem.” He shook his head to clear it. “Suffice it to say, wine trumps beer any day.”

Trond stared at Zeb, slack-jawed with amazement. He’d known Zeb a long time. This was the first time he’d ever shared any personal information.

“Back to your woman, have you bedded her yet?”

Whoa! What was it with Zeb’s fixation on Nicole? “She’s not my woman.”

“I saw you kiss her palm today.”

Uh-oh!

“Now, if you’d given her a tongue-down-the-throat kiss, I would call it lust. And a handshake or little air kiss, friendship.”

“Air kiss?” he protested. “We Vikings do not do air kisses.”

Zeb continued as if Trond had not spoken. “But kissing the palm . . . ah, you revealed yourself, vangel. Love is on the way.”

“Idiot! A mere brush of lips over the palm leads you to think I’ve bedded her and am about to wed her?”

“Can vangels wed?” Zeb asked. He seemed to be jumping from one subject to another today. “Seems to me I heard that one of your brothers wed recently. Is that true?”

Trond stood and waited for Zeb to stand as well. Enough with this circling each other with irrelevant conversation. Were they going to face off now, a fight to the death . . . or something worse than death, if he lost?

No, Trond sensed that Zeb was here for some other reason.

“Jasper wants you,
and
the two SEALs.”

No surprise there
. “The one SEAL you fanged has been saved, and the other is not here.”

“That is not good news. For me,” Zebulan revealed.

So Jasper was leaning on Zeb. He wondered why. And what the repercussions might be if he failed. “As for me, no thanks. Tell Jasper I’d rather not visit at this time.”

“You may have to reconsider if Jasper gets his other guest first.”

Not the two SEALs. Who then?
He waited.

“Your woman.”

Trond’s head felt as if it would explode with all the lurid images flickering through his stunned brain, images of what a master demon like Jasper would do to a woman like Nicole. Satan’s disciple might not be able to turn Nicole into a demon since she was not in a state of sin or near-sin, but he could prolong her torture endlessly. For years. Until she finally died, which would be a blessing, or gave in, which would be hell on earth.

Trond’s fangs came out and he hissed his outrage, prepared to launch himself at Zeb.

But the demon was gone.

Eighteen

Did G.I. Jane have to work this hard?  . . .

T
he three women had been scrubbed, exfoliated, creamed, and massaged until they were cleaner and looser than wet noodles. Now it was time for action.

They’d gotten to “meet” the wives and concubines and what appeared to be servants or slaves, though “meet” was a misnomer since none of the mostly Arabic women spoke English. There was a clear delineation of status here in the harem whereby the legitimate wives, assuming a wife could be legitimate when she joined four others, kept to one side of the small pool in the courtyard with a large spurting cupid fountain in the center. Apparently the wives’ rooms were on the other side, too. Nicole, Marie, and Donita kept to the lower-class side, gladly. In fact, Marie had taken to singing under her breath that old Garth Brooks song, “I’ve Got Friends in Low Places.”

Finally, they’d gotten a clue that the hostages were being kept in a locked, soundproof room down the corridor a distance when several servants were seen carrying trays of food and water. Not the succulent tidbits arrayed around the spa . . . fresh fruit, lamb kebabs, caviar, baklava, stuffed dates, and the like. Nope, the hostage trays seemed to contain flat breads, slabs of some kind of meat, several different cheeses, and plain water.

Nicole went into the bathroom first, and using the sense of touch and a wall mirror, was able to pull up the hairline filament tied to her molar, at the end of which, below her throat, was a slender plastic pod the size of a string bean. Inside was the liquid knockout drug she would put in all the drinks here in the spa. Also, she would hopefully be able to offer some drinks to the guards as well. Within fifteen minutes they would be fast asleep and stay that way for up to three hours, please God.

Nicole worked the room and outdoor area, on both sides of the fountain pool, by walking with Marie, seemingly chatting companionably in French, while they surreptitiously dropped the drug into the various fruit punch bowls. They had to make sure that all of them succumbed, lest others get suspicious; so, they made doubly sure that everyone had imbibed at the same time by offering to help the overworked servants place out fresh bowls of icy cold punch and icy bottled water with the caps undone.

While Nicole was doing a final check of the area, Donita and Marie went into the bathroom where they helped each other extract their own molar-anchored ampoules, both containing mini weapons.

Marie stayed behind, watching over the rooms, while Donita and Nicole hurried down the corridor as fast as they could in their long, revealing harem gowns and carrying a pitcher and two glasses. Nicole even had a garnet glued into her belly button. She’d removed her belly button ring before the mission.

When they got near the metal door, they slowed and smiled seductively at the two guardsmen. In French, they offered the men a cold drink, on orders from the harem mistress, they said. Of course, the men didn’t understand them, but they understood the gesture and drank greedily. Then they leaned against the wall and leered at them, especially at Donita, who was doing this eye-riveting thing with her breasts. Breathing in deeply, then out, then in, then out. Each time, her nipples and the surrounding areolas could be seen prominently pressing against the red sheer fabric of her bodice.

Soon, the men slumped to the floor, and it looked as if the gods of luck were with them. They wouldn’t have to C–4 blast the door or spend time trying to pick the lock since there was a key ring on the one guard’s belt. Plus they now had full-size weaponry—two rifles, a pistol, and several knives. Quickly, they opened the door, dragged the men inside, and shut the door firmly behind them, engaging the lock.

Then they turned.

Saints would weep at what they saw.

Lemonade, anyone . . . ?

“They’re in!” Slick yelled to everyone in the cave, then muttered, “Son. Of. A. Bitch!” as he looked over Geek’s shoulder at the video coming in from one of the WEALS’ contact lens cameras.

The battery life on these mini cameras was less than five minutes, and even then they often malfunctioned. So the women would try one at a time. This first one was working. Too well. Even in the dark chamber where the hostages were being held, they could make out hazy images.

At the gruesome images, Trond’s nuts shot to his tonsils over fear for Nicole, but then he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Donita and Nicole moving about; it must be Marie’s lens doing the filming. The three of them seemed to be unharmed. For now. Not so the hostages.

One of the hostages, older than the rest, which meant it had to be the author Selah ad Beham, was in bad shape. Lying on the floor on a threadbare blanket, she appeared unconscious, which would be a blessed relief considering her injuries. Even a rough eyeball analysis of her external injuries indicated severe beatings and possibly rape.

“Uh-oh! I count only thirteen packages, aside from Donita, Marie, and Nicole,” Geek said.

An ominous silence followed as they replayed the visual scan of the room. “The Greek movie star is missing,” Slick concluded, which was immediately confirmed by a hand mic transmission from Marie. “Athena Goldstein hasn’t been seen since the first days of capture a year ago.”

Morris Goldstein was a powerful politician. Heads were going to roll if his wife was dead. Not that heads weren’t going to roll today, anyhow.

Marie continued, “Selah ad Beham is in critical condition. Both internal and external injuries. The skin on the bottoms of her feet is burned off.”

He heard Nicole’s voice mic interrupt then. “Several of the girls have been raped. We’ll need rape kits. And Beth Hillman has had all her teeth knocked out, and is suffering severe gum infection.” Beth was a young Manhattan beauty, a college coed, whose only crime had been that her father was a hedge fund owner who’d supposedly contributed financially to some Israeli militant group.

Trond understood now what Zebulan had meant about there being plenty of evil sinners for the Lucies to harvest here without going after the SEALs or the hostages . . . and him, of course.

“Medics,” Slick said then. “We’re going to need several medics on the incoming Chinooks. We have blow-out kits for cursory wounds, but these hostages are going to need lots more than we can provide. Geek, can you alert Kabul to have medics on the Chinooks when they come in for extraction? A physician would be even better. And ambulances should be waiting for our return. A lot of them.”

“Roger that,” Geek said, already transmitting the visuals and voice mail back to CentCom.

“Kitty, Kitty, are you there?”

“I’m here,” Nicole said.

“And me,” Donita and Marie both said into their own hand mics.

“Insertion into your chamber will be through a hidden cave entrance. Listen for a tapping on the wall. Five taps in a row.”

“Roger,” the three women said.

Slick then contacted all the men who were at various cave entrances to the compound. They weren’t sure which entrance led to the place where the hostages were being held, and since there were foot-thick metal doors, explosives would have to be used.

They listened to the silence on the line as one after another of the SEALs reported no response to their tapping.

Finally, the women could be heard shouting, “We hear it. We hear it.”

“It’s F.U.’s location,” Slick told the SEALs behind him. “Let’s get this show on the road!”

Men immediately began to gather their gear, each heading toward the cave opening, each well aware of his job as part of the team, and knowing exactly where to go.

All their faces were rigid with fury.

Before they left, Trond heard Nicole exclaim, “What the hell is that? Shut the door, shut the door! Oh fuck! Do you see that . . . thing?”

“It’s as big as a house and has a friggin’ tail,” Donita added.

“And scales. And fangs. Holy crap! It just attacked one of the guards. Wait, there are two of them.”

“I smell lemons. An overpowering lemon scent,” Nicole observed. “I think I’m gonna puke.”

He heard a door slam shut.

The transmission then went dead.

When it came to road trips, he sure knew how to travel . . .

Nicole, Marie, and Donita worked quickly with the women to arrange them on the floor on the far side of the room, hands covering their ears, ankles crossed, and mouths wide open, as they’d been taught in WEALS training, to withstand the explosion to come. Otherwise, even with smaller C–4 explosives, they could sustain permanent damage to their eardrums.

In the case of Selah, the author, Nicole laid herself on top of her body as best she could. The poor woman probably wouldn’t make it. Among the many injuries, Nicole suspected spleen damage.

And Nicole didn’t even want to think about what she’d witnessed outside in the hallway a short time ago. Then, when she’d peeked through a short time later, all she’d seen was a pile of stinky slime. The lemon scent had disappeared.

Even though they’d been prepared for it, the first explosion caused them all to jerk with surprise, followed by the hostages screaming and crying. “Keep your positions,” she yelled out over the chaos. “More to come!”

On the heels of her warning came another explosion, and a massive hole in the wall opened up. SEALs began swarming into the room. Immediately, Cage and K–4 came up to her with a stretcher and the three of them managed to get Selah on her way to safety with as little additional damage as possible. Other SEALs were carrying the girls in their arms, crooning sympathetic assurances to them. One of them had to be Cage, who said, “It’s okay, darlin’. Uncle Sam sent us ta bring you home.” Those hostages who could walk, or run, were already in the cave tunnels, rushing toward ultimate rescue.

She turned then and hit a brick wall . . . rather, Trond’s chest.

“I swear, woman, I lost nine lives over you today.” He yanked her into his arms and hugged her fiercely. When she started to say something, he gritted out, “Don’t you dare mention my gayness. Not now. Don’t. You. Dare.”

“You’re crushing me,” she managed to get out, though she had to admit to liking the way Trond’s arms felt around her. It just wasn’t the right time. Nor would it ever be.

“Over here, Easy,” Slick shouted, and Trond ran over to help maneuver the hallway door open so they could check out the rest of the harem for any women being held against their will. Not that they would be able to tell since they were still under the influence of the sleep drugs. Marie gave them a quick assessment of the individuals in the harem and held up the camera that held nude pictures of the three WEALS. With glee, she shot it with a rifle she’d picked up somewhere.

Just then, the sound of helicopter rotors could be heard overheard. It couldn’t be the Chinooks so soon. Besides, the extraction point was at least a quarter mile away, and it would take the SEALs a half hour to get there with their “baggage.” It must be Najid returning home.

Oh God! We’ve got to get out of here. All hell is going to break loose.
Nicole turned, about to go after Trond and Slick to warn them, although they would have heard the helo, too, and she realized she was alone in the room. But not really.

There was a man near the cave opening, leaning casually against the wall, eating an apple. An apple! He was a good-looking man, wearing jeans and a T-shirt with the logo “Devil May Care!”

“Hello, Nicole,” he said.

She frowned. “Who are you?”

“Zebulan, but you can call me Zeb.”

Nicole pulled out the pistol from her belt, the pistol she’d taken from one of the guards in the corridor, one of the guards who had been attacked by . . . well, that wasn’t important now. “Are you one of Najid’s men?”

“Me? A Jew? Not even close.”

“Are you with the SEALs? Or the other special forces?”

“Let’s just say I’m a . . . um, friend . . . of Sigurdsson.”

“Trond?”

He nodded.

For some reason, she had doubts. She couldn’t quite explain why. And, besides, why were they just standing here when exit was of prime importance? Still, she found herself asking, “You’re Trond’s friend?”

“A friend of sorts, you could say.”

“Are you, like, one of his lovers?”

At first, the man’s eyes went wide. Then he slapped his thigh with wild laughter he couldn’t hold in. “You think Trond is gay?”

“Don’t you?”

The man . . . Zeb, he had called himself . . . just shook his head. “Trond is no more gay than I’m . . .” He seemed to hesitate for the right word. “ . . . alive.”

“What?” she gasped, especially when the man tossed the core of his apple to the ground and began to transform into the kind of beasts she’d seen outside in the corridor earlier. He grabbed her arm, then wrapped a scale-covered arm around her from behind, placing a knife blade at her throat, just as Trond burst into the room, pistol raised and pointed directly at Zeb. It was a strange-looking pistol, like a Sauer, but somehow different.

“Zeb, put the knife down,” Trond said icily.

“You drop your weapon first.”

“You don’t want to do this, Zeb. I know you don’t.”

“You’re right, but I have no choice. You know what Jasper wants.”

“You have a choice. There’s always a choice.” Pounding footsteps could be heard coming down the corridor. Looking directly at Nicole, Trond said, “Slick has already left. It’s just you and me here now. If we don’t hurry, the Chinooks will leave without us.” She noticed the oddest, scariest thing then. Fangs were elongating inside Trond’s mouth.

Turning his attention to the man holding her, Trond said, “You can take me back to Jasper. Let Nicole go.”

“No!” Nicole protested, sensing that if Trond left her now, she’d never see him again. He was sacrificing himself for her. Why that should matter so much was a puzzle.

“Too late!” the beast said as a key began turning in the corridor door. With his arm still wrapped around Nicole, the beast dropped the knife and grabbed hold of Trond’s arm. With a whooshy noise and blinding mist, Nicole felt as if they were flying through the air. In what felt like hours, but must have been only seconds, she found herself in an empty cave with Trond and Zeb.