Kiss of Surrender (7 page)

“I might let you go . . . for now . . . if you give me the two SEALs that we’ve already tainted,” Zeb offered, crouching into an attack position. “I’ll wait and finish them off on a mission away from here, and no one will know what happened when their bodies disappear. Blame it on Al-Qaeda.”

Trond was in an attack position now, too. “You know I can’t do that.” An idea occurred to him then. “I like you, Zeb. Despite your evil ways, there is something about you that speaks to me.” He put a hand over his heart for emphasis. “You would make a good vangel.”

Zeb stepped backward and gasped as if he’d stabbed him through the heart, good and true. “That is impossible. The things I have done . . .”

“The things we all have done!”
And wasn’t that the truth? Sinners one and all.

“It is cruel of you to offer such a suggestion to me, Trond. Oh, I know I have no right to expect consideration. Still . . .”

“Is there even a speck of goodness left in you, Zeb? Have you never wished to escape your fate?”

“Only every minute of every day for the last two thousand and some years. But this is a futile conversation. It has never been done before.”

And probably never will be.
“I am not the person to be discussing this with you. But I can put you in touch with someone who can.”

Zeb arched his brows.

“Michael.”

Zeb made a snorting sound of disbelief that St. Michael the Archangel would ever speak with him. Then he lunged with his sword.

Trond just barely managed to swerve at the last second, and the sword tore off a portion of the sleeve on Trond’s T-shirt, rather JAM’s T-shirt. That was close, too close for comfort. They went at each other in earnest then. Thrusting and parrying, slicing and stabbing.

“Trond? What’s going on?” a female voice asked.

Oh crap! It was Nicole.

“What are you doing out here?” The voice was getting closer.

Zeb smiled.

“Don’t you dare,” Trond warned.

Zeb licked his lips.

“Don’t you dare,” Trond repeated.

“She’s safe . . . you are, too . . . for now. But I’ll be back.” Zeb was backing up into the woods. “And when I return, I’ll be taking you with me.”

“Threats now? You could try.”

Just before Zeb disappeared into a poof of nothing, he said, “Not threats. Promises. And I will succeed in the end. Evil always wins.”

“Who are you talking to?” he heard a female voice ask.

Nicole! Who else would it be but the persistent barnacle on my butt.
“Go away,” he ordered, quickly willing his fangs and wings to disappear.

Of course she stomped over the loose gravel of the lot to stand beside him, peering into the woods where he was still staring. He surreptitiously hid the knife in his boot once more. “Who was that?”

“No one. I just came out here to piss.”
Is that the best I can do? Jeesh!

“And the other guy just had to pee at the same time, so you decided to have a pissing contest?” she jeered. “By the way, what was that blue smoky stuff at your back? Were you smoking weed?”

Go away!
“No, I was not smoking anything, but, yeah, sure, on the pissing contest. Why not?”
Now, go away.
He was still scanning the area, making sure there were no other Lucies about.

“Why not use the men’s room inside?”

He crossed his eyes with frustration. “Maybe I have a phobia about public rest rooms.”
Which is ludicrous, considering some of the primitive privies and garderobes I’ve had the misfortune to visit over the years. For example . . . well, never mind.

“Are you playing me?”

I’d like to play with you. Dirty play. No, no, no. I don’t mean that. Go away!
“Would I do that?” he asked with a sigh of resignation as he drew her away from the woods and back toward the building, glancing over his shoulder to make sure they weren’t being followed. For some reason, he trusted Zeb’s word that he wouldn’t attack
this time
. Still . . . what was that old proverb? Trust in God, but sharpen your sword.

She shrugged his hand off her arm. “I was right about you. Oh, you are good at deflecting attention away from your secret activities, but I know you’re up to something.”

This was bad. She was going to cause trouble for him with the commander. He just knew she was. He tried to think of some secret a man might have that he would want to hide, other than the fact that he was a Viking vampire angel and a thousand or so years old.

Oh no! Not that.

But it was the only thing he could think of on such short notice.

“Wait!” he yelled to her retreating back. “I’ll tell you what my secret is.”

She stopped and turned to look at him, skeptical.

He took a deep breath and said, “I’m gay.”

Six

Honey, I’m home . . .

T
rond got back to the BQ shortly after midnight. Alone. The other guys had made connections with women. Love connections, that’s what they called them in this time. More like lust connections.

That was one big difference between Viking men and modern men. Vikings told it like it was. “Do you want to swive?” “Can I tup you?” “Let’s shake the bed furs.” None of that flowery “make love” business. No sugarcoating.

Speaking of sugar, he reached into his back pocket.

Karl, propped against several pillows on his cot, looked up from the book he was reading, one of his favorite science fiction thrillers, something about overendowed dragons and dominatrix mermaids. Karl just barely caught the several shrink-wrapped packages Trond tossed his way. Raising rimless glasses that had been perched midway down his nose, he read aloud, “Penile Glove? What the fuck?”

“Honey up, soldier,” Trond told him with a grin at his own jest. “They’re a gift from Geek. Read the directions and make sure you don’t get it too hot or you’ll melt your . . .” He waved a hand downward.

Karl winced but then he actually read the instructions with interest, after which he remarked, “Cool!”

Cool? What alternate universe have I landed in?

“I take it by that scowl that you didn’t get lucky tonight.”

“Pfff!” was Trond’s only response as he sat on the opposite bunk and began to unlace his shoes. “I’m gay.”

“What?” Karl sat up straighter. “Are you sure? I had a sneaky suspicion that you were hiding something in your closet.”

Trond threw one of his shoes at the teasing idiot.

Karl caught it with a laugh and tossed it back at him.

As Trond continued undressing, he threw his garments on the floor. His beer-sodden shirt, his briefs and denims, and the T-shirt JAM had lent him. Then, with a sigh of disgust, he rose and picked up each of the items, folding them carefully and putting them in his foot locker, except for the shirt, which he put in the laundry bag. A guy wasn’t allowed even a little sloth in the Navy.

“So, what’s the deal, gay dude?”

Trond explained what had happened. By the time he got to Nicole dousing him in beer, Karl was laughing. By the time he got to him doing the
Michael
dance, Karl was both laughing and wide-eyed with incredulity. By the time he got to the parking lot scene with his hasty confession to being gay, Karl was bent over holding his sides. “This is the most fun I’ve had since I ate roaches in ’Nam,” Karl choked out.

How pathetic was that? And sad? Both the roaches and the lack of fun.
“You won’t think that’s so funny when people suspect you’re my girlfriend.”

That stopped Karl mid-chuckle. “How come I’m the girl? I’m more macho than you.”

“Dream on, buddy.”

“Suddenly this mission is sounding a bit more interesting. Don’t look so gloomy. Being gay is just a speed bump in your looong life.”

“I am not gay. Don’t even use those words. And, frankly, my looong life has been nothing but speed bumps.”

Karl just grinned. “I can’t wait to see what you pull next.”

Me too.
“I have to admit, this whole situation would be funny if it weren’t happening to me.” A thought came to him of a sudden. “Don’t you dare tell my brothers.”

Karl just continued to grin.

Trond went on then to explain what he’d discovered so far about both JAM and Sly being sin-tainted. They made plans to get closer to both men, which might be a bit difficult if word got around that they were gay. In addition, he told Karl about rumors of an impending mission of huge importance. They’d have to keep their ears to the ground and make sure they were included. Somehow.

Going over to his desk, Trond logged onto his laptop and in a specially encrypted e-mail account, notified all six of his brothers that Zebulan, one of Jasper’s commanders, was in the area. While they’d been aware that at least one of the SEALs had been targeted, that could have resulted from a fanging by any Lucie, even a lower-level mung, but Zeb’s presence here in Coronado could only mean that Jasper had bigger plans.

Vikar was the only one online at the moment, and he responded immediately to his IM message.

Should we come?

Not yet.

Any news on the mission?

Just rumors.

I have a bad feeling.

Me too.

Don’t hesitate to ask for help. No sense being a hero.

Me? LOL!

This could be the biggest mission for us since that harebrained Sin Cruise.

Roger that.

Roger? You really are taking this military career seriously.

Hard not to. I haven’t worked so hard since . . . forever.

Maybe I should come after all. I’d enjoy the spectacle of you working hard.

Very funny.

BTW, how are things going with that woman who was so suspicious of you?

Don’t ask.

Uh-oh!

She’s the biggest pain-in-the-ass woman I’ve ever met.

Could it be—?

No!

he said, anticipating what Vikar was about to say.

Hey, it happened for me.

That’s different. Mike made an exception for you because you were becoming almost . . . well, angelic.

I was not!

Trond could almost hear the indignation in Vikar’s voice. One thing Vikings did not aspire to be was angelic. Leastways, they never had in the past.

He thought about telling his brother that Nicole thought he was gay, but decided not to. What he did not need was being made a laughingstock, thanks to the vangel gossip network, especially when he’d already made a laughingstock of himself with the
Michael
dance. Really, Vikings were worse than women when it came to passing on juicy tidbits. And Trond being a gay Viking would definitely be deemed juicy. He could just hear it now.

Trond the Gay Viking?

He always liked longboats better than swimming in tight channels.

Cruise any fjords lately, bro?

I always knew his arse was pretty, but . . .

After Trond promised to keep the VIK updated often, and Vikar told him he would make tentative plans for a fleet of vangels to deploy to Coronado on a moment’s notice, they logged off. While the VIK and its cadre of vangels had lost a few special abilities when they stopped bouncing around in time, they still maintained many that would be helpful in situations like this, such as the ability to teletransport across wide areas. No delays for airplane travel or even cars. They didn’t have wings yet of the type that could actually fly, except for Vikar, but they could move from one state to another in an instant. Even one country to another. And of course, they were vampires, with all the mystical powers that implied.

Karl had left the room when Trond had opened his computer. Now, mentally assimilating all that they would have to do, and how to do it in secret, Trond walked over and took a small packet of dried Fake-O out of a hidden compartment in his locker and added it to a bottled water. Downing the thickened “beverage” with a shiver of distaste, he carried the empty bottle with him to the bathing chamber, where he would rinse it out before discarding.

On the way back to the room through a mostly empty corridor, this being a Friday night, or rather early Saturday morning, he passed the kitchenette shared by the six rooms on this floor. Karl was in there. As he walked away, Trond heard the ping of the microwave.

He had to laugh then. Or cry. Poor Karl! Couldn’t or wouldn’t have sex while his wife was still alive. Oh well, men would do what men would do.

He could swear he heard Karl mutter, “Honey, I’m home.”

The morning after comes to all of us . . .

Gay?

Nicole was still boggling at Trond’s amazing revelation the next morning, even as she jogged for more than an hour along her neighborhood streets. She ran not because she had to—Lord knew, she got enough exercise in PT—but because she loved running. The freedom she felt when she ran was empowering. It cleared her head and made her feel in control of not just her body but her life. Not this morning, though, with her focus all scrambled up. All she could think about was,
Gay?

On the one hand, her suspicious nature caused her to wonder if it was just a ploy the man had tossed her way to deflect her from investigating him. On the other hand, most men wouldn’t in a million years put that label on themselves if it weren’t true.

How could I have missed the signals?

Were there any signals?

What does it matter? It’s not like I was going to hook up with him.

Was I?

On that disarming question, she showered with her favorite Jessica McClintock bath gel and forced herself to concentrate on other subjects, like her agenda for the rest of the weekend. Nicole was a list maker, and she liked to write things out, often on an hourly basis, everything down to household chores, errands, and even technical articles to be read. She bought so many Franklin Planners she ought to invest in the company.

After dressing casually in jeans and T-shirt, she sat down at the kitchen table to have a bowl of granola with fresh strawberries and milk, a glass of orange juice, and the weekly
Coronado Eagle
propped up against the cereal box when Donita walked in, wearing the same skinny jeans, stretch tube top, and boots as last night. Marie and Nicole had returned home alone last night.

Nicole arched her brows at Donita, who looked like she’d been ridden hard and put away wet . . . and not in a good way. She headed straight for the espresso machine, where she poured herself a small cup of the hundred-proof caffeine, then sat down at the table across from Nicole.

“For someone who presumably had her pipes cleaned a time or two or three, you sure look all clogged up,” Nicole remarked, crunching on her cereal, which was incidentally very good. It was a special blend of granola mixed with nuts and dried fruit that she’d bought at a favorite natural foods store. She made a mental note to herself to put it on her grocery list for this afternoon.

Donita raised her head with obvious pain. “I passed out. After I puked on JAM’s bedspread.”

“Oookay.”

“I’m a failure as a slut.”

“Should I sympathize or congratulate you?” Really, the three of them donned slut outfits on occasion, but they weren’t promiscuous.

“Both. Something strange is going on with JAM, by the way.”

Something strange is going on with lots of folks. Sly and JAM, not to mention one hunkalicious guy who claims to be gay, even as he throws off sexual lures to women like a blinkin’ fisherman. A fisher of women.
“Strange how?”

“I can’t explain it, but he’s changed. For one thing, JAM would have had absolutely no problem last night nailing me, his best friend’s girlfriend, or ex-girlfriend. The JAM I thought I knew would have taken me home and tucked me in to preserve his friendship. Hell, Sly has changed, too. Do you know what Sly had the nerve to say to me last night? That if I kept shaking my goodies at every male in sight, I’d be having my ass fucked by a train in the parking lot.”

Instead of weeping, she just seemed sad. And, yes, it was sad that such a good guy could turn out to be so bad.
Hah! Good guy/bad guy! When will I ever learn?

“Maybe it’s some bug going around,” Donita mused.

“Men are the bugs, let’s face it. I could lend you one of my favorite audio books:
Standing on Your Own Two Feet, Dammit!
”

“Or maybe we could make our own audio book.
Squash the Bugs, Dammit!
” Donita joked.

Well, at least Donita hadn’t lost her sense of humor.

Nicole’s cell phone rang just then.

Donita put both hands to her head as if the ringtone were an ear-piercing decibel when it was merely the theme from
Doctor Zhivago
. Looking at the message, Nicole immediately clicked over to the secure base line.

Donita’s phone rang, too, hers a recent Katy Perry song, “California Girls.” She switched over to the base line, as well.

Upstairs, they heard Marie’s cell phone go off, too, the smile-inducing “Dum, dee, dee, dum! Dum, dee, dee dum . . .” intro to “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy.”

They both exchanged glances as they peered at the messages from the command center. “Report for briefing. ASAP.”

There was no code given, so this wouldn’t be an immediate deployment. Still, the ASAP meant “mission imminent,” usually.

Donita was chugging down coffee now, recognizing she had to get herself in shape pronto.

“I’m surprised that they would call you up after just returning from a mission,” Nicole mentioned to Donita, even as she was gathering everything she would need in her backpack.

“Must be important. There’ve been rumblings about an Afghan compound with high-level Taliban in Davastan.”

“Najid bin Osama!” they both concluded at the same time.

Could it be? They stared at each other with a shiver of excitement at the possibility. Neither of them had been involved in Geronimo. They’d love to be a part an important mission. Adrenaline ripped through her system. Not fear. That would come later, and it wasn’t a bad thing, either. “Fear Is Your Friend” was a favorite SEAL motto.

Najid was the mysterious illegitimate son of Osama bin Laden, who had come out of the woodwork onto the world stage with a bang. Literally. Following an explosion in a U.S. shopping mall that resulted in hundreds of deaths and even more casualties, Najid disclaimed responsibility, but the world knew he was involved up to his lying mouth.

In many ways, Najid was even more dangerous than Bin Laden had ever been. Oh, Osama’s death was a symbolic victory in light of 9/11. But Najid was a charismatic chameleon, a leader in every sense of the word, who charmed crowds whether he wore his thousand-dollar designer suits and spoke in fluent French-accented English or the traditional Arab kaftan and keffiyeh headdress as he stoked the anti-American fires of his fast-growing Muslim terrorist followers. It didn’t hurt that he was suavely handsome.