The Medusa Prophecy

by Cindy Dees

  And as the minutes dragged by, doubts began to creep in along with the cold. Had she mistaken that slowly moving white shape? Were they merely sitting here burning what little lead they had on their pursuers—on nothing more than the strength of her word?

  The moon rose, although she couldn’t see it. But a wash of pale blue lit the snow, highlighting the false trail they’d laid in sharp shadows. They unburied and reburied themselves four times, marking the passage of an hour.

  Where were the Norwegians? Surely they’d made up what little remaining gap there was between the teams. So why hadn’t they barged down here into the trap? Were they just cautious bastards, or had her false trail and trap been too obvious? She was blowing this mission, and her teammates were too loyal to her to tell her so.

  Humiliation started to send its unwelcome heat through Karen’s gut.

  “Radio check,” Aleesha announced.

  Karen waited her turn and duly reported in. Before long, it would be time to break out of their icy shells again. When they all came up to the surface, she was going to suggest they bag the ambush and press on before it got too cold to breathe, let alone hike these steep mountains. Before they blew what little chance of success they had left by going along with one of her stupid ideas.

  She was already tasting the crow she was about to eat when, to her vast surprise, she saw movement on the trail leading down to their hiding spots. It wasn’t an actual person, but the shadow of one, cast by the rising moon. Son of a gun. She gave two clicks on her radio mike to alert everyone.

  The stillness around her was intense. She forced herself to exhale normally and not hold her breath as her anticipation climbed sky-high. Everything rode on the next few seconds. Her future. Maybe even the future of the Medusas.

  The shadow was replaced by a man. He wore full winter whites—waterproof pants and a hooded parka made of white thermal nylon. He glided across the snow like a ghost. Karen clicked her radio once. One hostile.

  And then another man came into view. Another click. And another man. A third click. All in all, there were six men. The entire Norwegian team was traveling together. The tangos’ rifles—painted white—were slung over their shoulders. Perfect. That meant hand-to-hand fighting for this ambush.

  The Medusas had talked earlier about the most efficient way to convince the boys that the girls knew what they were doing, and they’d all agreed that unarmed combat was the way to go. They’d probably lose to the men, but if the Medusas even held their own a little bit, it ought to impress the hell out of the Norwegians.

  The men eased forward in a standard threat formation. The guy in front looked right, the guy behind him scanned left. The third guy looked right and to the side, fourth guy left and to the side. The last guy turned around periodically to scan behind them. And they walked right into the middle of the Medusas like lambs to the slaughter. Karen grinned around the end of her breathing tube. She took immense satisfaction in the idea of showing these guys and Jack Scatalone a thing or two about the Medusas’ cunning.

  A few more steps…

  There. The men were in perfect position to get jumped. The Medusas had practiced this sort of move so many times there would be no question about who took what target. They’d move as one and leap on the men like wolves.

  All she said was a muttered, “Go.”

  She exploded up out of the snow, taking the rear guard closest to her. The soldier whirled, not nearly as stunned as she could’ve hoped for, but he barely got his hands up in front of him before Karen was on him. Three things the guy didn’t know about her: first, she’d grown up on a pig farm in Iowa and had done heavy manual labor all her life. When she joined the military, she’d taken up power-lifting. Which was to say, she was really strong for a woman. Second, she was a marine. And the jarheads cut women no slack at all when it was time for hand-to-hand combat training. Third, she had an ax to grind with the colonel who’d sent these men after her.

  She took the offense and charged her target because he wouldn’t expect it of a woman. And he didn’t. She knocked him over with her shoulder and followed him to the ground, landing on top of him. But from there it got tough. This guy was strong and fast, and he obviously had wrestling training. He put a nifty hold and twist on her left arm that she thought was going to wrench it out of the socket. She rolled with the pain and collapsed on top of him, rapping his temple hard with her forehead. It stung her like crazy, but it had to make him see stars.

  He went defensive then, rolling with incredible speed and power to the side and out from under her leg. She dived for him, grabbed his chin from behind, and gave it a very gentle tug to the side. Had this been a real attack, she’d have wrenched his chin sideways with all her might and most likely broken his neck in the process. If—big if—these guys’ rules of engagement were to play fair, she’d just put a lethal move on him, and he was honor bound to yield the fight to her.

  Her opponent stopped fighting instantly.

  Thank God.

  He rolled to his back beneath her, leaving her sprawled across him, breathing hard. Their frosty breath mingled between them. He reached up—slowly—to push up his snow goggles and pull down the knit tube covering his mouth and nose. Yowza. Hunk alert. He was one of those tanned, smooth-skinned, square-jawed, achingly handsome Nordic types. In the moonlight, his eyes looked silver.

  He scowled up at her. “Uncle.”

  She was too knocked over by how gorgeous he was to do much but nod.

  “But I think you’d lose the fight anyway,” he said with a faint Norwegian accent overlaying excellent English.

  “Why’s that?” she retorted. “You’re looking pretty dead to me right now.”

  “Because my men have defeated all your comrades and they would now turn upon you and defeat you.”

  Karen looked up. He was right. Her teammates were all lying on their backs with a white figure sitting on top of them or in some way restraining them. The Medusas looked pretty well worked over. But the good news was the Norwegians didn’t look much better. Yeah, the Medusas had lost, but the Norwegians were also sporting puffy eyes and red jaws, and were breathing hard. The promised ass-whupping by the Norwegians hadn’t been an entirely one-sided affair. Mission accomplished.

  Karen shrugged. “You guys walked right into our ambush. Had we used weapons, which we most certainly would have in an actual ambush, you’d all be dead and we wouldn’t be having this conversation. However…”

  Karen flexed her right wrist, releasing a knife from her forearm sheath. With a quick flip of her hand, it slid down into her palm, and she pressed the razor sharp blade lightly against the side of the guy’s neck.

  “I’m already dead,” he murmured.

  She shrugged again. “They don’t know that. And just because I broke your neck, that doesn’t mean you’d die right away. Question is, would your men jump me anyway, even with my knife at your neck, or would they back off?”

  All of a sudden he wasn’t amused anymore. He gazed up at her long and hard, assessing her. “You’d really slit my throat, wouldn’t you?” he finally bit out.

  “Absolutely. I’m a warrior, and killing’s part of the job.”

  Something flickered in his transparent gaze. What it was, she couldn’t tell. “Which one of the girl soldiers are you?”

  Girl soldiers? This guy had a lot to learn about the Medusas.

  Karen pressed up and away from him and jumped lightly to her feet. She stuck a hand down to help him up. His gloved hand took hers, and she gave a sharp tug. Thankfully, when he stood up, he was a couple of inches taller than she was. She hated looking down at attractive men. And at six feet tall, it happened to her a lot.

  “My name is Karen Turner. Captain, United States Marine Corps.”

  “I thought you ladies were army.”

  “Our team draws from all the armed forces. We just happen to work in an army detachment.”

  He turned his head carefully, stretching his neck muscles. “Nice move,
” he commented.

  “Thanks. And your name is?”

  “Oberstløytnant Anders Larson. Norwegian Defense Special Command.”

  Karen nodded. And abruptly noticed that all the other men were staring at her.

  “You beat him?” one of them asked incredulously.

  She frowned across the snow. “What’s so hard to believe about that? We are trained Special Forces operatives. And that does include hand-to-hand combat training.”

  The guy who was just now climbing carefully off Katrina—a martial arts expert whom even Scatalone engaged with extreme caution—grumbled, “Yeah, I noticed.” The guy’s nose looked broken and he was spitting out blood.

  “What are your orders now?” Vanessa inquired. “Is playtime over and you head out, or do you plan to proceed with us to our rendezvous point?”

  “The last bit of your route today involves technical mountain climbing. Your colonel asked us to give you ladies some help with night climbing.”

  The Medusas already had plenty of night mountain-climbing training, but Vanessa answered smoothly, “We’d be happy to learn anything you gentlemen can teach us.”

  Karen frowned, but her boss made eye contact with her. And that was enough. The reminder had been relayed. They were here to get along with these guys. To act like the professional soldiers they were and make believers out of the Norwegians. As always, the thought that she was a no-kidding special operator cheered Karen. She’d fought for ten years to be allowed to do this job. It was a dream come true to actually get to do it.

  Anders commented, “You ladies moved quickly today. Are you too tired to continue at that pace, or shall we proceed in the same fashion?”

  Karen snorted. “Surely, you realize that now we’ve got no choice but to keep up with whatever pace you set.”

  Anders grinned. “I was counting on it. I’ll take point.” He rattled off a marching order that alternated his men and Medusas. Then he glanced over at Karen. “You fall in behind me. You can take point next.”

  Oslo, Norway, February 26, 5:00 p.m.

  In a conference room high above Oslo, Norway, the senior marketing staff of Omnicom Telecommunications filed in for a late briefing on the European Union telecom consolidation that was set to go into effect shortly. They’d been having trouble syncing up their internal phone-switching systems with the new trans-European grid, and the senior brass wanted an update on how the crisis was being resolved and when it would be fixed.

  Harried engineers straggled into the briefing. They really couldn’t afford to stop working to put on this dog-and-pony show, but when the boys upstairs barked, they jumped. They already were going to have to work late into the night. A few of the lead engineers had been here for the past three days around the clock.

  One of those engineers, Kjell Krag, flopped into a seat. He tugged at his shirt collar. This room was hot and stuffy, and his tie, hastily donned for this stupid briefing, felt as though it was going to choke him. He’d almost had the computer code repaired in a particularly nasty section of the translation algorithm when these idiots had to go and call a meeting. He had no idea how long it would take him to reread the code and pick up his train of thought again.

  The CEO, a Danish entrepreneur who’d been brought in to whip Omnicom back into shape after years of sliding stock prices, stood up and delivered a fiery monologue about how important this deal was and how he didn’t want to hear any excuses. He wanted results.

  What a jerk. One did not yell and fist-shake at Norwegians and get anywhere. It only made them more stubborn. But obviously this Dane hadn’t figured that out. Egad, but it was hot in here. Kjell pulled out his handkerchief and mopped the beads of sweat popping out on his brow.

  As the tirade went on and the atmosphere in the room grew more and more tense, Kjell began thinking about ordering out for a bite of supper instead of going back to work right away. In fact, maybe just to needle this guy, he’d step out of the building and go down the street to that little fish place that had just opened up. Although, the way his stomach was rolling all of a sudden, maybe he’d better skip eating.

  Must be the little magic pills he’d been popping like candy to help himself stay awake. They were probably responsible for the abrupt tremor in his hands and knees, too. Either that, or the Danish big mouth was really starting to get under his skin.

  He glared at the CEO, willing him to shut the fuck up and sit down already. But no. The guy just went on yapping, all holier than thou and yelling at them like a bunch of lazy children who needed a swift kick in the pants. Kjell’s face felt like it was on fire. His whole body was tense. So tense he shook with it.

  Finally, the Dane shut up and sat down. Kjell dragged in a couple of deep, ragged breaths. But they didn’t do a thing to slow the pounding pulse in his neck.

  The project leaders all stood up next, obedient lap dogs that they were, and lied through their teeth about how long it would take to bring the Omnicom system on line. The bastards! They were setting up him and the other engineers to take the fall when this thing didn’t happen on time!

  Kjell threw a furious look at a couple of the other technical engineers, who all rolled their eyes back at him. Pressure built behind his forehead, and with each lie, another ice pick stabbed the back of his eyeballs.

  “Mr. Krag!” a sharp voice cut across the room.

  The Dane. Kjell lurched, breathing hard. He tried to focus down the table at the source of the voice, but his vision swam. He squinted at the fuzzy double image of the Danish asshole. Would he never shut up already!

  “Do you have a problem?” the Dane barked.

  Kjell opened his mouth. Tried to form words. But nothing came out except a hoarse sound from the back of his throat. His palms itched to wrap around the Dane’s throat. To squeeze until the Dane’s tongue turned purple and swelled so big he couldn’t talk. Kjell pushed to his feet. Staggered a bit, unbalanced. Steadied himself on a chair back. Focused on the Dane. Made his way through the red haze toward the moron. He stumbled. Banged into a narrow table by the wall. His hand bumped into a tall, narrow vase. Wrapped around the cool, heavy glass.

  He continued forward. More voices came at him now. Sound with no meaning. Unbearably bright light. His eyeballs were going to explode! Hands grasped at him, but he shook them off. He tried again to form words, but his mouth wouldn’t cooperate. A few more steps, and then he stood over the Dane. Or at least the spinning image of him.

  Kjell lifted the vase. Crashed it down on the asshole’s head. Beautiful crunching noise of skull and glass breaking. Screaming. Make the noise stop. The Dane toppled out of his chair onto the floor. Kjell scooped up a shard of glass and jumped on the Dane. Two fountains of red. His hand. Dane’s face.

  Brilliant red. Must have more. Another slash.

  And then everything went white and hot. And he became Rage. He swung madly at the hands grasping for him. And the haze was painted red.

  And then a great weight landed upon him, crushing him flat. The white light spun and he breathed in the rage. Tasted it. And then his entire body went rigid, arching up, throwing off the weight on his chest. His heart clenched in a mighty spasm of the purest fury he’d ever known. His breath caught at its perfection.

  And then everything went black.

  Northern Norway, February 26, 7:00 p.m.

  In a remote corner of northern Norway, so cold and desolate that no human being ought to be there, let alone live there, an old woman huddled in a tiny sod hut. She was a dying breed, one who remembered—and observed—the old ways. For she was a noaide. A shaman of the Sami people.

  Her ancestors had eked a meager living out of these northern climes since before history began. They hunted and fished and followed the ever-moving reindeer herds across the Arctic lands. And when the great herds were diminished to a fraction of their original size, her people learned to raise their own reindeer. They were survivors, her people. And this was their place, the frozen North. Europeans came and named them Laplande
rs, but they had always called themselves Sami. And the Sami called her Naliki.

  Tonight, Naliki had a problem. Yet again, the modern world had intruded upon her people. Several teenage boys had apparently overdosed on one of the outsiders’ recreational drugs. Foul stuff, those drugs.

  Except, these overdoses were unlike any she’d seen before. The boys had collapsed in convulsions, and when others had tried to restrain them, the boys had lashed out violently, raising their hands to their own parents without any apparent concern for who they harmed or how badly.

  None of her traditional remedies had calmed the boys. It was only when they fell unconscious that they’d subsided. She’d stayed with them for hours, until the rigidity finally left their bodies and they settled into normal rest, she hoped to sleep off the effects of the chemicals in their systems. Then, she’d come here. To her spirit lodge. To ask the gods how to counteract this new and terrible drug.

  Her runebommen, a traditional Sami drum, throbbed under her fingers in a slow rhythm, more ancient than words. It pulsed deep in her soul, calling her up and out of herself. Forward. Toward the void. Into the spirit world. She tossed a handful of dried herbs on the fire, and pungent smoke swirled around her. She inhaled deeply. Ahh, the green, summer smell brought back many memories. Of her father and brothers tending the reindeer herds. Of her grandfather, walking with her across meadows in the short alpine summer and showing her the rhythms of nature. He was her teacher when she was young. He was her spirit guide now.

  She intoned words asking him to show himself, to embrace her spirit and be with her. To give her the answer she sought.

  A gust of wind howled outside and the fire burned a little more brightly. The rich, earthen smell of the turf hut grew stronger. The fire flared even higher, and the spinning sensation that marked the beginning of a spirit journey made her faintly dizzy. She spread her gnarled hands wide, grasping at the warmth of the fire with her swollen knuckles and waving the smoke to her nostrils. “Show to me that which you wish me to know,” she asked the spirits in the old tongue.