The Medusa Game

by Cindy Dees

  “On the contrary. The polymers in the water allow it to flow more freely and create an extremely even surface.”

  Bingo. She swooped in the for the kill. “Then why was it so urgent that you resurface this ice before the skating competition?”

  He froze. As still and cold as the ice behind him. She’d bet her next paycheck that was pure, unadulterated terror shining in his feverish eyes. What the hell was going on? Time for another shocking shift. It didn’t matter what she asked, she just had to keep him off balance. Randomly she challenged, “Where’s your wife today, Dr. Holt? I’d love to meet her. I understand she’s a brilliant scientist in her own right.”

  Way too fast, Holt snapped, “Her work has nothing to do with mine. I’m a chemist and she’s a microbiologist. Besides, her work keeps her very busy. Too busy to talk to you, I’m sure.”

  Didn’t want her talking to his wife, did he? Then it had just become imperative that she do exactly that. Funny how the occasional shot in the dark struck home.

  She’d gotten enough out of Holt for now. Time to go. But then an angry voice rang out behind her. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Oh shit. Dex.

  Chapter 5

  Thorpe grabbed her by the arm and dragged her away from the irate scientist. They were outside the building before he snarled, “I told you to stay away from him!”

  “Oh, look. There’s a coffee shop across the street,” she said with artificial brightness. “I could use a cup.” Without waiting for his response, she took off, walking briskly. If she could get him into a crowded, public place, maybe he’d be forced to shut up and listen to her before he passed judgment.

  Scowling, he caught up to her as she stepped into the coffee bar. He was silent as she ordered. She stepped away from the counter and headed for a booth. He could get his own damn coffee if he wanted some.

  She slid into the seat and watched him make his way toward her. The guy moved like a warrior, full of tightly controlled power, as fit as a god, confident in his ability to use his body. She’d never slept with one of the men she now worked with, but she expected they’d be impressive in the sack. That is, if they didn’t get so caught up in their own egos that they were totally self-centered.

  Dex slid into the booth across from her. “What are you thinking about?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I was coming to the conclusion that you’d be too selfish a lover to be any good in the sack.”

  He gaped in shock, and then the insult to his prowess sunk in and slammed his eyebrows together. “Don’t be so bloody honest the next time I ask.”

  In her experience, men who didn’t feel a need to defend themselves as lovers were the good ones. Hmm. Interesting. He took a sip of his coffee, keeping his hand wrapped securely around the porcelain mug. Guarding it from any impromptu additives from her, was he? A smile tickled the corners of her mouth.

  “What were you doing talking to Holt?” he asked tersely.

  She matched his tone, but kept her voice low so they wouldn’t be overheard. “I was doing my job. I’m supposed to protect Anya by whatever means necessary.”

  “You were disobeying orders.”

  “I was protecting you from political fallout by giving you plausible deniability if Holt complains. You can say I acted alone, and I’ll take the fall, not you.”

  “You were protecting me?” His voice vibrated with disbelief. “Bull. You’re just out to show me how shit-hot you are.”

  She paused, considering his accusation. There was a certain truth to it. He did rub her the wrong way, and she’d love to shove the Medusas’ effectiveness back in his face. She leaned forward. “You know, I would enjoy rubbing your nose in how good we are. But I’m not about to sacrifice Anya’s safety to convert a male chauvinist pig like you.”

  He leaned back sharply, scowling. “Do you hate all men, or just me?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t hate you. But neither do I need you interfering with my ability to protect Anya.”

  “Tell me about the Medusas.”

  Okay, it was her turn to be startled by the abrupt turn of the conversation. “That’s classified. Need to know.”

  “All the Delta team leaders were briefed on your existence.”

  No kidding? “We were formed last year as a test project to train women as special operators. The idea was to set up a bunch of women to fail so the issue of women in the Special Forces could be closed once and for all. Problem was, we didn’t fail. General Wittenauer tried to disband us anyway, of course. But before he could do that, our trainer went missing—”

  “Scatalone from Delta 3, right?” he interjected.

  “Right. We volunteered to go get him.”

  “I heard about that mission. You ran into a few terrorists, didn’t you?”

  She snorted. “That’s an understatement. But more to the point, we succeeded. After that, Wittenauer went to bat for us, and we were funded. We’ve been training like maniacs and picking up the occasional mission ever since.”

  “A year’s not long in this business.”

  He was referring to the fact that it typically took several years to completely train a Special Forces soldier. Like him. She shrugged. “You’re right. We don’t claim to be up to full speed. But we’re still useful for some things.”

  “Like babysitting young Muslim girls in sensitive public situations.”

  Like single-handedly rescuing fifteen hundred people from a hijacked cruise ship, on their last mission. “We’re good for a little more than that,” she replied dryly.

  “That remains to be seen.”

  She laughed, not offended. “Let’s hope we don’t have to show you what we’re made of while we’re here. I’d just as soon have you continue in ignorance of who and what we really are.” Except he was looking at her with intensity, not polite disinterest. It couldn’t be the look of a man interested in a woman romantically; it was more like she just confounded the living hell out of him.

  Time for an impertinent question of her own. “So how’d you get stuck with a boring handle like Dex? Why not something more…colorful?”

  His eyes glinted. “If Dex isn’t to your taste, my middle name’s Godfrey. You can call me God if you like.”

  She laughed in spite of herself. Who’d have guessed beneath that dry-as-a-desert exterior lurked a sense of humor?

  “I’ve got to get back to the bunker,” he said. “Where are you headed now?”

  Her lips twitched. “Don’t ask and I won’t tell.”

  He leaned forward. “Let’s get something straight while we’re having this little heart-to-heart. I don’t like your methods, Torres, and I don’t like your attitude. I especially don’t like the fact that you don’t follow orders. In our line of work, mavericks are dangerous, not only to themselves but to their entire team. However,” he sighed heavily as if he didn’t like what came next, “I was standing behind you when you brought up Holt’s wife and he went nuts. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I smell a rat, too. I want you to look into it. But for God’s sake, keep your head down.”

  She blinked, surprised at his reversal on Holt. “You’ve got it,” she replied. “And while we’re sharing true confessions, I will do my best to cover your six as long as I’m working for you.”

  A crisp nod, then he stood up, spun on his heel, and walked out of the coffee shop while she checked out the “six” in question. Oh, yes. Buns of steel. Very nice. He exited the shop without looking back and seemed to take some of the light out of the room with him. Slowly, she slid out of the booth and followed. Time to call Emma Holt and find out why her dear husband was being so damned protective.

  By the time she reached the street, Dex was long gone. Too bad. It might’ve been fun to tail him and to see if he spotted her. Speaking of which, she ought to keep a sharp eye out to make sure he didn’t do the very same thing to her.

  As she headed for the complex of buildings that comprised the administrative heart of the Olympics, she d
ucked into a random alleyway to make sure he wasn’t behind her. She moved quickly into the narrow street’s dim depths, and heard footsteps behind her. He had followed her! She spun around to face him—and stopped short.

  Three silhouetted figures were approaching her, shoulder to shoulder across the alley. And all three of them held out their hands preparatory to attacking.

  Her first reaction was disappointment that they weren’t Dex. Her second reaction was irritation that she had to deal with this now. Her mindset had definitely changed radically over the past year. Before she’d become a Medusa, she’d have been scared silly at finding herself in a dark alley with three hostiles. But no more.

  She squinted, trying to make out more details. Were these simple muggers about to get the shock of their lives, or were these guys more sinister? Trained fighters perhaps? Their stances weren’t giving away enough to tell. She’d go into it assuming the worst.

  “Can I help you?” she called loudly. Maybe she’d get lucky and draw a passerby’s attention.

  One of them called her a foul name in Arabic.

  Arabic? Oh, shit. The threat value of this situation had just gone up. A lot. And she wasn’t armed, either. She hit her microphone button and muttered, “I’m being mugged in an alley just south of School Street.”

  She slid to her left and turned, placing a wall at her back. She needed to keep them in front of her. Much more calmly than she felt, she said, “Gentlemen, I’m required by law to warn you that my hands and feet are considered lethal weapons. If in the course of defending myself, I happen to harm you—badly—the law does allow for that. Do you understand my warning?”

  The thugs laughed. She’d take that as a yes.

  The trio lunged. She picked out the most aggressive-looking one and spun, unleashing a vicious kick at his knees while she flailed her fists at the second man. The third guy got in a good body blow to her ribs, but she yanked back her arm and clocked him in the nose with her elbow. He staggered, out for the moment. The first one took a swing at her and she dodged the blow, burying her fist in the softness of Number Two’s groin. Not a full-force contact, but enough to make him jump away in caution.

  “Bitch,” the guy snarled.

  She raked her fingernails across Number One’s face and felt blood on her hand. He cried out. What a baby. He had no idea what real pain was. Number Three dived back into the fray. He and Number Two made a grab for her arms. She twisted violently, letting the movement flow into fists that landed on Number One’s face. Her right arm broke free. She lashed out with her right foot, using the guy’s grip on her left arm for additional balance. Pain in her toes exploded as her shoe connected hard with somebody’s shin.

  She heard shouting and realized it was her own voice, screaming in fury. She rode the wave, charging Number Two and head-butting him in the chin. Oww! That felt like she’d just been hit over the head with a hammer. But Number Two staggered back, looking stunned and disoriented. A hard fist connected with the side of her head, knocking her off balance. She fought to keep her feet. She mustn’t go down! Once she did, they’d start kicking her and then she’d be in serious trouble. Feet could kill a person. Fast. She found her balance and lashed out again, aiming for knees, groins, and bellies.

  A few of the thugs’ blows got through her defenses. Something connected with her left cheek, and it felt like her lip was split. But the adrenaline ripping through her ignored all pain and bodily damage. These bastards thought she was weak, vulnerable, because she was a woman. Because she was alone and unchaperoned, they’d taken advantage of her. A lifetime’s worth of rage cut loose from somewhere deep within her, and she let it flow outward to the very tips of her fingers.

  Somewhere in the flurry of kicks and punches she delivered, her attackers began to think better of this little project. Two of them backed off, and the third threw one last pair of punches—easily blocked—before snarling in Arabic, “Tell the girl to forget skating and get herself behind the veil before this happens to her.”

  The third guy turned to follow his comrades, who’d already taken off running down the alley. Oh, no. They didn’t get to jump her, beat her up, and then get away. She made a running leap and dived for his feet. She grunted as one of his heels rammed into her chest. She hung on for all she was worth as the guy struggled furiously to free himself.

  She scrambled to her knees and leaped on top of him, landing on his back with her full body weight. “Not so fast,” she panted. “I’ve got a few questions for you.”

  “Go to hell,” the guy snarled in heavily accented English.

  “You’re gonna wish you were there by the time I’m done with you, buster.” She grabbed his wrist and wrenched it up and back. He fought beneath her, but he couldn’t do much with his arm jacked up behind him. She shouted for help at the top of her lungs and footsteps pounded into the alley.

  “What the hell have you done now?” Dex asked from above her.

  “Well, three guys decided to deliver a message and rough me up a little. Thought I might keep one as a souvenir and see how well he sings,” she replied lightly.

  Dex put a casual foot on the guy’s neck and, surprisingly gently, he helped Isabella to her feet. Assorted aches and pains hinted at the discomfort to come later.

  To the guy on the ground, Dex said, in a voice that promised worlds of pain, “You messed with one of my troops, buddy. And that means you messed with me.”

  “I don’t know how good his English is. He used Arabic with me.”

  She blinked in surprise as Dex repeated his threat in flawless Arabic. To her he said, “OSG’s on the way.”

  She noted that he hadn’t brought the IOC security team with him. Yup, this business should stay on the military side of the house. A dark blue minivan pulled up at the mouth of the alley and four men moved out quickly in a standard threat formation. Dex’s Delta team.

  Even her blood ran cold when Dex stared intently at the now handcuffed man and, “You got a name, son?”

  The kid glared defiantly at Dex.

  Probably a mistake. She’d been on the receiving end of a trained Delta Force interrogator in her prisoner-of-war training, and the mugger’s life was about to be really, really unpleasant.

  “You okay, Adder?” Dex asked as the kid was hustled toward the van.

  She nodded. “Yeah. I need to wash out a few minor dings and then I’ll be fine.”

  “Gentlemen,” Dex called after his men, “squeeze him dry. I want to know everything about this guy and his friends.”

  The Delta team nodded grimly and dragged their prisoner into the van. She followed the men back toward the street, and without comment, Dex walked beside her.

  More cars pulled up, some of them the white vans of the IOC Security team. But his men were already driving away with their prisoner. Dex managed to snag a set of keys and stuff her into a car before Manfred Schmidt himself was barely out of his vehicle. Dex ignored the shouts from his boss, pretending not to hear him as he pulled into traffic.

  She asked cautiously, “Isn’t this technically fleeing the scene of a crime?”

  “You can make a report later if you want. The way I see it, we’re still involved in a clean-up operation.”

  Dex turned into the security staff housing complex. It would become an apartment complex after the Games. She pointed out her building and was surprised when Dex passed it up. He activated the automatic door locks as he got out of the car, effectively trapping her inside or forcing her to set off the car alarm to open her door. Then he stunned her speechless by coming around and opening her door for her.

  She stepped out and paused to look up at him. “While I appreciate the chivalry, I’m fully capable of opening my own doors.”

  “I know you are. So shut up and deal with the chivalry.”

  Well, okay then! Amused, she followed him in silence to a second-floor apartment. The place was furnished nearly identically to hers, except there was a subtle difference to the atmosphere, an infusion
of masculine essence. It smelled like a combination of his sexy cologne, lemon oil—the place was spotless—and grilled steak. Last night’s supper, no doubt. The scents blended well.

  “I’ll be back,” he said over his shoulder as he disappeared into the bedroom. He returned carrying the distinctive, bulky backpack of a field medicine kit, better known as a crash kit. You could do everything from splint a leg to deliver a baby out of that bag.

  “Hey!” she protested. “I’ve only got a couple scrapes.”

  “In the kitchen,” he ordered, ignoring her.

  She rolled her eyes. Macho jerk, she thought without any real heat. She let him swab her facial injuries with disinfectant and managed not to suck in her breath when alcohol hit the wounds. He smeared antibiotic cream onto her cheek then stepped back to survey his work.

  “You’ll live,” he announced.

  She had to give him credit. He’d done that as efficiently as she could’ve. Although, she didn’t have a crash kit stowed in her closet. Clearly her preparedness and paranoia still needed work.

  Speaking of which, she said aloud, “It would’ve been nice in that alley if I had been armed. How do I get permission to carry something? I don’t necessarily need a gun, although that would be nice. A switchblade or an ankle knife would do.”

  He sighed. “I’ve argued and argued that one and I get shot down every time I bring it up. The IOC is totally opposed to the United States using force of any kind to secure the Games.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” she exclaimed. “How are we supposed to keep terrorists from having a field day if we can’t fight back?”

  He picked up her hand to clean her raw knuckles. “Looks like you did a decent job of fighting back today.”

  “Colonel Scatalone is hard-core when it comes to unarmed combat. He thinks it’s one of the Medusas’ greatest assets. People don’t expect girls to whup up on them. They underestimate us.”

  “Did the guys in the alley make that mistake?”