Down and Dirty

by Sandra Hill

  “I don’t know.” Hilda grinned. “Pretty Boy does not seem to have a problem with your size or femininity.” She turned to Madrene and told her, “Pretty Boy was smitten with Britta from the start. Could not keep his eyes or hands off her.”

  “Pretty Boy?” Madrene glanced Britta’s way. “Pretty Boy does not chase women; they chase him. You must have something.”

  “Well, I do let him perform perversions on me,” she admitted.

  Both women choked on their glasses of mead.

  Some ladies at a neighboring table stopped eating and gazed at her with sudden interest.

  “You better explain yourself,” Hilda said with mock severity.

  And Britta did, much to the ever-dropping jaws of her two friends…and their neighbors.

  “Oh, I do not think that is so perverted,” Hilda said, “except mayhap for that wheelbarrow business.” She leaned closer to Britta and Madrene and confided, “Torolf taught me how to pleasure myself. In front of a mirror.” Seeing the interest she had garnered, Hilda continued with glee, “And one time he made love to me as I was bound and gagged.”

  “Do not dare stop now,” Madrene said.

  Already, Britta was picturing herself in such situations…with Zachary, of course.

  “And you both know about chocolate body paint, do you not?” Hilda inquired.

  When she finished relating the purpose and method of chocolate body paint, Britta said, “Can we stop to purchase some on the way back?”

  “I’ll second that, and mayhap strawberry, as well. Ian is partial to strawberries.” Madrene had a considering expression on her face. “And, by the by, I think my brother Torolf wins the prize for most perverted.”

  “I will tell him that.” Hilda smiled.

  “Oh, no, please do not,” Madrene said.

  They all stood up, preparing to leave, when Hilda said, “So, anyone game for The Horny Toad?”

  “The what?” Madrene inquired.

  “A sex shop.”

  “Hilda!” Madrene was laughing. “You shock me.”

  “Hah! There is naught that could shock you, Madrene,” Hilda contended. “You are the one who gave me edible underwear for a bridal showering gift.”

  Edible underwear? Eeeew! A sex shop? “Uh…I do not think I am interested in purchasing sex,” Britta said. “I get enough from Zachary.”

  Everyone laughed at her then, including the people at nearby tables.

  The plot thickens…

  Mullah Ahmed Arsallah sat in a San Diego hotel suite watching a TV screen showing remote-access pictures of that bastard Floyd’s home, twenty miles away.

  “Everything is in place?” he inquired of his assistant.

  Daoud nodded. “Our operatives are in place in the house across the street. Six of them.”

  “And the occupants of the house?” He addressed Hakim, who was sometimes referred to as The Executioner.

  “Disabled and will not awaken for hours.” Hakim would have preferred killing them all, including their hostages-to-be, something which might yet happen.

  “And Lieutenant Floyd…are we certain he will not return in the midst of our…um, mission?”

  “He and seven other SEALs are occupied with that bomb threat we devised. In a place called Pennsylvania. Even if he were warned now, it would take half a day for him to return. By then, we will be gone, including the boy, Allah willing.”

  Arsallah nodded. “Number of guards inside and outside?”

  “One inside, two outside,” Hakim said. “Plus there is a woman inside with the boy, as well. A military woman from WEALS.”

  Arsallah frowned his confusion.

  “Rather like a female Navy SEAL.” This explanation came from Daoud, who exchanged stony looks with Hakim. The two men had no love for each other, which was just as well. Arsallah did not like his comrades to develop strong bonds with each other. Their whole allegiance should be to him. “It is a new military unit for women,” Daoud elaborated.

  Arsallah and Hakim both sneered, as did others sitting about the lavish three-bedroom suite where they had been staying these past two days, waiting for the right opportunity. “American women are immodest. Harlots for the most part,” Arsallah postulated. It made no difference that they had all watched an X-rated movie on the television the night before. Actually, it probably contributed to that opinion if all American women behaved in that manner. “Take the female SEAL, too,” he ordered.

  “We will use silencers on our weapons outside,” Hakim told him. “Inside, shall we use drugs or Tasers?”

  Arsallah shrugged. “Just do not harm the boy and woman in any way that will show on the outside. Once we are on the return flight, a reporter and cameraman from Aljazeera will interview me. I do not want any human rights or U.S. government officials crying mistreatment.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait a day or so then, till we are certain the boy and the woman will say what we want?” This from the more logical Daoud.

  “They will do as told,” Hakim answered for Arsallah with a harsh laugh.

  Arsallah agreed with his henchman. “Especially that spineless grandson of mine. I should have had him shot at birth, along with his traitorous whore of a mother. At least now Samir can be used for our benefit. First off, we use him for a bargaining tool to have every al-Qaeda prisoner released from CIA prisons.”

  “Can we threaten to kill the boy, or cut off a body part, if the Americans do not comply?” Hakim practically licked his lips with anticipation. Not so long ago, Samir had kicked Hakim in the balls when ordered to get rid of a mongrel dog that had been bothering his sleep.

  “Threaten, yes, but get my permission to follow through.”

  Both Daoud and Hakim studied him carefully, probably thinking that he was getting soft on his grandson. He was not. As far as he was concerned, Samir’s diluted blood merited no familial consideration. But he did want to rein in control of this volatile situation.

  “And then…after the negotiations are complete?” Daoud asked. “What happens to the boy…and the woman soldier…then?”

  Arsallah knew, but he was not about to share all information, even with these old comrades. No one could be trusted, really.

  Chapter 18

  Being conned by a mini-con…

  Britta didn’t have a maternal bone in her body. Leastways, that had been her opinion till today…and tonight, with Sammy.

  They were propped up against pillows in his small bed, looking through picture books. The way he leaned against her, smelling of boyling skin and minty soap from his bath, the way he seemed to be drawn to her, and she to him…well, her heart nigh swelled with strong emotions she had ne’er felt before.

  Her reading was still not very good, despite the tutoring lessons, so she and Sammy were making up stories to fit the pictures, some of them absurd, some poignantly telling of both their pasts.

  His favorite of the children’s books was The Poky Little Puppy; apparently, he yearned to have a pet dog someday. She would have to mention that fact to Zachary when he returned. Her favorite was Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, although she was a mite suspicious about the goings-on betwixt the pretty lady and the seven little men. Men were men, no matter their size, in her experience.

  “That is enough, do you not think? Time for sleep.”

  “Just one more.”

  “That is what you said three books back.”

  “I could show you my father’s magazine.” There was a sly look in his blue eyes…eyes that matched Zachary’s.

  “Why would I want to…”

  Sammy had already jumped off the bed and was digging under a pile of shoes on the floor of his closet. “He hid it under his mattress, but I found it there. Then he hid it under the towels in the bathroom.”

  He tossed the magazine to her. A magazine was sort of a book, but bigger, with no hard cover. This one, with the title Penthouse, seemed to be filled with lots of words and lots of color pictures.

  Penthouse? I wonder what
kind of house that is?

  She flipped the magazine open, gawked, then immediately flipped it shut. Oh, my gods and goddesses! “Sammy! This is not appropriate fare for a child.”

  “How am I ever gonna learn stuff?”

  “I do not think you need to know, close-up, how a woman’s nether parts look.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…because it will be a long, long time afore you would find that information of any use.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “What kind of use?”

  “That is enough.” She stood and told him, “Slide down so I can cover you.”

  “I dint say my prayers yet.”

  She let out a long sigh. More delays.

  Sammy slid down to the floor, on his knees, put both hands together, then said, “Dear God, thank you for another day without my grandfather findin’ me. Thank you for Britta stayin’ with me. Thank you for not lettin’ anyone know about what I put in the blender today. God bless my great-grandfather Floyd, my great-grandmother Floyd, my grandfather Floyd, Grandfather’s bimbo girlfriend, Bridget, my grandmother Floyd, Uncle Danny, and…and…” He gulped. “Keep my daddy safe and bring him home. Amen.”

  Britta choked up.

  Until he added, “And please let Britta become my mother.”

  “Sammy,” she tried to say, but he had already crawled into bed, pulled up the blanket, and pretended to be asleep.

  She was shaking her head with dismay when he cracked open one eye and said, “You kin give me a good-night kiss.”

  Smiling, she leaned down and kissed his forehead.

  The imp was grinning with his eyes closed.

  Then, all Muspell broke loose…

  Britta was sitting in the bed in the guest chamber, flicking through Zachary’s magazine, which was…interesting, incredible, outrageous, perverted…she could not think of the right word.

  The breasts on some of the women were huge, and yet they managed to stay uplifted. On some of the pages, she angled her head right and left, studying the naked women portrayed, legs widespread, their inner workings detailed. Is that how women…how I…look down there? She was repulsed and fascinated at the same time.

  She came to a page titled “Penthouse Forum” and sounded out some of the words in what appeared to be a letter. “My…girl…friend…loves…anal…sex,” Britta said slowly, frowning with confusion. When understanding came, she slammed the magazine shut. “Perversions! Is that all men think of?”

  Just then, Britta heard some odd popping noises outside, like the sound made when pulling the stopper from a container of overfermented wine…except louder. She threw the magazine to the floor and got up off the bed, but before she could go to the window and investigate, she heard a banging noise at the front door. Alarmed, she ran out into the hall, just as the door was smashed in. Several men, all in black, including black hoods, called balaclavas, with only the eyes showing, rushed in. She stepped back before they could see her, then ran to Sammy’s room where she closed and locked the door. Moving quickly, she shoved a chest of drawers away from the wall and in front of the door. It would only delay the attackers.

  Going over to the bed, she picked Sammy up and whispered in his ear, “Sammy, wake up. Quick. Hurry, dearling, we’ve got to get out of here.”

  His eyes shot open, then he whimpered as he realized the situation they were in.

  “Here,” she handed him a hockey stick and picked up a metal bat for her own pitiful weapon. Adapt, adapt, adapt…that is what they were taught in WEALS.

  Men could be heard conversing in a foreign language outside, down the hallway. Sammy’s room was the last one in the corridor. They would be here soon.

  “It’s my grandfather’s men,” Sammy told her, eyes wide with fright.

  “I’m going to open the window and try to climb out on the roof with you,” she told him. “Once I open the window, we should both start screaming for help, loud, very loud.”

  He nodded his understanding.

  Someone was trying the doorknob, and the tone of voice she heard on discovering the lock indicated some swearing going on. Just as she began to raise the window, two hands came up. A man, also in a balaclava, must have crawled up the drainpipe to this second story. They stared at each other for a startled minute.

  He put his hands on the windowsill, about to come in.

  She slammed the window down on his fingers.

  He cursed loud and long as he pulled his hands out, then fell off the roof ledge.

  That small amount of time wasted gave the attackers a chance to enter through the hall door. But, before they did, she and Sammy rushed over to stand behind the door. The first man through got the baseball bat across his face, causing him to scream. Even through the hood, blood spurted everywhere. She must have broken his nose. Meanwhile, another miscreant came in, and Sammy, bless his little soul, brandishing the hockey stick, whacked him across the knees. That man went down with a scream of pain, too.

  Unfortunately, four more men followed, jumping over their comrades. Britta and Sammy stood, backs against the wall now, “weapons” raised overhead. But then, a man with an evil glint in his eyes aimed a two-pronged instrument at Sammy. With a gasp followed by rolling of the eyes, Sammy dropped the hockey stick and slid to the floor. In that brief second, whilst she turned to Sammy with dismay, a similar instrument was aimed at her shoulder. The most intense pain shot through her body, like the pain one got when striking one’s elbow, but a hundred times worse. After that, she felt boneless and disoriented as thousands of needles seemed to be pricking her body.

  The last thing she thought as she lost consciousness was, Zachary is going to be devastated.

  Even when you win, you sometimes lose…

  The game was about to begin.

  A small aircraft flew over the field, and a serviceman parachuted out to hand the referee the game ball. It was Sly, who had taken over this traditional role, which usually fell to one of the university’s ROTC students. They weren’t taking any chances with anything.

  With a blast from his whistle, the drum major began an exaggerated strut across the field, starting at the student end of the stadium and ending with a series of front flips midstream. The Penn State Blue Band followed after him, instruments blaring out the school’s alma mater.

  Soon the field was filled with coaches, players, and news media. A hundred and ten thousand spectators had shown up for this homecoming event, made extra special because it was the Fighting Irish they would be playing. Thank God the game was in the afternoon and not at night.

  By halftime, nothing had happened, and they were all nervous. There was always a chance this would be a dry hole…not the first time a mission had been unsuccessful, but it was too early to make that call.

  In the midst of the usual hubbub in the press box, a Philadelphia Inquirer reporter had been bugging Zach for the past fifteen minutes. “You’re not a reporter; I can tell.”

  “Oh, yeah? Why? Because I don’t have acne and a flatulence problem?”

  The reporter’s face flushed, but still he plodded on. “You’re government, aren’t you? FBI? CIA? No, that’s wrong. With that body, you’ve gotta be military. Holy shit! You’re a Navy SEAL. Don’t deny it. My second cousin was a SEAL, and I recognize the signs.”

  He had to give the guy credit for some good reasoning skills. He was probably a top-rate reporter, which was what they didn’t need here at this time. “You’re delusional,” was all Zach said, and he walked away to pour himself a cup of coffee.

  The reporter, of course, followed him. “Your body is ripped. You’ve got the right haircut. You’re stoic. You’ve been watching this field like a guard dog. You’ve got that ear mike. I heard the word terrorist more than once. Yeah, you’re a SEAL. What’s up, buddy? Is al-Qaeda gonna blow this football crowd all the way to Philly? Ha, ha, ha.” He made the mistake of getting right in Zach’s face. Even worse, some other of the media were starting to take interest in their “discussion.
”

  “Buzz off, newsboy.” Zach picked him up and shoved him aside.

  Undaunted, the jerk followed him outside, motioning for a cameraman to follow. “Sonofabitch! There’s gonna be a terrorist attack, isn’t there?”

  The cameraman raised his equipment. A big mistake.

  “You take one single friggin’ picture of me, and I’m gonna ram that camera down your throat. You’ll be shittin’ parts for weeks.” Into his ear mike, he said, “Cage. A little help here, buddy.”

  Within seconds, Cage had flipped himself down off the roof and stood beside him.

  The two news dorks were staring at Cage with mouths gaping. He guessed they had never seen anyone do a front flip off the roof of the press box.

  “We have a situation,” Zach said to Cage.

  “I can see that, good buddy.”

  The reporter and cameraman didn’t know what hit them. They soon found themselves in a private VIP restroom, bound and gagged, with the door locked tight. There were a few VIPs who might have to take a piss like the rest of the world in the plebeian stalls down below.

  Up on the roof of the press box, he and Cage scanned the area with binoculars.

  “Is it possible this was all a false alarm?” he asked.

  “I doan know. I got a funny feelin’,” Cage said. “My maw maw would call it the heebie-jeebies.”

  “Same here. The hairs are standing out on the back of my neck like porcupine quills. But, man, we’ve swept this stadium top to bottom; we’ve screened everyone who came in; we’ve done everything possible to make this perimeter secure. There’s got to be something we’ve missed. In fact, I…” Zach’s words trailed off. His heart began to race, and his blood went cold. “Omigod! The hot-air balloons.”

  “What?”

  He put the binoculars to his eyes again.

  Cage did likewise.

  “Check out my three o’clock. They’ve got something planned in one of those balloons. Watch. One of them will break loose soon and sort of drift this way.”

  “Black Sunday,” Cage said.

  “Huh?”

  “Remember that old Bruce Dern movie where terrorists were gonna attack from a blimp over the Super Bowl stadium.”