“No. What you just caught a whiff of was similar to Merodach’s essence, but diluted. I really hope it’s Merodach Junior, and that he’s taken the bait.”
“So, bad guys stink?”
“Not many can detect it. And it’s not exactly a smell, is it? Kyros calls it an ‘essence’ but that sounds too nice.” Jack dropped from the end of the ladder onto the ground below, crouching to absorb the impact of his fall. Still, his feet left a pair of craters in the ground, so he kicked the gravel around to disguise the prints. He added silently so he wouldn’t have to shout, I’ve learned it’s my Bullshit Alarm, it’s saved my life more than once. I don’t think they know they emit the scent.
Cassie dangled from the bottom rung, and Jack gave the cue for her to drop the seventeen feet from the second story into his arms. Maybe the ground would have been better. Even packed by the boots of countless patrols it had to be softer than Jack. She’d have to heal bruises across her shoulders and behind her knees.
She rubbed her elbow. “Three attacks in one day. I don’t like how this is going.”
“I do.” He grabbed her hand as they cut though a fenced-in mechanical room. At least they were out of range of the sniper. “The advantage is ours.”
“Really? A moment ago when I thought your heart would be blown out of your chest I had the impression we were sitting ducks.”
“The enemy has revealed a lot about himself while we have given nothing away. He attacks when no one is there or it’s just us, which means his resources are limited. Instead of taking decisive action, he resorts to taunting. Hardly a class-act infiltration.”
“I don’t get the point.”
“Neither does he, I think. But he’ll be the first to make a mistake.”
“He? What if we’re dealing with a she?”
Jack led her through an industrial kitchen, ignoring curious glances from the staff. I doubt Merodach would’ve entrusted his legacy to a woman, even an extra-sentient — if another female even exists. Besides, someone on base is passing through security checkpoints without drawing attention. Not many women here to begin with.
I noticed. I feel like a freak show.
It’s definitely not that, baby. More like a princess on a ship with a bunch of horny pirates.
Lovely metaphor.
Speaking of freak show, Cassie took one look at the cafeteria and vowed she would never lose a bet to Jack. The soldiers who didn’t slouch in their chairs, laughing their heads off, jeered or pounded on the tables, roaring indiscriminate epithets. Officers lined the walls and others filtered in, craning their heads for a look.
She hardly recognized Chief and Pops, whom she had met earlier, but it had to be them under the tufts of feathers attached atop their heads, shoulders, and back, but no place else. They ran stark naked through the aisles, flapping their arms shouting, “Bok! Bok!” Chief stole bits of food from the trays as he passed, and Pops swilled a bottle of schnapps he carried in one hand. Cassie couldn’t imagine the janitor would be pleased with the aftermath.
Next to her, Jack chortled then guffawed out loud, joining the chorus of men roaring in laughter, enlisted men and officers alike. He slumped against the wall and braced his knees, indulging in musical boyish gut-laughter that made her smile despite herself. To her horror, Chief and Pops looped around and reacted with a chicken-like hopping as they spied her and Jack. They stopped before her and bowed low, muttering obeisance in more “bok-bok” syllables. She tried not to look, but they were oh-so-naked, and she felt her face heat. The men in the hall raised the roof with cat-calls and whistles. The most bizarre, mortifying moment of her life.
Chief shuffled closer with his head cocked, and the men took up a chant. Pops followed suit, with them both closing in on her, heads craned, offering their cheeks. It was apparent she would not escape until she kissed them. The pulsing two-syllable chant rattled her skull. She had no choice.
Jack! Save me!
Sorry, lass. No one gets out of initiation.
Cassie grasped Chief by the jaw and surprised him by turning his cheek away to plant a kiss squarely on the lips. He tasted of mashed potatoes and Jell-o and was either well-behaved or feared Jack enough to respond with a brief closed-mouth kiss. He grabbed the feathers on his head and tossed them in the air, then mock-fainted — overblown like a cartoon character. The men went wild.
The roar deafened her as she reached for Pops, who turned to place himself in her arms and leaned back, like the classic image of a woman being dip-kissed. Cassie held the side of his neck and leaned down to kiss him, and he wasn’t so polite with his enthusiastic open-mouthed peach schnapps kiss. He grasped her close with one hand and the other went roaming. She understood his thoughts — that was her cue to slap him, so she shoved him upright on his feet and slugged him hard in the jaw. He went down like a rock. Two hundred fifty soldiers shouted their approval, making an unholy mess with their food and upending chairs as they shot to their feet. Way too much testosterone in the room.
Cassie smiled out of sheer bewilderment and noticed not a few uniforms covered with gold bars and fruit salad gathered in the doorway. Also laughing like idiots. So even the commanding officers allowed the hazing?
Finally Jack decided to act territorial. He pulled her against his chest and wrapped his arms around her waist, his shoulders shielding her. Dozens of sharp eyes watched, assessed, noting that she allowed the intimacy. Jack ducked to mutter something in her ear, but she couldn’t hear over the thunder of applause and bass-toned cheering.
Well done, lass.
Bunch of gorillas.
You passed the test, and now every one of these men will guard you with their lives.
Hooyah. That’s what everyone said here. It meant anything. Jack seemed satisfied with her show of accord. But then she noticed the men in the room all were operators, not cadets, judging by the wild variety of haircuts and facial hair. This was Team Three headquarters, and Jack had essentially established her as his woman and everyone else’s kid sister. Who couldn’t use 250 Navy SEALs for big brothers?
She scanned the crowd and willed herself to see past their orgiastic behavior. If she hadn’t seen them repair a laser cannon earlier, she would have guessed this was a caveman convention. But then, Jack was a screwball except for the moments he focused on food, music, or combat. Cassie didn’t dare comment on the wisdom of entrusting missions vital to national security to the same men who danced naked in a cafeteria for losing a bet.
Chief and Pops seemed to have won a popularity contest, heroes in a throng of admirers. She was apparently the only one uneasy with their state of undress. She was also the only woman. The officers filtered out, shaking their heads and chuckling. She saw Chief and Pops exchange a fist bump, then Pops turned to shout at Jack, “The Steam — eighteen-hundred hours. You’re buying.”
“Hooyah!” Jack shouted back, his steel-edged voice cutting through the commotion.
You’re one of us, now we’ll show you how to party.
Oh, goody. More wholesome entertainment. Hooyah-rific.
Chapter 9
“Here’s a quarter.
Call your roommate and tell her you won’t be coming home tonight.”
—Jack MacGunn, King of the Bad Pick-Up Line
Not long afterward, Cassie discovered why their favorite hangout was called “The Steam.” She should have known, but then it was just her luck to find herself stuck at a hot-tub-themed bar. The steam rooms silhouetted with translucent glass were bad enough, but the giant acrylic tubes set in the floor — free-standing see-though Jacuzzis — were worse. Because jet bubbles only concealed so much.
She didn’t like the place even before she saw it, simply because of the number of women waiting in line who called, “Hiya Jack.” It felt good to be on his arm as the bouncer moved to get out of Jack’s way.
“You must be a tease, playboy.”
“The worst kind,” he answered wryly.
An albino man wearing dark shades flanked by identical twins in silver foil bikinis strutted past. “So this is where it’s at.” Her flat tone made it clear she wasn’t impressed.
“Count the Budweisers.”
“What?”
“Look how many are on the teams.”
Cassie scanned the room, noting the patrons were thirty-six-percent dashing Navy SEALs and their pathetic groupies.
“Frog hogs.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. I’m testing a theory.” He lowered his voice, then decided not to speak aloud. If the assassin doesn’t attack here, then it’s definitely for lack of resources. That changes our strategy.
What strategy?
No more holing up. Take the bait out into the open.
Before Cassie could take him to task, a curvy redhead pretended to accidentally bump into Jack, engineering the collision to press her silicone D-cup into his arm.
Look twice and die, Jack.
“Excuse me,” he muttered with a blank look, and reached his arm around Cassie’s waist.
The inebriated Lilith incarnate paused, her sluggish thoughts registering surprise that her ambush hadn’t worked. Cassie knew it was her scent, for starters — artificial and too strong. Jack’s flared nostrils confirmed it. Lilith gave Cassie a once-over, scrutinizing her conservative vintage bandeau-style swimsuit. Lilith backed away at Jack’s lack of encouragement, and the crowd parted for him, a seemingly supernatural phenomenon. Or perhaps because he walked like a human wrecking ball.
Jack’s boat crew had a reserved corner, apparently, because the other revelers gave their hot-tub a wide berth. Jack shouted greetings, leading her up the steps to the deck. If everyone wore haz-mat suits instead of swimwear, the club might have looked like a nuclear plant. Minus the DJ and disco ball. The group shuffled to make room, and Cassie tried not to howl at the scalding temperature of the water. Good for killing bacteria.
Jack crammed her next to him on the seat and perched his arms on the deck — a noteworthy moment that drew attention. Cassie was accustomed to his physique, but comparing him to the splendidly built men here, she realized Jack had almost comic book superhero proportions. Body-builder-stacked, ripped, buff, cut … those words bowed down to Jack MacGunn in the dictionary. True, he was pretty, but he’d earned every ounce with blood, sweat and tears.
Glad she’d kept her mindshield up since the first Hiya Jack, Cassie smiled and prepared herself for testosterone overload.
“Hey, it’s the Thundercat,” a soldier called Buck shouted at her. She resisted groaning as the others cheered at the christening of her nickname.
“Thundercat — ow-wow!” someone cat-called.
“Hello, boys,” she answered in a suggestive tone she figured they would appreciate. She looked around the group — all Team Three SEALs except for the pretty pale woman tucked under Memphis’ arm, Sarah, his wife. Quite an exclusive gathering. Cassie blinked as though stunned and wondered aloud for their benefit, “Wow, have you guys considered making a calendar?”
They laughed, shaking beefy shoulders and flashing rows of white teeth. It was the right thing to say.
“Only if I can be your Mr. December, baby. You’ll like what I put in your stocking.” Chief winked, and the others roared, dripping beer into the water. Stinky. She laughed anyway and winked back. Jack tensed, unaccustomed to her being flirty and sociable.
When in Rome … she chided.
Rome burned, you know.
“But I count only ten of you,” she pressed, playing coy.
“MacGunn will be January and February — ”
“Yeah, he’ll need both pages to fit his big ass.”
Jack tossed his head back and laughed but Cassie didn’t think it was the hot water that colored his neck a dangerous shade of red. “So, you bastards drunk already? How bad is my tab?”
Pops answered, “Bad, Doolittle. Don’t look, just sign when it comes.” This warranted more toasting with tipsy bottles.
Then Cassie followed suit as Jack held a bottle he didn’t drink from. He argued back when someone noticed he wasn’t actually consuming it, “Because someone has to drive your sorry carcass home.” That earned another hearty toast. He’d been right — drinking was about being social.
But the others consumed the alcohol, and as their inhibitions deteriorated Cassie found herself the subject of a bad pick-up line contest when Jack attempted to introduce her to his boat crew. It began with a blond SEAL introducing himself, “Hi, I’m Subway.”
“You’re from New York?” she guessed, then her cheeks flushed with heat as the others roared with laughter. Footlong was the buzzword, and she was the last to get it. She knew naiveté sounded extra absurd in a European accent and hated that.
“Yeah, and I’m MacGyver. Wait ‘til you see what I can do with duct tape and a shoelace,” Buck said with a wink.
Jack, your entire existence has just become clear to me. Really, this explains a lot.
He ignored her, but she felt his shoulders tense. She sensed the only reason his friends went on breathing was because they knew she’d been marked as his woman. The flirting was their way of including her. She already had a nickname, after all.
“Naw, you gotta be smoother than that with our little Thundercat. She’s embarrassed, see? The sweet ones like it nice and easy,” argued Pops, and Cassie held her left brow down, resisting outward skepticism. Hadn’t he recently attempted second base with her in public, wearing nothing but feathers?
Jack argued, “This from a man who once said to a woman at a bar, and I quote, ‘Drink this and call me when you’re ready,’ then left her holding the tequila.”
“Learning curve, Doolittle. Observe.” Pops leaned to nudge her and half-whispered, “Excuse me, my friend over there is a little embarrassed, he’d like your phone number. He wants to know how to get hold of me in the morning.”
She took it in stride, partly because they were somewhat entertaining, but mostly because Jack had been touching her in some way since the moment she sat next to him in the jacuzzi. His toe stroked her heel, his foot rubbed the inside of her calf, his fingers massaged the tight knots in her neck. Now he tucked her under his arm, his massive chest protecting and cradling her.
She had been gradually leaning farther and farther into his lap as he rubbed her shoulders, and finally he lifted her to sit between his knees. Her brain hit ground zero and she thought steam would shoot out her ears, feeling his rock-hard thighs cradling hers. She felt his dog tags and the beaded chain hot against her skin. It was positively intoxicating to be held by him, his presence both formidable and soothing. Playful waves of affection floated from his thoughts, with an erotic undercurrent. It made her feel both contented and wily. A bad combination.
Cassie cocked an eyebrow at Chet, who thought he brought the house down with “You be Dairy Queen and I’ll be Burger King: You treat me right, and I’ll do it your way.” She exchanged pained glances with Sarah, who obviously just wanted to go home and be alone with Memphis.
Jack bombed the water with his fist, and Chet shot back, “What — you the love doctor? Why don’t you tell us what line gets you any woman you want, Bullfrog?”
Jack scoffed, the others ribbed him then took up a chant until he conceded with his hand raised to silence them. He dipped his voice low like a radio announcer, “Well, here I am. What are your other two wishes?” He bounced his pecs back and forth then flashed a cheesy grin that showed off his sexy laugh lines. Dorky, but somehow still hot.
Jack acted baffled by the collective jeering, then complained, “What? That’s better than Memphis’ line: ‘How do you like your eggs?’ ” His imitation of Memphis’ southern drawl was dead-on.
Memphis hugged his wife’s shoulder and defended, “It worked once, and that was all I needed.” He gave nothing away, but Cassie caught her breath at the second-hand wave of adoration wafting from the married couple. There was a private joke shared between them that also spiked their desire, and once again Cassie found herself jealous.
Some couples simply had it — the intangible emotion that made her eyes sting and her throat tighten. So few understood that real love goes beyond attraction, sex, companionship, even friendship — but how do you explain what you feel when you would gladly give your life for someone you love?
If anything in the world mattered, that was it.
And she would give anything to have it.
Chapter 10
“I’m not actually this tall. I’m sitting on my wallet.”
—Jack MacGunn, King of the Bad Pick-Up Line
The sniper took a potshot when Jack and Cassie left the club, as Jack expected. A reminder that his enemy was watching and biding his time. If the booger-eater had nicked the ground next to his feet, Jack would have killed him swiftly. But for the bullet hole in the fender of his Camaro — inches from Cassie’s thigh — the bastard would die hanging upside down, screaming for his mother.
To her credit, Cassie barely flinched. “He is so dead.” She shook her head as Jack handed her into the car, shielding the doorway.
The dirt behind him clouded and small plastic parts bounced on the ground. Jack looked down to see the fabric over his right hip frayed and smoking — a bullet had grazed there, blowing a hole in his phone. Either the sniper was crazy good, or a piss-poor shot.
Flexing his fists against the urge to wreak violence, he pulled out of the parking lot calmly, denying the sniper any satisfaction thinking he’d frightened them. If Jack didn’t have Cassie along, he would park out of sight and loop back around on foot, find the sniper’s nest and trail him.
“I remember scratching the paint on your Trans-Am with my bike handle.”
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