Pussycat Death Squad

by Holcomb, Roslyn Hardy

  Stark nodded. “I noticed her earlier. I swear, it's like nothing I've ever seen.”

  Patrick didn't respond. They observed for a long, silent moment.

  “What technique is that? Definitely not semper fu,” Stark said, referring to the nickname for Marine Corps martial arts.

  “At first I thought it was krav maga,” Patrick said, “but now I haven't a clue.”

  “She's holding back, isn't she?” Stark asked.

  “Yeah, it looks like the other soldier is a newbie, so she's pulling her punches.” He noticed that several of the women had glanced up at them, and moved back from the rail again. “We'd better get down there. I'm sure they won't like us just watching them this way.”

  * * *

  Lelia leaned forward to help her sparring partner off the floor. “Private, you've got to watch for the leg lock. It's very basic. And if you do find yourself on the floor, you have to take that opportunity to bring your opponent down too. Do you understand?” she asked quietly.

  The recruit nodded, springing quickly into starting position again. Then she faltered, her widened eyes signaling to Lelia that someone had approached from behind. In a movement almost too fast for the human eye to discern, Lelia had the person in a throwing hold. Before the weight difference could register, she had flipped him over her shoulder and stood over him, her legs braced apart in a fighting stance.

  She gasped as she realized that the man had to be one of the marines assigned to train with them.

  “I'm sorry, Gunnery Sergeant,” she said, recognizing his rank insignia. “I thought you were one of my Guard. I train them to always be prepared for sudden moves.”

  Patrick peered up at her from his position flat on his back on the training mat. “Interesting training method. That must play hell with troop retention.”

  Full of contrition, she reached down to help him to his feet, only to find herself tossed aloft as he made a countermotion, using her own momentum to energize the throw. Saved from complete humiliation only by years of training, she used the energy from the fall to propel herself up from the floor. The gunnery sergeant sprang up as well and caught her in an elbow lock. She countered with a blow of her own, and the sparring was on.

  They punched and counterpunched, neither willing to give quarter. The guards and marines gathered around to watch the impromptu session. Lelia doubted that she'd ever fought anyone nearly as good, and just when she thought she'd have to give in, she saw an opening in his guard. She moved as swiftly as her exhausted muscles would allow, but at the last possible moment he countered again, sweeping them both to the mat once more. They sat there appraising one another, clearly neither interested in resuming the match.

  It was only then that she noticed the hush that had fallen over the gym. She took a deep, calming breath, finally realizing that the gunnery sergeant had to be one of the most gorgeous men she'd ever seen. Even though his hair was cut high and tight as befitted the Marine Corps uniform he wore, the rich chestnut color was arresting, as were the large hazel eyes dappled in greens and golds like an autumn forest. They were set in a deeply chiseled face that would've been at home on any designer's runway. At not-quite six feet, he wasn't a tall man, but his shoulders filled out his BDUs quite impressively. Having thrown him more than once, she knew that despite his lean form, he was very solidly built. The deep silence continued, and Lelia could feel the eyes of her entire Guard focused on her. She knew she had to do something, but she couldn't look away or think of one thing to say. It didn't help that he seemed similarly tongue-tied, so their gazes locked for what had to have been an absurd amount of time. She'd never been more grateful for anything when he took the initiative to speak, thus relieving her of the need to actually form sentences.

  “Sergeant Assad, I presume?” Patrick nodded in her direction.

  Lelia took a deep breath, followed by a cough to cover her discomfiture. Everyone in the room was staring at them. “Yes, I'm Sergeant Assad. And you are…?” She watched as he rose fluidly to his feet, before offering a hand to help her rise as well.

  “I'm Gunnery Sergeant McBride, and this is Staff Sergeant Stark.” He gestured toward his companion. “We've been assigned to train with your Guard unit.”

  Lelia spared a brief glance for his taller, dark-haired companion, then turned and looked back at the gunnery sergeant. “Of course. Thank you for the accommodations. We look forward to training with you,” she said formally.

  “So, just what the hell was that fighting technique? I'm pretty good,” he stated flatly without false modesty. He gestured toward his black web belt, which was adorned with a single red stripe. Lelia knew it indicated his status as an instructor in Marine Corps martial arts. “But you almost took me out.”

  Lelia raised her brows. “Almost? Who landed on his backside? Twice.”

  “Only because I wouldn't think of abusing such a lovely…asset,” Patrick returned with a smirk.

  Lelia thanked Allah that her furious blush wouldn't show under her dark complexion. Painfully aware of being the center of attention, she snapped into professional mode, proud of her Guard and their martial expertise. “We don't limit ourselves to one method of defense. As I'm sure you've noticed, we're women. Our bodies are different”—she gave Staff Sergeant Stark a killing glance in response to his fervent “thank God,” then continued—“and we have a lower center of gravity than men. We don't have the upper body strength that men do. Though, of course, we weight train as much as possible.” She gestured toward a group of her soldiers who were training with free weights.

  “That being the case, we've modified several traditional martial arts to suit our strength, which is mainly in our legs. We do more kicks and leg locks.” She shrugged. “We've never really named it, but we generally call it WIT, which means 'whatever it takes.'” She changed the subject. “When would you like to begin training? We've been here all morning and would like to take some time to eat. Also, it will soon be time for afternoon prayers. After that we will be ready. We are quite adept at various methods of hand-to-hand fighting. Of course, it is our job to protect Colonel al-Fariq. In our country, women don't serve in combat.”

  Lelia knew she was rambling, but his intense stare was disconcerting. She'd never seen that expression on anyone's face before, but he looked as though he'd dearly love to kiss her or…eat her. Either way, she was stunned to discover that she wasn't necessarily opposed to either idea. Warmth licked up under her skin as she flushed in response to his heated stare. Despite being unnerved, she found it impossible to look away.

  “You've received the itinerary? I apologize that we're a bit behind. Staff Sergeant Stark and I were rather late in receiving the assignment. Weapons training was to begin this morning. It's my understanding that all of you are qualified in small arms?” Patrick made the statement a question, though she knew Colonel Brown had given him a fairly comprehensive résumé of the Guard.

  “That will be good.” She glanced at her watch. “Perhaps two hours? Would you like to meet us at the firing range?”

  “You know where it is?”

  “Yes. We've been given a tour of the base, so we are quite familiar. Also, Colonel Brown assigned drivers to us for the duration.”

  “Very good; then Staff Sergeant Stark and I will meet you in a couple of hours. Enjoy your meal.”

  * * *

  “Man, what the hell was that?”

  “What are you talking about Stark?” Patrick looked over at his companion as they walked toward the chow hall for lunch. “I was simply sparring with Sergeant Assad. We are supposed to be training together.”

  “That wasn't sparring. That was just inches from dry fucking. You were looking at that poor girl like she was your last meal. I half expected you to grab her by her braids and drag her off somewhere. You scared her half to death. Hell, you scared me, and I don't swing that way. There had to be fifty people in that gym, and you two didn't even know we were in the goddamned room.”

  “You wouldn
't be my type.”

  “Yeah, you always liked your women the way you like your coffee: black.”

  Patrick smirked at his companion. “Shows what you know. I've never limited my dates by race. That would be stupid. That woman would be hot no matter what color she was. But I'm still not going there.”

  “If you say so, but from where I'm standing, you've already been there and can't wait for the return trip.” He shook his head. “Man, you're in big trouble.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “All I've got to say is that it would be a goddamned shame if the guy who warned me about getting caught with my hands in the cookie jar wound up getting busted with a mouthful of cookies.”

  “That's so not going to happen.”

  “Hey, you're the gunny. I'm sure you know what you're doing.”

  * * *

  Lelia adjusted her ear protection. The muffs always irritated her ears, but standing in close proximity to the firing range made them necessary. She usually enjoyed weapons training. But it was difficult to concentrate with Gunnery Sergeant McBride standing next to her, and though she'd prefer to blame it on jet lag—she'd never been a good traveler—they'd had the weekend to recover from the seven-hour flight from Laritrea. No, she had to acknowledge that she found Gunnery Sergeant McBride a bit unnerving. She couldn't deny the attraction she felt for him, and thanked Allah for the training that hid her reaction and preserved her dignity. It helped that she'd only caught him staring at her that one time since training had begun. He had actually looked annoyed, although she wasn't sure if it was because he'd been caught or because he'd been staring at all. She suspected he had been staring at her more frequently. She could always feel his eyes on her, but she hadn't caught him in the act. She had gotten a few looks from some of her soldiers who had known her longest, but no one seemed to suspect that she'd come close to swooning during their encounter earlier that day.

  She jumped involuntarily when someone tapped on her headset. Turning to look into the gunnery sergeant's bright hazel eyes, she raised an inquiring brow while pushing one earpiece back from her ear.

  Patrick nodded toward the range, where the soldiers were taking a break from firing. “Your soldiers are very good. You must practice regularly.”

  “Of course, Gunnery Sergeant. What were you expecting? How else can one maintain good marksmanship?”

  Patrick shrugged. “Don't you think you might be taken more seriously if your BDUs weren't designed by Prada? I mean, why on earth do you wear heels, and how do you fight in them?”

  “Roberto Cavalli,” Lelia snapped.

  “What?”

  “Roberto Cavalli. Our uniforms are designed by Roberto Cavalli.”

  “Why?”

  Lelia gave him a puzzled look. “Because they look good, of course,” she replied as though speaking to someone who was a bit slow.

  “No. I mean why do you have designer BDUs?”

  “Because we want to look good,” she said, still carefully enunciating each syllable.

  Patrick raised his eyes heavenward. “Marines aren't concerned about looking good. We are warriors.”

  Lelia pursed her lips. “More's the pity for them then. I don't know why you can't look good and be a warrior. Besides, I've seen the US Marines' dress uniform. Pretty flashy, if you're not concerned about looking good.”

  Patrick had the good grace to blush. “Good point, but we don't usually fight in our blues. Our MCCUUs are designed for combat.” In the way of American military personnel, he drawled the acronym for the Marine Corps combat utility uniform so the word sounded like mack-uwes, and with his deeply Southern accent, it had at least four syllables.

  “So are ours. And believe me, we have no problem fighting in heels. In fact, when properly utilized, they make fairly good weapons. But then, you'll discover that this week.”

  “Yes, but on you they're so…” He made an all-encompassing gesture toward her.

  Lelia removed the ear protection from her head. “So what, Gunnery Sergeant?”

  Patrick slipped his headset back into place as the soldiers resumed firing. “Never mind, Sergeant Assad.”

  Lelia did likewise. Had she imagined it, or had he muttered distracting under his breath in response to her question? She couldn't possibly be as distracting to him as he was to her.

  * * *

  Patrick stood in the doorway of the gym watching Lelia as she bench-pressed what seemed to be at least a couple hundred pounds. He'd known before he even left his quarters that he had no business coming here, but he couldn't seem to stay away. The firm muscles under her richly toned skin rippled with effort as she did rep after excruciating rep. He was mesmerized by the movement of her breasts, which moved enticingly each time she inhaled and lowered the bar. Realizing that he was almost shaking with need, he moved toward the door but stopped at her single-word request.

  “Stay.”

  He paused, exhaled, then turned back to her, waiting for her to say something more. But she didn't halt the smooth flow of her lifts. What the hell kind of game was she playing? Her signals were so damned mixed, they were giving him a headache. But he was pretty certain she'd been telling him to keep away since the moment they'd met. So why had she asked him to stay now? If she was just fucking with his head, he'd have no problem simply turning and walking out the door. He had no time or patience for head games, but he suspected that she was legitimately confused and conflicted. Not surprising, considering her upbringing—which he'd taken the time to investigate further. He shrugged, then moved behind her on the weight bench and helped her lift it on the last rep.

  “It's dangerous to train without a spotter, especially when you're working with”—he glanced down at the barbell—“almost double your own body weight. I know you know better.”

  Lelia sat up on the bench. “You're right, but I spend so much time teaching during regular training hours that I have to get my own workout in after-hours.”

  He noted that she moved the towel, which had been draped casually around her neck, to a position where it covered her sleekly muscled thighs, visible in the gray knit gym shorts she wore. He wondered if she felt uncomfortable being so casually clothed, or if she'd developed a chill. He'd noticed before that even people from hot countries like Laritrea seemed to have trouble adjusting to the arctic settings of most American air conditioners in the camp's part of the country.

  He waited a moment, but when she didn't seem all that anxious to leave, he dropped down to the floor next to her weight bench. They sat in silence for a long moment.

  “So, Gunnery Sergeant, what are you doing out at this hour? I would have thought an American marine would be out drinking and despoiling virgins all night.”

  Patrick looked up at her with raised brows. “What would give you such an idea? I don't make a habit of drinking all that often, and”—he paused for a moment—“did you really say 'despoiling virgins'? Where in the world do you live, a Jane Austen novel?” He watched as she shifted on the bench, though he didn't know if it was from embarrassment or discomfort from her sweaty attire and the vinyl bench. He suspected the former, as she was probably accustomed to being sweaty, given how hard she trained.

  “What do you know about Jane Austen?” Lelia asked.

  “I've got three sisters, not to mention I've been on an occasional date. Women have been known to coerce me into going to chick flicks.”

  “What a horrid term.”

  “There you go again, talking like a Victorian governess. Is Laritrea really that far behind the times?”

  Lelia rolled her eyes, sneering at him. “There you go again, acting like a typical obnoxious American. Laritrea is a very modern country. My upbringing was a bit unorthodox, as I was orphaned at an early age and raised by a couple that was quite old-fashioned.”

  “I'm sorry. You're right. It was obnoxious for me to make assumptions about your whole country based on the way you speak. Especially since I spent a lot of time talking to your soldiers today, an
d none of them used the types of phrases you do.”

  “It's quite all right, Gunnery Sergeant. It seems that every time I encounter an American, this is the result.”

  “Then allow me to apologize on behalf of my whole country. I can assure you that we're not all idiots.” He raised her hand from the weight bench and pressed a brief kiss to the back of it. “And please, we're going to be together an awful lot in the coming weeks. Please call me Patrick, or Trick, my nickname.”

  “Trick?”

  “People have an annoying habit of calling me Pat. When they'd do it, I'd add the second syllable. In other words, letting them know that I preferred to be called by my whole name. Instead, they just started calling me Trick.” He shrugged. “Still beats the hell out of Pat.”

  Lelia smiled at his expression of comical distaste, pulling her hand back quickly when she realized he was still holding it. “No, I don't think that's a good idea.”