Pussycat Death Squad

by Holcomb, Roslyn Hardy

  “Oh, I'm sure she'd say she's gotten too old for the job and is in dire need of some backup.” Lelia almost laughed at his derisive snort. “That's her not-too-subtle hint that I need a wife.”

  “Does she use that as a lure for your potential wives? I must admit having her assistance in putting you in your place on a regular basis does sweeten the pot, as it were.”

  “You mean I'm not sufficiently tempting on my own merit?”

  Lelia tilted her head to the side. “Hmmm, not so much,” she murmured, lying through her teeth. If the man were any more tempting, she would've consigned her soul to hell the day she met him. As it was, she stood a good chance of it winding up there anyway. To get her mind off those treacherous thoughts, she changed the subject. “Your mother sounds like a charming woman. Clearly, that trait totally missed you. Do you have any siblings?”

  “My family is rather large. I think I mentioned I have three sisters?” Lelia nodded. “I have two brothers as well. My sisters are all younger. One's at Auburn studying marine biology. The other two are still in high school. My oldest brother is a marine as well, and my other brother is in the navy.” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “This past Christmas was the first Christmas we've all been together in almost fifteen years.”

  “Your poor mother. She must miss you a lot—” She broke off as Patrick jerked the wheel, swerving to avoid a car that had suddenly appeared out of nowhere. For a moment it seemed he would be able to keep the truck on the road; then a horrible grinding noise shook the vehicle as the brakes locked, sending the truck into an uncontrollable skid across the road. The world spun, and vertigo shimmered in her inner ear as they slid off the shoulder and the truck careened into a ravine. Branches and leaves scraped at the windows as the truck plowed violently into the brush on the side of the road. Lelia's head swam dizzily as the truck flipped once, then flipped again. Patrick yelled something she didn't understand as he was punched back into his seat by the force of their fall. She braced her arm against the door, struggling to maintain her balance, grateful for the seat belt that held her in place. As if from a distance she could hear loud screaming, and it took her several disoriented moments to realize that it was her soldiers in the back of the truck.

  “Are you okay?”

  Lelia looked over at Patrick, who was still strapped into the driver's seat. Her seat belt still held her firmly in her seat as well, even though the truck had landed on the driver's side and her weight and the force of gravity were pulling against it. She finally responded to Patrick, assuring him that she was okay, which, as far as she could tell, was the truth. After confirming that he too had suffered no serious injury, she began looking for a way out.

  Getting a heavy steel door open when a vehicle is lying on its side was even more difficult than she'd expected. Lelia struggled for several minutes before finally getting it to budge. She could still hear voices and see movement at the back of the truck. As the sun finally sank behind the horizon, the gathering twilight made it harder to see, and she was more than a bit unsettled. She looked around for the other vehicle and finally concluded it must have continued on its way after causing this catastrophe. There were no other vehicles traveling the remote road in the heavily wooded area. The scent of burned rubber rose acrid to her nose, displacing the more astringent aroma of pine from damaged trees.

  Lelia helped Patrick climb out after her, and she studied a small cut on his forehead with some concern until a muffled scream from the rear of the truck drew her attention. They both ran to the back, where a dozen-or-so members of the Amazonian Guard had gathered. Some were kneeling beside the vehicle leaning back into it, clearly trying to help someone else out.

  “She's stuck, ma'am,” one of them spoke up as she saw Lelia approach. “I think she's caught under something.”

  Lelia grabbed the flashlight one of the soldiers offered, and peered into the back of the truck, comforted by Patrick's reassuring presence leaning against her back. The side of the truck had crashed against a tree and caved in. Crushed metal was bent at odd angles, and the bench seat had pulled loose from its moorings. The soldier, Khadi, was wedged headfirst under the seat with only her lower body visible. How the hell had this happened?

  Patrick backed away as screeching tires signaled the return of the rest of the convoy. “These seven-tons are self-winching. We should be able to get it upright pretty quickly. We've got tools. We can get her out.” He pulled his phone from his pocket. “I'll just call for a medic.”

  Lelia climbed farther into the truck to try to get a closer look at her friend. She'd been talking the whole time; now she had fallen into silence.

  “We'd better wait for the medics,” Lelia said over her shoulder. “She's not responding. I think she's lost consciousness.”

  * * *

  The light in the hospital waiting room was appropriately subdued. It was decorated in subtle earth tones with touches of greens and blue. The decor was probably supposed to be soothing and comforting, but Lelia would've preferred a more clinical setting. There was something unnerving about waiting to hear news of the life-and-death variety in what could be the den of any house in America. She sat hunkered down in the corner of the plush chenille sofa with her knees under her chin.

  She looked up as Patrick entered the room carrying a bottle of water and a cup of coffee. She took the bottle when he offered it to her. “You know, you probably should have gone back to the barracks with everyone else. It's getting late, and there's no point in waiting around here.”

  Patrick sat down beside her in a position that would've been uncomfortably close had she not been so absorbed in her misery.

  “Even I'm not a big enough asshole to leave you alone at a time like this. Did they come back yet to tell you anything?”

  Lelia shook her head, unscrewing the cap off the water bottle. It had been hours since they'd followed the ambulance to the base hospital, leaving her too much time to think. Maybe she shouldn't have sent the others away. She definitely needed the distraction of their company. “Khadi's been with me a long time. I don't want to call her family until I actually have something to tell them. They're so proud of her, and they'll be devastated if she's paralyzed or…”

  “It's always bad when one of your people gets hurt. This is such a cluster fuck with that kid swerving in front of us like that.”

  Lelia wiped a hand over her face. “I just wish they'd come back and tell us something.”

  “I think she'll be okay. She was already starting to get the feeling back in her legs before they even got her out of the truck.”

  “Yeah, but she was still having a hard time breathing,” Lelia said.

  Patrick reached out a hand and placed it on her shoulder. “It's not your fault, Lelia.”

  She exhaled heavily, wanting nothing so much as to just rest. “I know that, Trick,” she said, too tired for it even to register that she'd called him by the nickname she'd been resisting since he shared it with her.

  “Are you sure?” he asked. Turning her so her back was to him, he began kneading her shoulders.

  Lelia stiffened. This was really not a good idea. But there was no one else in the waiting room, and it felt so good. She felt her muscles soften under the firm pressure from his hands, and the words began flowing out, almost of their own accord. “It seems that I've been responsible for other people all my life. I love being a soldier, but sometimes it gets to be too much.” Patrick murmured in agreement, and Lelia realized it was the first time she'd had a conversation with someone in a position to understand what it was like for her.

  “Gunnies run the corps, and I worked like a dog to make it, but yeah, there are times when I feel like a glorified babysitter. I hear it all: my wife's sick, I bet all my money on a chicken race, my cat's got herpes…”

  Lelia laughed. “I must say, I haven't heard the last one: and am pretty sure I don't want to.”

  Patrick joined her in laughter while his hands continued to work their magic
on her neck and shoulders. She hadn't known she was so sore, and realized she must have gotten battered a bit in the accident. As the tension flowed from her body, she sank languidly against him. His smoky scent enveloped her, oddly comforting and arousing at the same time.

  When his hands moved up and loosened her braids from their customary chignon, Lelia felt she had to protest. His murmured “hush, sugar” was so soft and melodic she paused, and as his fingers moved over her scalp, she couldn't muster the energy to object further. He combed his fingers through her braids, massaging her neck and scalp, pressing his face against the long, thick braids as though he couldn't resist. She'd had no idea that her scalp was so sensitive, though she suspected that this man could touch her elbow and make her melt.

  “Did I ever tell you how much I like your hair?” He raised a braid to his lips. “I wish you could wear it down like this all the time.

  Lelia turned to look at him. His sharp features had softened in relaxation. His lips looked fuller, and she suspected he was responding to her nearness much as she was responding to his. “It's against regulations.”

  “Yeah, I know. Probably a good thing too. They're hot. Guys would be freaking out all over the place. We wouldn't get anything done.”

  Lelia couldn't help laughing. She'd never thought of her braids as anything but an inconvenience. Every time she had them done, she swore she'd get her hair cut. It took hours, and she was usually short on time. Watching the expression on his face now, she was glad she'd never taken that drastic measure.

  And so it went, on and on, stroke after stroke, his fingertips exploring her sensitive neck and scalp, her every nerve ending awakening to his touch. As arousal worked its way down her body, leaving her practically vibrating with need, she felt him groan deep in his chest as his lips slid along her neck. Her response was automatic. More than anything she wanted this embrace. His masculinity reached out to her, making her want to lean on him and unburden herself. Somehow she knew she would be safe, and just for this one night she needed safety more than anything. She'd deal with the rest later. His hands moved up to cup breasts that were almost unbearably full. The need to arch her back and press against those hands was almost overwhelming. His erection throbbed against her back, and she pressed her thighs together, trying to quell the aching need to feel him thrust deep inside her wet pussy. The wetness growing there was an open invitation that could never be met. She reluctantly reached up to place her hands over his.

  “You're right,” he whispered against her neck as a shudder worked through his body. “This isn't the place. God, but it feels good.” He nipped delicately at the cord of her neck, making her cry out with need before he pulled away as though forced. She felt bereft when he rose from the sofa and exited the room without a word. She resumed her previous position with her knees pulled to her chest, feeling abandoned but knowing it was best that he left. When he returned with a blanket, she couldn't contain the slight smile. It would make an effective barrier against the arctic chill of the waiting room, and any further exploration from his hands. Lelia sighed, grateful for his restraint, but knowing deep in her heart that she really hadn't wanted him to stop. He started talking again about his life in the corps, and before she knew it, they were cuddled together, back to front on the sofa, sharing stories of their similar military adventures.

  Their voices hushed, more intimate than either realized, they continued talking long into the night. It was almost dawn when one of the nurses shook them awake to share the good news that Khadi was shaken up and bruised, with a mild concussion, but had suffered no lingering injury.

  * * *

  Lelia stood in the doorway of the gym, transfixed, unable to look away from Patrick's graceful movements. She realized that he was doing kata, a rhythmic set of martial arts maneuvers. However, she'd never seen kata done like this. Each move was made with such grace and style that his body seemed to vibrate like a musical instrument. She could almost hear the beat in her head. Each pivot of his hips, each motion of his hands, was calling to her, and she couldn't resist the call. He turned again, drawing his hands toward himself in ever-tighter circles. He continued the turns; there was no break in his maneuvers, but she knew immediately when he saw her. The expression on his face altered just enough to alert her that she'd been spotted. He continued the kata, not acknowledging her presence. Knowing that she should leave, Lelia stayed anyway, mesmerized by his moves. Since the night of the accident, she'd made every effort to avoid being alone with him. They'd crossed a boundary that night, and she'd struggled to return to their previous borders. Still, she was drawn to this man.

  Almost against her will, she joined him on the mat. They moved in tandem, their moves choreographed. Each movement, each punch, moved in a sweeping, graceful motion. Lelia shivered as energy flowed through her body. She began to perspire. To the untrained eye, kata didn't seem particularly strenuous, but the muscle control necessary to execute the precise movements took a great deal of strength and power. Time drifted into nothingness as her mind emptied of all thoughts other than the movements of her body, and those of his.

  Then, as though following some involuntary signal, they began sparring. She tried rudimentary blows to measure his ability, but she knew from their previous session that he was more than up to the task. The punches and strikes became more forceful as they each struggled to find any vulnerability in their opponent. Patrick fought by the Marine Corps martial arts rule book, which should've been a disadvantage against Lelia's more free-style fighting method. Though she could predict his next move, his almost supernatural speed kept her from capitalizing on it.

  Suddenly, he spun away from her, then whirled, startling her, moving so quickly she had no time to react. His right hand darted forward, and Lelia parried the blow instinctively, swinging her own arm up to block. The force of his punch sent her staggering backward. Then, in a blur of motion that she could do nothing to countermand, he landed a kick to her midsection. She knew he'd pulled his punch considerably, but she still collapsed to the mat gasping for air. They'd been sparring for a long time, and she felt it in every trembling muscle. She made no attempt to resume their session, feeling little motivation to get up again.

  Patrick immediately dropped down beside her, his hands going to the tie that held her keigogi in place.

  “Are you okay? That kick wasn't supposed to touch you. It was supposed to be short. I miscalculated,” he said, untying her uniform.

  Lelia batted his hands away. “I wasn't hurt, just winded a bit. Though I probably will have a lovely souvenir of my stay in the States tomorrow,” she quipped, then immediately rebutted her statement when his hangdog expression made her feel guilty. “No, I was just teasing you.” She rubbed her torso, which was a bit sore from the blow. “I'm sure I won't have a bruise in the morning.”

  Patrick studied her for a long moment, then shook his head. “I knew I shouldn't have sparred with you again. I could have hurt you seriously.”

  “Patrick, I told you I'm not hurt in the slightest. I take a harder beating from new recruits every week.”

  “Ohmigod, newbies.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “I'd rather go into combat every day than fight one amateur. They're going to be the death of me.”

  Lelia laughed in agreement. “I'm actually amazed that one of them hasn't broken my neck.” She nodded toward his black belt with its distinctive red vertical stripe. “How long have you been teaching?”

  “A few years. I got qualified because I thought it would help my career. I've always been involved in martial arts, so it came natural to me. How about you? Aren't you a bit young to be in charge of the whole Guard? When I was told you guys were coming, I expected the squad leader to be much older.” A grin split his face. “I was expecting a regular old battle-ax, instead I got…hubba hubba.” He waggled his brows at her suggestively.

  Lelia cuffed his shoulder but laughed at his absurd expression. “Hubba hubba? That's terrible. I'll have you know I've been in the Guard
since I was a kid. I was fortunate that the previous squad leader was my mentor. When she was killed…” She took a deep breath, blinking back sudden tears. It had been almost five years, but she still missed Sergeant Halil desperately.

  “Wow, what happened to her?” Patrick asked, leaning forward.

  “Assassination attempt against the Colonel. We lost nearly half our Guard that day. That's why so many of my soldiers are so young. We had to start over again from scratch.”

  “I'm so sorry. I've lost some of my men over the years. It really doesn't get any better.” He reached out as though to touch her, then visibly changed his mind, dragging his hand back and crossing his arms with his hands trapped in his armpits. “I didn't think your soldiers were all that young; most of them seem to be around your age.”

  “I left most of the younger ones at home. There was no real reason for them to come here, and they're still very green.” Lelia frowned. Colonel al-Fariq hadn't really protested when she told him she was leaving some of the younger soldiers in Laritrea. She'd expected a strong objection and had been prepared for a lengthy debate, but there had been none. She shrugged. Maybe the Colonel had been occupied with other things. She'd been too busy getting the other soldiers ready to investigate any further.