Kiss of Surrender

  It was true, Nicole thought. SEALs were masters of disguise. She’d been shocked on more than one occasion at how well they could alter their appearance to suit a mission.

  “But there is one issue of concern to me,” Slick continued. “Language. Omar is the only one of us who is really fluent in all the Arab dialects. There must be a frickin’ fifty different variations. Oh, I know some of you have taken lessons, but you’re only mildly proficient, with emphasis on mildly, and, yes, I’m looking at you, Cage. Arabs do not drawl. And they do not call an Arab woman darlin’.”

  Cage ducked his head sheepishly.

  Slick continued, “Here’s the solution. One of the Jaegers working here with us, Captain Trond Sigurdsson, is apparently a language genius. Omar assures me that he speaks the local lingo better than Omar does. Does anyone have a problem with me inviting him to join our team for this mission?”

  Nicole was excited about the possibility of participating in such an important mission. It wasn’t often that the teams let the WEALS join their operations as full-blown agents, instead of ancillary backup. That age-old military stigma against females in battle. Usually, they only allowed them into their elite ranks when there was a need for women on the scene, which was probably the case with the harem, or they had need for one of the WEALS’ unique skills. She didn’t care how she got in, she was excited to be included at all.

  She suddenly had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She knew, she just knew, that somehow the jerk was going to be paired with her. Not that she should care since he was gay. Or allegedly gay. But her association with the mystery man would be wrong on so many levels, none of which was specific enough for her to raise an official protest.

  “Since there are no objections, Max, you go out on the grinder and bring the grunt back here. In the meantime, let’s talk about how our team will be divvied up.” More charts were put up on the screen, this time with the various names grouped under certain categories.

  And, yep, there she was. Harem Project: Nicole Tasso and Trond Sigurdsson. Oh, there were other people listed as well, like JAM, Omar, Slick, Sly, Kendra, Donita, and Marie, but she had a bad feeling about her and Trond being together on this project.

  What I need is a guardian angel.

  Where that idea came from, Nicole had no idea. Equally baffling was why the image of Trond Sigurdsson came immediately to mind.

  Which was ridiculous, of course. If he ever sported wings, it would be as a bug, not an angel. Because he sure as hell bugged her.

  It takes one to know one . . .

  Trond Sigurdsson was royally pissed . . . or was that angelically pissed?

  “Okay, I understand that I have a reputation for being a little bit lazy,” he complained to Karl, who was huffing and puffing as much as he was as they twisted and turned to maneuver their way through the Weaver, one of many torture devices on the O-course, sometimes referred to as the oh-my-God! obstacle course. The trainees had to roll themselves over and under a series of metal poles arranged horizontally in an ascending, then descending pattern, without ever touching the ground.

  Karl made a snorting sound and muttered something about “Little bit, my ass!” as he looked down at Trond from one of the higher rungs.

  Trond ignored the snide remark and continued, “And I know the SEAL instructors are always spouting crap like ‘The more you sweat in peacetime, the less you bleed in war,’ but give me a freakin’ break.” He girded himself to roll his two hundred pounds over yet another level without breaking his neck, which would require him not just to repeat this evolution but the entire training program. When he got his breath, he continued, “That is no reason to test my energy and endurance to this extent.”

  Normally, they had to complete the entire course in two minutes, or try to, but this morning the rules were relaxed. They were almost done for the day. Hopefully.

  “I suppose you blame Mike,” Karl said, lying on the top pole for a brief moment before rolling over for the downward evolution.

  “Of course. Yes, there is a legitimate vangel reason for me to be here, but I suspect my heavenly mentor is having a good laugh up above. Ouch, ouch, ouch.” He felt as if he’d just pulled a hamstring.

  “And lucky me that I get to suffer for your sins . . . as well as mine.” Karl, who was done and bent over panting for breath, referred to his being assigned with Trond to Navy SEAL duty.

  Trond felt a little guilty then for all his griping. Just a little. This was the most exercise he’d ever had in all his misbegotten life.

  They were alternately freezing cold from the icy Pacific water, then hot from the blistering Pacific sun. And all the time, they were covered, head to toe, and inside every body orifice, with sand. They spit sand, they ate sand, and, some even claimed, they pissed sand. Add to that mix, bone-deep pain and exhaustion.

  They’d started this particular day at dawn with a favorite SEAL torture known as Surf Appreciation. The Marquis de Sade, whom Trond had met one time with much displeasure, would be impressed at this assignment where several dozen trainees sat in water up to their shoulders, arms linked, as waves crashed over them. Then they were ordered to make “sugar cookies” . . . in other words, roll their wet bodies in the sand. And all that was preliminary to a short five-mile run in heavy boondockers along the beach. Followed by Volcanoes. Another idiotic rotation that called for a bunch of grown men to stand together in a tight cluster and toss sand in the air so that it would land on their sweat-sticky bodies.

  All the time, the instructors were shouting out various inanities. Instructors always hollered, they never spoke in a normal tone of voice.

  “The only easy day was yesterday!”

  “There is no I in team!”

  “You look like a gaggle of monkeys trying to fuck a hairy football!”

  “Mind over matter, boys! We don’t mind! You don’t matter!”

  “Haul ass! Bust ass! Get a move on it, assholes!”

  “Work it out, maggots!”

  “Embrace the suck!”

  He had a few Old Norse sayings he would like to deliver to some of these instructors involving swords and dark places to sheathe them, but not wanting to do another bout of Gig Squad on a Saturday, decided to save the wisdom for later.

  Now, it was almost noon—heaven be praised!—and their class was working out on the grinder, one last run through the O-course. They’d already finished the Skyscraper, the Slide for Life, the Wall, the Cargo Net, the Spider Wall, Parallel Bars, the Tower, and the Dirty Name.

  “Stand easy, boys,” called out the instructor, who was several years younger than Trond and would have had his tongue lopped off for such an insult back in Viking times. “That’s it for today.” He could have complimented them for a job well done, but no, pain was expected of them all, nothing to garner praise or commiseration. If he heard one more instructor say, “Pain is your friend,” he might just hurl the contents of his belly, or hurt someone.

  Just then, Trond noticed a man leaning against the fence watching him. His muscular body was covered with cargo shorts, a plain black T-shirt, white socks rolled over to the tops of his boondockers, and a brimmed San Diego Chargers cap over shoulder-length blond hair.

  “I’m going to the chow hall,” Karl remarked from his side. “You coming?”

  “Later,” Trond said, waving Karl on, still concentrating on the stranger who began to walk—no, swagger—toward him. An odd, mystical connection seemed to shimmer between them, the closer the man got. Two things became apparent to Trond then. The man was a SEAL, and he was a Viking. But something more, something not normal, in the same way that Trond was not normal. Or different.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Trond inquired in Old Norse. And, yes, Vikings had known that ancient Anglo-Saxon expletive. The whole ancient world had, for that matter.

  The man grinned and responded, in Old Norse, of course. “Better question. Who the fuck are you?”

  The man was not a threat to him, Trond sensed imm
ediately. He did not have a Lucie aura about him, either.

  He grinned back at the man, extending a hand in greeting. “Trond Sigurdsson, but everyone here calls me Easy.”

  “Torolf Magnusson, but everyone here calls me Max.” The man appeared to be a few years older than Trond’s twenty-nine years. “Where you from, Easy?”

  “The Norselands.”

  “Ah. Me too.” Max eyed him suspiciously.

  This has to be the first time I’ve mentioned the Norselands to anyone and not had them say, “Huh?” He eyed Max back just as suspiciously.

  “This might sound like a dumb question, or might not,” Max said. “What year were you born?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Actually, I would.”

  Uh-oh!

  “I sense . . . I have a feeling . . . oh hell! I’m taking a gamble here by telling you this, but a number of the guys here already know . . .” Max hesitated, then revealed, “I was born in the year 984 and left the Norselands with my father and eight brothers and sisters in the year 1000 when I was sixteen years old, leaving a brother Ragnor and sister Madrene behind at Norstead.”

  “Norstead! I know where that is.”

  “Really? You’ll have to tell me more. Later. Back to how my family got here. We arrived in America in the year 2003. Ragnor and Madrene followed us here later.”

  Trond’s jaw dropped as he tried to assimilate all that Max had told him. There were so many questions. At one time, he would have said there was no such thing as time travel, but he’d learned the hard way that anything was possible. “Are you vangels?”

  “Huh?”

  That answers that question. “Are you human?”

  “Uh, what else would we be?”

  If you only knew! “You age like a human?”

  “I am a human. Aren’t you?”

  Trond waved a hand dismissively. “You were picked up in one time period and landed in another? You’ve been here eight years? And you’re a Navy SEAL?”

  Max nodded, hesitantly.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why would you willingly—I assume it is willingly—undergo the torture to become a Navy SEAL?”

  Max grinned at his homing in on the most irrelevant of what he’d told him. “Seemed logical at the time. Vikings, SEALs, same thing, really. We both love the water, ships, fighting, drinking, sex . . .” He let his words trail off and winked, as if they shared a joke.

  They did, except that the joke was on Trond.

  Trond knew he’d have to answer Max’s questions soon or he’d have both him and Nicole riding his ass. Nice thought, that, he mused with what was probably hysterical irrelevance. Oh crap! Is Max yet another SEAL I must save? No, there’s no sin scent. No Lucie scent, either. Much more sniffing and people will think I’m one of those drug-inhaling addicts. Like I need another sin to add to my inventory!

  “You find me amusing?”

  Trond shook his head. “No, it’s our situation that is amusing, and you will soon realize why.”

  “Cut to the chase, dude. The commander wants to see you ASAP, and we’re wasting time here. Are you a time traveler, too?”

  “Sort of. I was born in the year 821, and I died in the year 850. Yes, died. Since then, for one thousand, one hundred, and sixty-three years I have been bouncing around through all the time periods, back and forth, like a demented rabbit, on various missions.”

  “And you stay the same age?”

  He nodded.

  “Awesome!”

  Trond wasn’t sure how “awesome” it was to live on, and on, and on, or to have fangs, or to be forbidden some of life’s greatest pleasures, like rampant sex. “I will be staying in present time from now on.”

  “And still staying the same age as the years go on?”

  “Yes.”

  “Awesome!” Then he seemed to think of something. “Missions . . . you mentioned missions. For whom? Holy Thor! You haven’t infiltrated the SEALs for some tango warlord, have you? If so, I’m gonna have to kill you, buddy.”

  Not gonna happen. In fact, can’t happen. “My overlord is no tango.”

  “Are you working for Najid?”

  “Who?”

  “Najid bin Osama.”

  “No, I work for . . . uh, a guy named Mike.” That’s all he would say, for now.

  Max narrowed his eyes at him. “But you are here on a mission, aren’t you?”

  Trond hesitated, then admitted, “I am.”

  “Fuck! Double fuck! I don’t know what to do now. The CO wants you involved in an upcoming SEAL operation, but I can’t in good conscience allow that until I know more about you and why you’re here.”

  Trond put a hand on his arm. “Trust me. I suspect you and I are puppets whose strings are being pulled by the same master.”

  Max frowned. “Uncle Sam?”

  Trond laughed. Looking up toward the sky, he said, “A higher authority than that.”

  “Good Lord!”

  “Precisely.”

  Max was clearly unconvinced and confused. “Wait a minute. You asked me before if I was a vangel. What the hell’s a vangel? Don’t tell me, you’re a bloody angel? Ha, ha, ha!”

  You got the bloody part right. “Um.”

  “What? You can’t be serious. A Viking angel?” Max hooted with mirth, slapping a hand on his thigh with delight at the idea.

  “Better than that,” Trond revealed. “A Viking vampire angel.” Turning so that only Max could see, he flashed his fangs at him.

  Max jerked back with surprise. If he weren’t a Viking, he probably would have pissed his pants, the reaction vangels often got. As it was, all Max said was “Awesome!”

  Eight

  Some women have a taste for pigs . . .

  Nicole shouldn’t have been watching the doorway for Trond, but she was. Darn it! What was it about women and gay men? Women knew they couldn’t change them, and yet there was this innate urge to try. Especially when they were so sinfully good-looking.

  To her embarrassment, Marie had to nudge her a time or two to pay attention.

  Finally, after forty-two minutes, not that she was keeping a precise count, Max returned to the command center with Trond, and the two of them looked like long-lost pals. Not gay pals—Max was married—just birds-of-a-feather, swaggering, SEAL-type buddies. Plus, they were both of Norse origin, she recalled. Who could figure out male bonding?

  Trond must have been working out all morning. He was wet and sandy and badly bruised on one cheek and a forearm. Perspiration soaked his T-shirt and shorts. Despite all that, he looked healthy and downright virile.

  He spotted her then, and their eyes connected. For only a second. But it was a powerful second. She felt as if he’d zapped her with some erotic shock, just by gazing at her. Then she noticed the odd expression on his face, and she realized that he was equally affected by this strange attraction between them.

  Holy moly! Maybe I’m going to be the first woman in history to turn a gay guy?

  No, no, no! I am not getting involved with him.

  Why not?

  I can’t believe I’m arguing with myself.

  You haven’t had sex in a year, and that one time didn’t really count. A year and a half would be more accurate. A one-night stand with a sailor suffering predeployment performance issues does not equal good sex.

  I want a low-maintenance guy this time. Trond Sigurdsson would not be low-maintenance. He would demand too much. Expect to be catered to. Too much work.

  Yeah, but the rewards!

  “Tassy!” Marie hissed into her ear. “You’re drooling.”

  Nicole felt her face flame. Luckily no one else noticed since the commander was addressing Trond. “Captain Sigurdsson, has Lieutenant Magnusson brought you up to speed on what we have planned?”

  “Briefly, sir.”

  “Are you interested in joining our effort?”

  As a visiting elite force member, not an a
ctual SEAL, Trond did have a choice. “Definitely, sir. As you’re no doubt aware, Pashto and Dari are the two primary languages spoken in Afghanistan. Mostly Dari. But the Turkish language is also prevalent, Uzbek and Turkmen, along with other languages, like Baluchi, Pashai, and Nuristani.”

  Okay, that’s impressive. I have to give him credit for having a brain, darn it.

  “In other words, we won’t know till we get there what language or dialect is being spoken in the drop area,” the commander concluded with an exhale of disgust.

  “Correct,” Trond said, “but if we look at a map of our insertion place, we can make an educated guess . . . subject to change, of course.”

  “And that’s where your expertise would be invaluable,” the commander commented.

  Trond gave a nod of thanks at the compliment. “There’s another thing, though.” He paused and wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of a forearm. He and Max were still standing near the closed door. “My Jaeger comrade who came here with me, Karl Mortenssen, is just as adept at languages as I am, possibly better. I would respectfully suggest that you add him to this team, as well.”

  “We’ll consider it,” the commander said. “Is your participation conditional on our accepting Mortenssen?”

  “No. I’m in, regardless, but it would be a lost opportunity for you . . . in my opinion, of course . . . not to utilize all the talent available. Sir,” he added at the last.

  “As I said, we’ll consider it and let you know shortly. We’ll catch you up later on what you’ve missed this morning after the lunch break, which we’ll take at thirteen hundred. In the meantime, have a seat. Everyone,” he said then to make sure the entire room was paying attention, “relax for a few moments while we set up the daily schedule for the next three weeks. Be prepared to work your asses off.”

  Max took his previous seat near the front next to Cage and JAM. For some reason, Nicole was not at all surprised when Trond, on the other hand, walked to the back of the room and sat down beside her. She heard Marie snicker on her other side.