The Valkyrie's Guardian (9 page)

Either I claim you now, or you spend the next week fending off every officer on base.

Go to hell, Jack.

Love back, baby.
“Cassie, this is Chief Hanson and my XO — Executive Officer, Papa Smurf.” Jack smiled and took off his sunglasses. “I don't even know your real name, Pops.” He couldn't help the pride in his voice, “Chief, Pops — drumroll please — at long last meet Cassiopeia Noyon.”

“Hello, gentlemen,” came her dusky 900-number voice in that posh accent. She raised her sunglasses to smile and nod at them, and Jack thought Chief and Pops would drop to their knees. Every inch of her was beautiful, but her bedroom eyes were deadly. Especially when the corners tilted upward as she smiled, the shadow of her lashes making the smoky color of her irises glint like steel. At least he wouldn't take guff anymore for being distracted by her. Obviously they understood now. And Jack had just won a bet.

What bet?

Jack startled. Had she heard him mooning over her eyes? Just his luck.
Watch what happens in the mess hall at oh-seven-hundred hours.
He turned to the officers. “That was way past ten seconds. Pay up. Oh-seven-hundred hours. Feathers and all.”

Chief blinked, Pops shook his head, and they realized they had gawked stupidly at Cassie — for more than ten seconds — as Jack had guaranteed they would. They had doubted Jack could bring a “perfect ten.” The argument with his squad had turned into a bet which Jack had taken with all the confidence in the world. Shame he hadn't bet money, lots of money.

“You got it, Doolittle.” Pops flashed his womanizing smile at Cassie. “Perfect ten? Naw, I'd give you at least a twelve, sweet thing.”

The shy smile she flashed his XO was no good for any of them. “So what's the deal with
Doolittle
?” she asked Pops, making a point to step away from Jack. Little brat.

He patted her on the flank just to watch her bristle. Her vitals jumped, her core heated, and that impossible magnetism between them thrummed, but she gave nothing away. Did she
want
all the men on base panting after her?

Chief plied his own woman-eating grin in attempt to compete with Pops. “Doolittle? MacGunn never told you?” He chuckled. “Guess I wouldn't either.” He whispered conspiratorially to Cassie, “Pussy name.”

“Better than
Cow Pie —
”
Jack grumbled, taunting the Chief with his old call sign, but everyone ignored him.

“It's like a freaking Disney movie. Everywhere Doolittle goes, a herd of animals follow him. Dolphins, panthers, rats, you name it — ” At that moment, three pagers went off. Jack, Chief, and Pops all retrieved their phones and checked the display with identical motions. It startled the mob of seagulls gathered around Jack's legs, irritating proof of his stupid nickname.

“CO called in the whole team. It's probably nothing, but we have to go.”

“Run like the wind,”
she replied flatly, as though she had no curiosity at all about his urgent summons to headquarters. “Nice meeting you, Chief, and ah, Papa Smurf. I'll find my own way to the barracks.”

Damned if she didn't show them her back and strut away like a tabby cat. Of course he stared, mesmerized by the dual motion of her hips and swaying hair. A draft of her honey-anise sent lingered. Catnip. “Eighteen-hundred hours, baby,” he called, a last ditch effort to claim her with the officers observing.

She spun 180 degrees and walked backward. “Sorry, I have to polish my pistol.” Chief and Pops sucked in a breath at her suggestive tone — with that purring sound in her voice, anything sounded like innuendo.

Jack couldn't help it. “Sure thing, darlin'. After you polish mine.” He winked, the officers snickered, and Cassie flipped him the bird. He had no choice but to jog back to HQ and put out the fire, whatever issue his Commanding Officer deemed an emergency. He had once called in Team Three just to see how fast they could do it, and another time to announce the president's decision to stealth bomb one of the –stan countries with orders to go wheels up in t-minus one hour. It could be anything.

At least it felt good to be on Team Three, even temporarily. Thankfully none of the SEALs on his squad ever mentioned Jack's fall from grace, how he went from being pointman to measly contract agent: disposable, an outsider. But Kyros had needed him then, and there was no such thing as a part-time SEAL. Jack had made his choice and never looked back, but times like these, he admitted he still wanted it — the action, the adventure, the camaraderie.

Jack's head pounded as he ran alongside Chief and Pops, and before long, even his teeth joined the chorus of dull pain. Leftovers from the sparring that had turned into a beating yesterday, before he left with Cassie. Kyros had let him have it. The message: Hands off my granddaughter.

By now Kyros knew Cassie was gone, and if Lyssa spilled the beans, he would already know Jack had kidnapped her. Jack hated feeling glad Kyros was grounded at home, since the reason was Lyssa's illness. But there it was. It meant Jack would live to see another day.

Now if he could only figure out how to get Boris to track him. Hopefully Boris wasn't too stupid to hack the municipal traffic cams, because Jack had driven his Camaro here with its genuine plates. It should have been as good as painting a giant target on the hood. Jack didn't expect Boris to infiltrate a special ops naval base crawling with SEALs when he could more easily wait for Jack to leave after his graveyard shift of Hell Week training. If Jack was lucky, Boris would follow him to the back of a loud dimly lit bar.

It felt good to have Cassie here, at any point on base near enough to call with his thoughts. Nagging in the back of his mind was unease about the academy in the countryside east of Inverness. It had been his idea to move the students into his ancestral home, a hulking medieval pile of stones with no serious modern security. In a time of relative peace it had seemed a wise idea to hire his own family to keep watch, but now with the new threat looming, it seemed a painfully obvious location. X marks the spot. Even knowing his presence would blow their cover — the worst possible strategic option — he wanted to go check on his family. It bothered him with every passing minute.

Bad enough that he was a royal failure, the MacGunn clan would salt his grave if he brought the wrath of Kyros' enemies on their lands. The berserkers might be the fiercest warriors on earth, but they bled red like everyone else. Jack had no doubt his family would fight and die if it came to that — why he itched to run home and throw his sword into the fray, so to speak. But would that merely draw his enemies to the most vulnerable point?

No matter what he did, he was screwed.

“Fan-
freaking
-tastic,” Chief complained as they filed into the office. Jack looked over the crowd of heads and saw what looked like tornado wreckage.

An intruder had strewn reams of paper around the office, hundreds of folders stamped
CLASSIFIED
. Filing cabinet drawers drooped on frames demolished with a crowbar, guessing from the gashes and dents in the metal. The rest of the squad crowded in the doorway as they arrived, low muttered curses the only outward sign of their collective alarm.

Hundreds of classified military documents face up on the floor: mission plans, personnel records, equipment inventory including prototypes, USMILINT and CIA intelligence, lists of aliases and liaisons — many who Jack knew risked their lives as defectors and double agents. All compromised. It was worse than the psychotic vandalism, but now the team cataloged the sight of that as well.

The keypad/lock combos pried out of the filing cabinets hung from the ceiling panels like model airplanes, strung up by wires yanked from the computers, which had been stacked precariously in a tall column in a corner. The walls sported graffiti made with stamp ink, markers, and gloppy yellow grease Jack couldn't identify. Three-foot tall glyphs covered the opposite wall, smeared with what had to be human feces.

The moment Jack saw the small pieces of X-rated origami perched on undisturbed bookshelves, a burst of cold panic raked the length of his spine. The paper porno, pages torn from a military code book, gave everything away. Denial crashed around in his head even as he viewed the evidence: Merodach. More accurately, someone trying to be Merodach.

Cassie?

Hmm?
she answered from about a half mile away.

You all right?

Fine. On my way to check in at the clinic, I have the graveyard shift. Hey, did you know your barracks look somewhat like a swastika?

Yeah. Stand by, okay?
He didn't want to scare her, but his mental voice sounded tight and reflected his forced calm. She would know.

A loaded silence.

Jack, what's going on?

Fill you in later. Stay cocked-and-locked, baby.

Will do.

Jack cursed under his breath, sensing her anxiety as he severed their mental connection. At least she knew to be careful.

Captain Russo sat calmly behind his desk, the surface cleared because he had obviously broomed his arm across it in a fit of temper. The pile of debris hardly mattered amongst the colossal mess in the office. “We've been compromised,” was all he said before firing out orders. It went without saying that Team Three had to play Merrie Maids since it was their collective necks on the line.
What the hell is all this, MacGunn?

Jack buried his instinct to startle. Captain Russo was what Kyros would call a low-grade extra-sentient: mortal, without significant superhuman talent, but exponentially beyond genius on the human I.Q. scale. What a surprise that discovery had been, to hear a phantom voice interrupt Jack's mutinous thoughts during his own Hell Week years ago. Jack had pretended to agonize over the three hundred penalty pushups Russo — the master sergeant back then — gave him.

I've seen this before,
Jack answered.
Four years ago, Merodach vandalized Lyssa Logan's apartment. Pretty much like this.
Jack nodded his head toward the bookshelves.
The kinky origami, that's his trademark.

This is Kyros' SNAFU?

Yeah. Mine too.

I should kick your sorry ass for bringing this down on my team.

Feel free, after I take care of the bastard who did this.

A former bull rider from New Mexico everyone called Chet handed the captain a pile of papers then strode away to the join the others cleaning the walls. Jack heard the demolition specialist conjugate the f-word a dozen creative ways inside his head. The stack of paper Chet hadn't dared straighten was a docket, and he had obviously seen the documents: court martials for Team Three members which had been classified to avoid them going on record — details of actions performed on black ops missions the public only dreamed about. Sensitive information that should have never seen the light of day.

Jack and the captain both turned their backs and collected papers.
This isn't a theft. Only a message.
Jack avoided eye contact and picked up glass shards.

Russo snorted as fumes from ammonia dissolving fecal matter filled the room.
The point being?

Gloating. An attempt to instill fear. A play on a chessboard.

How the hell did he get past security?

Don't know. But I don't think he'll try this again.

Who?

It can't be Merodach,
Jack assured the captain while he tucked Russian satellite photos into a folder.
Kyros thinks an imitator, perhaps a successor, sent a minion to track me. We presume he hopes I'll lead him to —
Jack's thoughts hitched a moment while he decided on a safe term —
Kyros' headquarters.

Thanks for leading the chase into my backyard.

You're welcome, Captain.

Russo narrowed his eyes and stared Jack down. That long pause was the sound of Jack's career flushing down the toilet. No matter how stellar his performance in the field, yet again he managed to prove he was more trouble than he was worth.

I'll do what I can, MacGunn, but Kyros will have to handle whatever goes above my security clearance. There's going to be hell to pay for this.

Don't contact Kyros. Ask Team Three to sit tight — I'll handle this.

You sure as hell better.

Jack's fist crushed miniature paper figures engaged in a sixty-nine and fed the rest of the origami to a paper shredder Chet had repaired and plugged back in.
Hooyah Captain.

• • •

“Stop right there. BDUs off, strip down to your shorts.” Cassie turned away from the screen door so the shivering SEAL candidate could shed his sandy fatigues. By any measure Cassie had a dream job, patching up beautifully built, mostly naked men. But since she was accustomed to the sight of Jack, the guys here with their twelve percent body fat seemed a bit soft to her, an idea she knew was skewed.

“Ah, Ensign Hammond, you're bleeding on your paperwork.” Her hand had to chase his to take the paper, he shook so violently. “You're here for the lacerations or hypothermia?”

He blinked slowly, his jaw clenched to prevent his teeth from chattering.

“What is your boat crew number?”

His eyes didn't track when she asked him to follow her finger, and he still hadn't answered verbally. He merely followed her orders; the exhaustion and trauma of his training had turned him into an animal hardwired for survival. She wondered if Jack had gone through this, or if he was born with hard-boiled instincts.

“Where are you from?” Blank stare. “You have to answer, ensign, or I refer you to medical and you ring out. Show me you're coherent.” He managed a slight shake of his head. His brain reacted like a factory grinding into gear after being shut down. “Where are you? Your location?”