She was concentrating so hard on massaging her leg, all ten of her fingers digging into the meat of her quad, he couldn’t be sure she’d heard.
“Charley horse?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Here, I can help.” Starting at the top of her thigh, he pressed his thumbs until he found the rock-hard muscle, then traced it along her leg. Her response was a combination groan of pain and moan of agreement. Back to the top of her leg and down again, he kneaded as hard as he thought she could take, over and over, until her neck finally slumped forward and the lines on her forehead smoothed. He lightened the pressure to a gentle massage. “Good book?”
“Guilty pleasure.” She spoke slowly, as if she’d sunk into relaxation—exactly what he wanted. “Barbecue, donuts and New Jersey.”
“Sounds delicious.” Maybe she was tired and loose enough to open up about her injury. “You have many spasms like that one?”
“Not often these days.” She shifted in the seat, as if to withdraw, but there wasn’t anywhere for her to go because he blocked the aisle. “I shouldn’t have sat for so long.”
His hands maintained their soothing rhythm on her thigh. “How’s the leg now?”
The pause stretched so long he wondered if she’d fallen asleep. That would be ironic—him trying to get her to unwind and talk about her injury, but instead succeeding in rendering her comatose.
“The stump’s probably swollen, like people’s ankles get on long flights.” If he hadn’t been completely focused on her, he wouldn’t have heard her barely audible reply over the engine noise. “And I have an increased risk for deep vein thrombosis. No big deal.”
Her no big deal bent him like a two-hundred-pound ruck on his shoulders.
The glitter of late morning sun on the foot of snow that had stalled Copenhagen heightened the postcard view of the inner harbor from Wulf and Theresa’s suite, but not Wulf’s pleasure. He didn’t enjoy feeling exposed, and the light might interfere with Theresa’s nap, so he closed the room-darkening blinds. Then he removed the back of his phone to swap in a clean disposable SIM card. Time to locate their less legitimate supplies.
Reaching Guleed by phone was easy, because they’d talked many times over the last forty years, and rehashing how they’d met in Mogadishu brought back memories that had improved with time. Only eight years old, Guleed had chased Wulf through a slum to demand he pay the bar bill after the messy death of a mercenary Wulf had considered to be a friend. The ambitious boy wouldn’t let his mother lose a day’s profit, because those pennies bought school uniforms and books.
“Anything, anything you name, I do it for you,” Guleed promised when Wulf asked for a favor of the kind best kept strictly between friends who’d shared bad times in worse places. “You have saved my family a thousand times by finding for me a visa to this country.” As Guleed described his chain of grocery stores dotted throughout the Copenhagen suburbs, he sounded so much like the eight-year-old with grand plans that without being able to see confirmation of his gray hair, Wulf found it hard to believe the boy he’d helped now had grandchildren.
In Somali, Wulf described his needs: winter gear, night vision equipment and weapons.
Guleed didn’t hesitate. “I know a man or two, they probably have certain objects. Most are undoubtedly old and worthless, only for museums or collectors, nothing else, of course.”
“Of course, of course.” This type of business with this type of man necessitated a lot of chat. “But there are friends in Somalia who collect such items sometimes, no?” He hoped Guleed didn’t pop up with an antitank weapon. That would be more than Cruz could resist.
“Sometimes, yes, but now there are many rules about exportation of private collections. Those who are law-abiding like you and me, my friend, find it hard to manage equal support against the militias.”
“This is a shame.” Wulf had to agree.
“Shame indeed. My son and I call it a paradox of democracy. Luckily, we also practice many benefits of capitalism. Did I not tell you I bought a house in Mykonos, near the beach?”
Befriending him hadn’t ruined Guleed. The boy had built a life to be envied, with a big family, good health, properties. Not all those Wulf cared about were doomed.
“It reminds me of Mogadishu as it was years ago, only the plumbing is much better.” Guleed was still talking about his beach house. “The views, and the Greek women. You are my most honored guest, at any time.”
Theresa might like the sunshine compared to February in New York...if he could avoid face time with Guleed, who wouldn’t understand why his oldest friend still looked twenty-eight.
Once he’d navigated the complicated arrangements and farewells, he stood in the connecting door watching Theresa. Asleep, she’d lost the exhausted look from the plane, and her flawless skin glowed against the white pillows and duvet. Much as he itched to be moving, he’d made the right choice to tell everyone to rest.
He studied the room service menu. Although it was after breakfast and before lunch, finding Beowulf’s sword hilt might seem more manageable after a platter of meatballs. His finger had already started to dial when he heard a knock in the team’s signature pattern.
Seconds later he had Deavers locked in the buddy hug he’d been storing for seven months. “Where’re the others?”
“Big Kahuna’s getting a car—the legit way, no less—and Cruz is checking out a hooker hotel near the main station.” Deavers took in the white leather couch, the streamlined furniture and the shiny red entertainment console. “Less pricey than these digs. And more anonymous.”
“Good. I located more op gear. Should be ready tonight.” Pacing to the closed window blinds, Wulf shared the unease that had been growing since the flight. “I keep feeling this trip has been too easy.”
“Roger that. It’s why I sent Cruz scouting.” Deavers flopped into one of the cube chairs and stretched his legs across the geometrically patterned carpet while eyeing the basket of rye crackers and bottled water. “Got something better than gerbil bedding to eat? Or is the minibar here more expensive than a plane ticket?”
“I was about to order meatballs. We have a couple hours until I wake up Doc.”
“Double down. I’m too married for Scandinavian models, but a man’s never too married to step out on Kristin’s meatloaf.”
Wulf masked his edginess with a joke as Kahananui maneuvered the rented taxi van through nearly empty streets. The sun set early this far north, and daylight was fading fast. “Where did a Hawaiian learn to drive in snow?”
“First post was Fort Drum, New York, bro.” Acing a corner at the perfect speed and angle, no fishtailing, the big guy guided the van to a stop at the Danish National Museum. “Here you are.”
“You’re not coming in with us?” Theresa asked. Her excitement distracted him from thoughts of what might be inside. Part of him wanted to find the hilt and see if this curse he’d lived with for fifteen hundred years could be undone, but hope always seemed to beat a path to disappointment. Better to focus on the woman next to him and the here and now than on another what-if.
“Ma’am, this country is so mucho haole, guys like Cruz and me blend best by driving a taxi.”
A fresh-shoveled path led through the courtyard of the former palace. The worker at the admissions desk seemed to be startled that visitors had arrived through the snow, and more so that they wished to speak to the head of the prehistory department. But she couldn’t have been as unprepared to see them as he was to come face-to-face with a life-size poster celebrating a statue of Jurik. The Saint was perpetually killing the last dragon. On its back, the beast still had the fight to grasp the broken lance.