"I am not gay. Don't even use those words. And, frankly, my looong life has been nothing but speed bumps."

Karl just grinned. "I can't wait to see what you pull next."

Me too. "I have to admit, this whole situation would be funny if it weren't happening to me." A thought came to him of a sudden. "Don't you dare tell my brothers."

Karl just continued to grin.

Trond went on then to explain what he'd discovered so far about both JAM and Sly being sin-tainted. They made plans to get closer to both men, which might be a bit difficult if word got around that they were gay. In addition, he told Karl about rumors of an impending mission of huge importance. They'd have to keep their ears to the ground and make sure they were included. Somehow.

Going over to his desk, Trond logged onto his laptop and in a specially encrypted e-mail account, notified all six of his brothers that Zebulan, one of Jasper's commanders, was in the area. While they'd been aware that at least one of the SEALs had been targeted, that could have resulted from a fanging by any Lucie, even a lower-level mung, but Zeb's presence here in Coronado could only mean that Jasper had bigger plans.

Vikar was the only one online at the moment, and he responded immediately to his IM message.

Should we come?

Not yet.

Any news on the mission?

Just rumors.

I have a bad feeling.

Me too.

Don't hesitate to ask for help. No sense being a hero.

Me? LOL!

This could be the biggest mission for us since that harebrained Sin Cruise.

Roger that.

Roger? You really are taking this military career seriously.

Hard not to. I haven't worked so hard since . . . forever.

Maybe I should come after all. I'd enjoy the spectacle of you working hard.

Very funny.

BTW, how are things going with that woman who was so suspicious of you?

Don't ask.

Uh-oh!

She's the biggest pain-in-the-ass woman I've ever met.

Could it be-?

No!

he said, anticipating what Vikar was about to say.

Hey, it happened for me.

That's different. Mike made an exception for you because you were becoming almost . . . well, angelic.

I was not!

Trond could almost hear the indignation in Vikar's voice. One thing Vikings did not aspire to be was angelic. Leastways, they never had in the past.

He thought about telling his brother that Nicole thought he was gay, but decided not to. What he did not need was being made a laughingstock, thanks to the vangel gossip network, especially when he'd already made a laughingstock of himself with the Michael dance. Really, Vikings were worse than women when it came to passing on juicy tidbits. And Trond being a gay Viking would definitely be deemed juicy. He could just hear it now.

Trond the Gay Viking?

He always liked longboats better than swimming in tight channels.

Cruise any fjords lately, bro?

I always knew his arse was pretty, but . . .

After Trond promised to keep the VIK updated often, and Vikar told him he would make tentative plans for a fleet of vangels to deploy to Coronado on a moment's notice, they logged off. While the VIK and its cadre of vangels had lost a few special abilities when they stopped bouncing around in time, they still maintained many that would be helpful in situations like this, such as the ability to teletransport across wide areas. No delays for airplane travel or even cars. They didn't have wings yet of the type that could actually fly, except for Vikar, but they could move from one state to another in an instant. Even one country to another. And of course, they were vampires, with all the mystical powers that implied.

Karl had left the room when Trond had opened his computer. Now, mentally assimilating all that they would have to do, and how to do it in secret, Trond walked over and took a small packet of dried Fake-O out of a hidden compartment in his locker and added it to a bottled water. Downing the thickened "beverage" with a shiver of distaste, he carried the empty bottle with him to the bathing chamber, where he would rinse it out before discarding.

On the way back to the room through a mostly empty corridor, this being a Friday night, or rather early Saturday morning, he passed the kitchenette shared by the six rooms on this floor. Karl was in there. As he walked away, Trond heard the ping of the microwave.

He had to laugh then. Or cry. Poor Karl! Couldn't or wouldn't have sex while his wife was still alive. Oh well, men would do what men would do.

He could swear he heard Karl mutter, "Honey, I'm home."

The morning after comes to all of us . . .

Gay?

Nicole was still boggling at Trond's amazing revelation the next morning, even as she jogged for more than an hour along her neighborhood streets. She ran not because she had to-Lord knew, she got enough exercise in PT-but because she loved running. The freedom she felt when she ran was empowering. It cleared her head and made her feel in control of not just her body but her life. Not this morning, though, with her focus all scrambled up. All she could think about was, Gay?

On the one hand, her suspicious nature caused her to wonder if it was just a ploy the man had tossed her way to deflect her from investigating him. On the other hand, most men wouldn't in a million years put that label on themselves if it weren't true.

How could I have missed the signals?

Were there any signals?

What does it matter? It's not like I was going to hook up with him.

Was I?

On that disarming question, she showered with her favorite Jessica McClintock bath gel and forced herself to concentrate on other subjects, like her agenda for the rest of the weekend. Nicole was a list maker, and she liked to write things out, often on an hourly basis, everything down to household chores, errands, and even technical articles to be read. She bought so many Franklin Planners she ought to invest in the company.

After dressing casually in jeans and T-shirt, she sat down at the kitchen table to have a bowl of granola with fresh strawberries and milk, a glass of orange juice, and the weekly Coronado Eagle propped up against the cereal box when Donita walked in, wearing the same skinny jeans, stretch tube top, and boots as last night. Marie and Nicole had returned home alone last night.

Nicole arched her brows at Donita, who looked like she'd been ridden hard and put away wet . . . and not in a good way. She headed straight for the espresso machine, where she poured herself a small cup of the hundred-proof caffeine, then sat down at the table across from Nicole.

"For someone who presumably had her pipes cleaned a time or two or three, you sure look all clogged up," Nicole remarked, crunching on her cereal, which was incidentally very good. It was a special blend of granola mixed with nuts and dried fruit that she'd bought at a favorite natural foods store. She made a mental note to herself to put it on her grocery list for this afternoon.

Donita raised her head with obvious pain. "I passed out. After I puked on JAM's bedspread."

"Oookay."

"I'm a failure as a slut."

"Should I sympathize or congratulate you?" Really, the three of them donned slut outfits on occasion, but they weren't promiscuous.

"Both. Something strange is going on with JAM, by the way."

Something strange is going on with lots of folks. Sly and JAM, not to mention one hunkalicious guy who claims to be gay, even as he throws off sexual lures to women like a blinkin' fisherman. A fisher of women. "Strange how?"

"I can't explain it, but he's changed. For one thing, JAM would have had absolutely no problem last night nailing me, his best friend's girlfriend, or ex-girlfriend. The JAM I thought I knew would have taken me home and tucked me in to preserve his friendship. Hell, Sly has changed, too. Do you know what Sly had the nerve to say to me last night? That if I kept shaking my goodies at every male in sight, I'd be having my ass fucked by a train in the parking lot."

Instead of weeping, she just seemed sad. And, yes, it was sad that such a good guy could turn out to be so bad. Hah! Good guy/bad guy! When will I ever learn?

"Maybe it's some bug going around," Donita mused.

"Men are the bugs, let's face it. I could lend you one of my favorite audio books: Standing on Your Own Two Feet, Dammit!"

"Or maybe we could make our own audio book. Squash the Bugs, Dammit!" Donita joked.

Well, at least Donita hadn't lost her sense of humor.

Nicole's cell phone rang just then.

Donita put both hands to her head as if the ringtone were an ear-piercing decibel when it was merely the theme from Doctor Zhivago. Looking at the message, Nicole immediately clicked over to the secure base line.

Donita's phone rang, too, hers a recent Katy Perry song, "California Girls." She switched over to the base line, as well.

Upstairs, they heard Marie's cell phone go off, too, the smile-inducing "Dum, dee, dee, dum! Dum, dee, dee dum . . ." intro to "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy."

They both exchanged glances as they peered at the messages from the command center. "Report for briefing. ASAP."

There was no code given, so this wouldn't be an immediate deployment. Still, the ASAP meant "mission imminent," usually.

Donita was chugging down coffee now, recognizing she had to get herself in shape pronto.

"I'm surprised that they would call you up after just returning from a mission," Nicole mentioned to Donita, even as she was gathering everything she would need in her backpack.

"Must be important. There've been rumblings about an Afghan compound with high-level Taliban in Davastan."

"Najid bin Osama!" they both concluded at the same time.

Could it be? They stared at each other with a shiver of excitement at the possibility. Neither of them had been involved in Geronimo. They'd love to be a part an important mission. Adrenaline ripped through her system. Not fear. That would come later, and it wasn't a bad thing, either. "Fear Is Your Friend" was a favorite SEAL motto.

Najid was the mysterious illegitimate son of Osama bin Laden, who had come out of the woodwork onto the world stage with a bang. Literally. Following an explosion in a U.S. shopping mall that resulted in hundreds of deaths and even more casualties, Najid disclaimed responsibility, but the world knew he was involved up to his lying mouth.

In many ways, Najid was even more dangerous than Bin Laden had ever been. Oh, Osama's death was a symbolic victory in light of 9/11. But Najid was a charismatic chameleon, a leader in every sense of the word, who charmed crowds whether he wore his thousand-dollar designer suits and spoke in fluent French-accented English or the traditional Arab kaftan and keffiyeh headdress as he stoked the anti-American fires of his fast-growing Muslim terrorist followers. It didn't hurt that he was suavely handsome.

"Take a quick shower, kiddo," Nicole directed Donita. "Five minutes max. I'll have the car ready."

"Bless you!" Donita took the stairs two at a time.

When the three of them drove off to the base a short time later, the town of Coronado was just waking up.

"I meant to ask you, Nic," Donita said from the backseat where she was nursing yet another espresso, "last I saw you last night you were dancing it up with Trond Sigurdsson. How did that go?"

Nicole rolled her eyes. "Don't ask."

Gay?

Seven.

Mission Impossible . . . ?

The entire SEAL Team Five was assembled in the conference room of the command center, along with a half-dozen WEALS, and various other military personnel. The mood was serious.

Nicole quickly scanned the room as she sat in the back row with her WEALS mates. There were JAM, F.U., Sly, Cage, Geek, and several others who must have just come in off active duty . . . another indication that this mission must be important. The latter group included the Viking Torolf "Max" Magnusson, the Arab-Native American Omar ben Sulaiman, aka "Teach," Luke "Slick" Avenil, Kevin "K4" Fortunato, Travis "Flash" Gordon, and Cody O'Brien.

Commander MacLean stood at the front of the room behind a podium on a raised dais. Geek sat below at a desk with a keyboard in front of him. Rumor was, Geek graduated college at sixteen, got his doctorate at eighteen, and had been in the Navy ever since then. Geek used his boyish charm to hide a wicked way with the ladies.

At a click of the keyboard that resounded around the silent room, the large screen behind the commander flashed an ominous message: "OPERATION OCTOPUS: Najid bin Osama."

The commander cleared his throat and pointed to the screen. "Gentlemen and ladies, we are about to embark on one of the most ambitious SEAL missions ever. Even bigger and more ambitious than Geronimo." He paused, then added, "Lieutenant Avenil will be leading this operation."

The SEAL best known as Slick stepped up onto the dais and stood next to the commander. Slick was old for a SEAL, mid to late thirties, she guessed. Very good-looking, with neck-length, black hair sprinkled with a tiny bit of gray. The rumor mill said he was divorced, badly, and still returned to court intermittently to counter his ex-wife's greedy alimony demands. In fact, she'd once overheard him telling a fellow SEAL, "You don't really know a woman until you've met her in court." Slick cleared his throat and told them without any preliminaries, "I just got back from Afghanistan with Max and Teach, and this is what we found."

An aerial photograph flashed onto the screen. Using a laser pointer, he showed them several strategic locations that would be of importance to them. "This is where we believe Najid's headquarters is located, his Afghan home, but that won't be our main target. Over here"-he pointed to what appeared to be another concrete complex of buildings a quarter or so mile away-"is Najid's harem, or the recent additions to it, anyway."

About twenty sets of male eyebrows rose with interest.

Men!