Page 9 of Viking Unchained

Quickly, Cage put a choke hold on Finn from behind and pinched a nerve in his neck, which immediately immobilized the big guy. He and JAM jumped right in to help Cage catch Finn before he hit the ground.

He had to weigh about two hundred thirty or forty pounds. They got the jumpsuit and helmet on him somehow. It required four of them to carry the dead-weight body at a run toward the hovering chopper, then get him into a harness and up into the air. But soon they were all strapped into bench seats, including the unconscious Finn, and the Blackhawk took off.

Not a moment too soon, they saw. Battered vehicles and trucks were careening down the highway, coming to the rescue of their dead al-Qaeda friends. He hoped to God that Al-Jazeera didn’t get photos of the head-lopped guy or the body-cleaved guy. Not the greatest PR for Uncle Sam’s brave and bold.

The six SEALs grinned at each other and cheered as one, “Hoo-yah!”

“Me, I’m pretty sure your cousin ain’t gonna be cheerin’ once he wakes up, cher,” Cage told him.

“Not to worry. I plan on wearing body armor.” He laughed. “Or else I’ll sic Hilda on him.”

His fool cousin was an ill wind beneath his Viking wings . . .

Thorfinn awoke groggily from a hazy sleep.

The first thing he noticed was that he was strapped in at the stomach to a strange padded chair . . . straps which he immediately tried but was unable to untie.

The second thing he noticed was that his lackwit cousin Torolf was likewise strapped into a chair to the left of him. Had they been captured by those Arab curs?

The third, and most alarming, thing he noticed when he turned to the right was a small glass window.

Staring outward, he saw what appeared to be clouds. He was disoriented at first. How could he be

seeing clouds below him, instead of above him? Then the clouds parted and he saw, way below, an ocean. Way below!

“Son of a bloody whore!” His head pivoted to take in his surroundings. He was in some kind of enclosed space with many rows of chairs holding people, mostly men, in similar attire . . . fabric made of splotchy mixes of brown and sand colors. Uniforms of some kind, he presumed. All of them strapped in.

“Are we prisoners?” he whispered to Torolf. Best I keep my voice low, to avoid notice. He saw none of the Arabs who’d attacked him, but they must be about somewhere. Then the red welt marks on his wrists caught his attention. “I have a vague memory of chains being there.”

“What? No. Those are from handcuffs we had on you before. Man, you were behaving like a maniac when we tried to calm you down. Took four men just to get your pants off and cammies on.”

“Huh?” Puzzled, he stared down at the belt restraining him to the seat and back at Torolf.

“Oh, that. We’re in a plane.”

He frowned and glanced outside again.

If he were a screaming kind of man, now would be the time. “Am. I. In. That. Flying. Bird?” he demanded of Torolf, pausing after each word, for fear he might heave the contents of his stomach.

“Not that flying bird . . . not the one you saw yesterday. A different flying bird,” Torolf told him, laughing like an idiot.

“Yesterday? Holy Thor, my head hurts.”

“No wonder. That tango gave you a good whack on the noggin’. Then Geek had to knock you out.”

“What is a tango?”

“Bad guy. Terrorist.”

“Then why not just say bad guy?”

Torolf, ever the lackbrain, just grinned.

“Where in bloody blazes is my sword?”

“In cargo . . . um, storage. You’ll get it back once we land.”

He did not like to be without his weapon, but that appeared to be the least of his problems. “How could a day have gone by?”