Inside Straight

Instead, he tried to claw for the soldier’s pistol, and the men on either side of him piled on. As best he could, Noel covered his head and endured the drubbing. He lost interest in the rest of the drive, and only returned to his surroundings when he was dragged across the flagstones in the courtyard of the prison. It was full dark and still very hot. Noel was so thirsty that his mouth tasted like he’d been sucking on iron filings.

Finally they dumped him in a cell. It reeked of shit, urine, and sweat. There were no mattresses on the metal cots, just coiled steel frames. A small, ferretlike man lounged on a cot, but he scrambled to a back corner and huddled by the stainless steel and overflowing toilet as the soldiers dragged Noel in and flung him down on the concrete floor. There were a few farewell kicks, and Noel wasn’t able to turn fast enough and not take the blows on his abused gut. One boot did connect with his ribs, and he heard a crack, and pain flared.

Transforming was not going to be fun. He eyed his fellow prisoner. And of course he couldn’t be observed.

“Lucky for you I hurt too bad to kill you,” he said in English.

The man grinned at him ingratiatingly. Noel groaned and got to his feet, crossed to the man, and held his breath against the stench from the toilet. He lashed out with a foot, and kicked the man in the head. Pain made him less precise. There was a chance he’d just created a breathing, shitting vegetable.

Slowly, painfully, his body burned and shifted, flowing like hot wax. Breasts pressed tightly against the fabric of his shirt, and the pants were suddenly far too snug across his hips. Lilith’s long hair brushed at his back. Noel concentrated and teleported away.

~ ~ ~

Captain Flint set aside the pages of Noel’s report and leaned back in the stone chair that had been carved to accommodate his massive stone body. The commander of Her Britannic Majesty’s Most Puissant Order of the Silver Helix, the ace division of British Military Intelligence, was almost eight feet tall and weighed more than three thousand pounds. He rubbed his eyes, momentarily masking the flames that formed his pupils. “Not the result we had hoped for.”

Noel leaned forward to better hear his commander’s whispered words, so incongruous, coming from the gigantic gray stone body.

Rains sluiced down the outside of the tall windows of this Whitehall office. It was decorated in Flint’s unique style. He made no nod to faux intellectualism. There were only a few volumes on the bookshelves. Instead the polished wood displayed a collection of British arms and armaments ranging from neolithic arrowheads to Enfield revolvers.

“I’ve never seen you so badly misread a situation before,” Flint continued.

“Yes, well, sorry about that.”

“You allowed a personal relationship to interfere with your judgment.”

“Yes, thank you, I rogered the pooch. I get that. Shall we move on? What do you want to do about Siraj?”

“Nothing yet. Let’s observe for a little while. You’re in a unique position to do that.”

“Yes, to think it was me—well, Bahir—that put the son of a bitch in power.”

“He’s still better than the Nur, or Abdul-Alim.” Flint shifted the papers and studied another section for a long moment. “Interesting that he named a caliph and didn’t take the title for himself.”

“He’s not such a fool. He can never be sufficiently ardent for the fundamentalists, and he can wring our nuts more effectively if he’s perceived as a secularist.” Noel hesitated, and the memory of Straight Arrow’s condescension replayed for a gut-tightening instant. He knew it was childish of him, but he wanted to have one small thing about which to crow when next he met his American cousins. “Are we going to take credit for rescuing the secretary-general?”

“Yes, I suppose so. But I don’t know if I ought to let you take the bow.”

“But you will.” Noel added just a bit of wheedle to make it less demanding.

Flint sighed. “You got the poor bastard kidnapped in the first place. I do wish you’d stop improvising.”

“I get results.”

“Just not always the ones we expect.”

“Touche. What do we do about Fortune and these baby aces?”

Flint snapped his fingers and watched the flame dance briefly on his fingertips. “Have you any suggestions?”

“Is this you setting up for plausible deniability, or do you honestly want my opinion?”