Free Defender by Catherine Mann Page B

wrestling?”
    He welcomed the distraction of a safe, neutral topic. “You’ve got the country right, different Japanese technique though. Aikido, which focuses on self-defense without harming the attacker. And I throw in an occasional good old American bar-fight punch when absolutely necessary.”
    “Is martial arts standard air force survival training now?”
    “I pulled some time in Japan. I took a few classes.” Actually, he’d mastered a number of martial art forms because, hey, if you planned to throw your sorry mug into every brawl, it made sense to have that mug well-defended.
    “A few classes? Yeah, right.” A tiny smile tugged at a corner of her mouth. “And I really didn’t watch the Star Trek ‘Trouble with Tribbles’ episode twenty-seven times.”
    Tribbles? “What can I say? I’m Mars, god of war.” He thumped his chest.
    “A Roman mythology reference? That’s not what I would have expected from you.”
    “If I’m not mistaken, you just called me a dumb jet jock.” Did she think he crawled straight out of the primordial ooze into the cockpit? Little did she know that to make major in the air force these days required a master’s degree. “We flyboys do read a book without pictures every now and then.”
    “Sorry.” Her gaze dipped away, and she plucked at a stray string on the hem of her costume. “So the whole ‘I am Mars, god of war’ thing . . . Does that pickup line actually work on women?”
    “You would be surprised.” Although it appeared it didn’t stand a chance of gaining traction with her. Not that he wanted it to. Back to that subject change. “Actually, the word martial comes from Mars. So in essence, martial arts means the art of Mars.”
    “Damn,” Vapor appeared beside him, the big guy moving as quietly as—well—vapor. “Next thing you know he’ll be pulling out the pocket-sized copy of Sun Tzu’s The Art of War he carries around in his flight suit.”
    “Hey pal, don’t you have a rubber chicken or whoopee cushion to go play with?”
    “Nah, I’m good.” Vapor scrubbed a hand over his shaved head with that aw-gosh-golly-and-shucks shit he pulled to romance women. Nobody would guess right now that he’d once been a hard-core biker. “Sorry about the ruckus over there, ma’am. I can help you find your quarters if you would like to leave.”
    Chloe backed away from them both. “Actually, I should check in with the stage manager to see if we’re finishing the show. I’ll be careful to stay clear of trouble.”
    Vapor scratched his shiny head. “Isn’t the stage manager the dweeby guy dressed all in black like Dieter from those old Saturday Night Live episodes? If so, he’s in the head hyperventilating.”
    Chloe winced.
    Vapor winked at her as she stepped farther away. “Just call if you need me.”
    Good. She had a new protector now. Even one up to speed on old TV pop culture references. Given the rumors about Vapor’s teenage days on the street, he could handle anything, anywhere. Bodyguard duty over and done.
    Jimmy eyed his friend. Eyed Chloe.
    Next thing he knew, Jimmy called out to Chloe, “If you’re really serious about protecting yourself when no one’s around, I can teach you some basic self-defense moves.”
    She raised a hand over her shoulder and waved some kind of noncommittal response that set his teeth on edge with frustration at himself as much as her.
    Why the hell didn’t he just walk away from this woman? For that matter, Vince—his whole damn crew—should be staying away from her and anyone else until they found Chuck. The implanted chip showed he was still alive, but that could change at any minute.
    Given all the missing airmen and recent incidents, it did, in fact, seem they were all wearing red shirts.
* DOWNTOWN ISTANBUL
    Marta Surac slammed the door shut on the basement cell.
    The damp smell of mold and fear saturated each breath. How sad she did not have time to savor this moment of power as she raced back and