Sentimental Journey by Jill Barnett Page A

questions. She would only sit there and cry. She understood the psychological games he was playing.
    She played the role of fragile female.
    Let Von Heidelmann think he was winning.
    She heard those familiar footsteps. A second later she was deep under the blankets and feigning sleep.
    Adolf came inside. “Wake up, Fraülein .” He shoved at her shoulder repeatedly. When she opened her eyes, he pulled her up. “You come with me now.” He took her by the arm but didn’t yank on it. She had noticed he was less gruff with her and did not jerk her around as he had before. Perhaps Adolf was half-human after all.
    “You must come now.” His voice was quieter, his actions softened, like her brothers’ response when they felt bad about something they had done to her.
    She hated pity . . . had fought it like crazy for years. But this time, she took advantage of his pity and stood there for a moment. She pretended to shake out her clothes, then brushed her tangled hair out of her face. She faced him. “Let me venture a wild guess, Adolf. Herr Von Heidelmann wants to talk with me.”

“HELL’S BELLS”
     
    He landed in a fucking palm tree.
    When J.R. looked down, he was hanging some fifty feet off the ground—which was conveniently riddled with what appeared to be knife-sharp rocks. It was good to know some things never changed. Mr. Murphy came along for the ride.
    He checked the position of his chute; it was secure, or securely stuck, depending upon your outlook—optimist or pessimist.
    Apparently that single Hail Mary had done some good. Otherwise he might just haul down on the shroud lines and suddenly go smash! Right down on those rocks.
    He jerked the lines. Palm dust, dates, and other palm tree crap rained down on him. He swore, then brushed the dust off his face while a few more dates hit his shoulders and head.
    He gripped the lines tightly and kicked out, so he began to swing back and forth. He had the darkly amusing thought that he ought to hum carousel music.
    Back and forth he swung, building momentum, dodging dates and dust and more dates. A few more good swings and he was close enough to the tree trunk to clamp his legs and one arm around it.
    The damn thing was prickly as hell.
    He reached up with his free arm and released his chute.
    A second later he was swearing a blue streak and sliding down the rough tree trunk with all the finesse and comfort of a fireman sliding down a pole made of pineapples.
    As landings went, it wasn’t his best. He hit hard and bit his tongue. He could taste the saltiness of blood in his mouth. He spit, then pulled himself up and checked his gear. Mosquitoes buzzed and swarmed around his head and bit him on the neck. He slapped it and pulled his hand away. He counted a dozen dead mosquitoes on his palm. They were everywhere. He waved them away, then gave up and let the little mothers bite him. He did the routine—patted his chest, his wrist, his crotch, and his pockets as he murmured, “Compass, watch . . . testicles, spectacles.”
    Yep, all the important stuff’s here.
    He took a swig from his canteen, then swiped at his mouth with his sleeve and checked out the area’s perimeter. He was in some kind of oasis—a cluster of palm trees, rocks, every single mosquito in the continent of North Africa , and a stone well off to the west where some vegetation grew and a few ugly white flowers were poking out of a patch of sword like weeds.
    He refastened the canteen to his belt, shoved aside his rope-and-toggle hook, then unsnapped his jacket pocket. He pulled out his compass and his maps. He scanned them, then looked around him.
    The mountains were to the southeast. That was good. That’s where they were supposed to be.
    He knew he’d overshot the drop zone, but he didn’t know by how far. He studied the map for a minute or two. From what he could calculate, he was about fifteen klicks northwest of his rendezvous, if this spot was the well marked on his map as