Chapter 1: Tattoo
The hostages were free from Tehran. The rescue attempt FUBAR, the politicians stepped in and made their greasy deals. Pillars of smoke rose into the desert sky in his dreams. He accelerated through the humid night air, down the dark stretch of road. The roar of the bike's exhaust echoed off the still, dark trees, moss hanging off their branches.
The lights of his destination appeared ahead on his left. He swung the bike into the gravel parking lot and rolled to a stop among several other machines. Loud country rock music spilled out into the parking lot. He kicked the kickstand, switched off the engine, lit a cigarette, and sat, listening to the music and the ticking of the engine as it cooled. Two buildings sat off the highway, the run down bar and a small tattoo parlor, its red neon sign blinking in the night.
Resigned, he flicked the butt, swung his leg over the machine, and headed for the light pouring from the door. Several drunk soldiers barged through the door as he climbed the steps and he stopped at the rail to let them pass as they staggered off to their cars.
The place was packed, as usual, several hundred soldiers and ten or fifteen local women, dancing or standing around. He was amazed at his luck when he wedged his way through the crowd, grabbed a vacated stool at the bar and ordered a PBR. By the third, he knew he should have gone to Houston.
"Sweet Home Alabama" blared from the speakers, accompanied by a chorus of drunken soldiers as he headed for the door. The night air was much better than the close confines of the bar. He was thinking he'd ride awhile when, abruptly, he headed for the tattoo parlor.
A wind chime jingled as he opened the screen door and he heard the buzzing of a tattoo in progress. A young woman, oriental, looked up from where she was working on a soldier's shoulder and regarded him quietly. He stopped in his tracks as the brown eyes held him, knowing he'd seen that look somewhere before.
"Are you OK?" she asked in a soft voice.
"I'm fine," He replied, and went to look at the designs covering the walls of the waiting area. She went back to her work.
The usual designs were there, eagles, panthers, bulldogs, roses, skulls and daggers, Pink Panthers, Tasmanian devils. He grabbed a book off the table and sat on the couch. A second book though, smaller than the others, had pictures of tattoos rather than the designs. Flowing dragons, intricate in their detail, coiled around arms and flowed across shoulders. Armored warriors struck menacing poses from bare skin, most men, some women. He turned the pages, stopping to study each picture carefully, until he turned a page and was hit by a bolt of lightning. There, done in black on a woman's back was the figure of a warrior in armor, holding a drawn sword, with the head of a wolf. Long black hair had been tied into a ponytail and ran down the center of her back to show off the tattoo for the photograph.
"Can I help you?" jarred him back to reality. The young woman stood looking down at him. They were alone in the shop, the soldier had left without him noticing. She had a ring through her lower lip and the ends of tattoos could be seen on her forearms, crawling out of the brown sweatsuit she wore. She was darkly tanned and light brown hair braided in pigtails hung shoulder length, strands escaping to frame her face.
"I think I know what you want," She said, as she took him by the hand and led him through the shop to a door in the back. The door opened into a small room. Tatami covered the floor with a mat in the corner. A small shrine was the only other furnishing in the room.
"Take off your shirt while I get ready." She motioned to the sleeping mat.
