Forged by Steel

by J. B. Havens

  “It’s not up to us. It’s Jackson’s call,” Jones said as they clustered together near the lockers.

  “Mic won’t stand for it,” Jordon said, speaking a truth he knew in his bones “She’ll go to Russia alone if she has to. We all know it.” If she went, so did he. He wasn’t letting her out of his sight again–not after what happened last time.

  Pierce clasped his shoulder, shaking him slightly. “We’ll deal with that when the time comes. Anyway, man, you need to talk to Flynn. We need to be a team, now more than ever.”

  “He’s an asshole.” Jordon’s anger came back with just the thought of their aggravating teammate and his constantly running mouth.

  “True. But it’s Flynn, so make nice. That’s an order, Corporal.” Pierce rarely pulled rank.

  “Copy.” Jordon pulled on his jacket and then took his turn slamming the door on his way out. Swirling snow blew around him, the flakes and biting cold striking his face. He stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and stomped through the snow to his cabin. There were shoveled paths, but he was taking a perverse pleasure in destroying the pristine drifts, kicking the flakes high up into the air and watching the clouds of white blow away.

  He hadn’t slept right in days, and the deprivation was getting to him, souring his mood and causing him to lash out at everyone. He owed Flynn an apology, sure, but the jackass also needed to learn when to just leave well enough alone. His feelings for Mic were his business and his alone. If and when they decided to do something about it, he and Mic would choose who to tell. He didn’t need or want input from the others about it.

  Stomping the snow off his boots on the steps, he pushed open the cabin door, not surprised when he found Flynn sprawled on the couch.

  “Twat-waffle,” Jordon said simply.

  “Fuck face,” Flynn snapped back.

  Jordon kicked his boots off and tried to avoid the puddles left from Flynn’s shoes. “Fine, I was going to apologize to you, but if you wanna be an asshole, whatever.”

  “You’re just pissed off that I’m right. You know it, we all fucking know it. You’re in love with Mic.” Flynn stood and grabbed a beer from the fridge.

  “Dude, it's zero nine-hundred. A little early for a beer don’t you think?” Jordon did his best to change the subject and ignore the way his heart had stuttered at the word ‘love’.

  “Fuck off.” Flynn popped the top and threw the bottle cap at Jordon before taking his seat again.

  “Ok, then. I’m not going to talk about Mic—not now, maybe not ever.” Jordon plopped down on the couch next to Flynn, but careful not to bump into him. Pierce is right, we need to be a team now, more than ever. Mic needs us. I’ve got a sour fucking feeling in my gut that something awful is going to happen.”

  “You suck at apologies.” Flynn passed his beer to Jordon, overriding his protests.

  “True. Just drop the shit with Mic. That’s all I’m asking.” Jordon took a drink and handed the beer back. “Oh, and another thing, start drinking your own beer. Quit stealing our shit and get your fucking own.”

  “Copy that,” Flynn said, finishing the beer and throwing the empty bottle into the trash with a clatter.

  “We good?” Jordon looked at Flynn—actually studied him. The dark circles under his eyes were deep, making them look sunken. Along with the healing cut on his eyebrow, Flynn looked like hell.

  “Yeah, brother, we’re good.” He held his fist up for Jordon to bump. Then his standard wicked grin flashed, and his eyes lit up in amusement. “But when you get in Mic’s pants, I want to hear all the yummy details.”

  “Fucking Flynn,” Jordon muttered, punching his teammate in the shoulder before grabbing the remote.

  ****

  Standing in front of the mirror in my bathroom, I stared at my reflection as music filled my cabin. Five Finger Death Punch’s Wrong Side of Heaven suited my mood at the moment.

  The butterflies holding my cheek closed did little to hide the wound itself. If anything, they accentuated it. It was pink and healing well, but I could see the scar it would become. I touched it lightly, tracing the shape and slight curve near my mouth.

  I have plenty of scars, but this is the first one on my face. Rook’s words came back to me—that it didn’t affect my looks, and I should wear it with honor. I was a warrior, and it was a badge of survival. He was right in a way. I had survived Julio and come out the other side, more or less intact.

  I pushed my hair back off my forehead, the curls falling right back down again. I needed to get it cut, but I just couldn’t be bothered right now. A few strands stuck to the bandages on my face, I gently pulled them free, tucking them behind my ear. I found the short piece, right behind my ear from where Julio had cut it.

  I twisted the hair around my fingers, feeling its softness, while attempting to understand my riot of feelings. My thoughts swirled around in a confusing jumble of anxiety and memories. As if I didn’t have enough bad memories from my childhood, now I had this too.

  I shivered with cold just at the thought of the bare steel under my naked back. It didn’t take much to put me back into that room; tied down like an animal, exposed and humiliated for all to see. I rubbed my wrists where the red welts still showed. He’d used metal cable to tie me to that table. I felt the burning stretch of my muscles as my arms were pulled tight over my head. My knees ached with the tactile memory of being splayed open and forced to stay bent.

  Goosebumps marched over my arms and sweat beaded on my forehead. The darkness swallowed me whole as the stench of death and decay invaded my nose. I clenched my hands, trying to stop the tremors of fear. My chest ached with my gasping breaths, the stabbing of my ribs stealing what little air I managed to get. I felt the pressure anew and cracking in my sternum as Julio broke my ribs.

  Stumbling from the bathroom, I paced my cabin as the memories assaulted me. Julio’s laughter and cultured voice whispered in my ears. My body was frozen with cold and terror.

  Mercedes' face hovered in front of me, I saw the life leave her with each pump of her heart. I felt her blood coating my hands, mingling with my own. I’d seen and taken so much blood and death in this life.

  “Bea?” Aunt Beatrice’s voice startled me. I stopped my pacing and stared at her. Her beauty stunning me as it always did. I lunged myself at her, taking us both by surprise.

  “Oh honey, what’s wrong?” She held me close and rubbed my back the same way she always had. “It’s okay; whatever it is, it’s going to be fine.” Her softness surrounded me, replacing the cold steel and stench of that basement.

  “It hurt. It hurt so much.” I whispered into her shoulder. Tears choked me, but I refused to let them fall. I saw the flash of his knife, felt my face split open by his skilled hand. Blood poured down my cheek and filled my mouth.

  I gagged on the taste and ran for the bathroom and dropped to my knees. What little breakfast I had managed to eat, came back up. My body was racked with tremors, sour-smelling sweat coated my skin in a sticky film.

  “Get it out. Just relax, it’s ok.” Aunt Beatrice’s voice soothed me as much as her touch. Cold enveloped my neck, turning my blood to ice. I jerked away, throwing the washcloth on the floor.

  “C-cold, t-too cold,” I stuttered. The minty freshness of mouthwash rid my mouth of the taste of blood and vomit. I swallowed reflexively, trying to stop the spasm in my throat.

  “I’m sorry dear. Come here, come sit down.” Aunt Beatrice didn’t give me much choice, she tugged me along by the hand, pulling me into the living room and down onto the couch beside her.

  “Now, talk to me.” Her face was earnest and demanding.

  “It’s hard.” When I reached for my cheek, she took my hand and held it instead. I stared at my shaking hands, trying to find the words to express what I was feeling.

  “Of course, it is. But you’ve known hard. You’ve known awful, and you’ve survived. You’ll survive this too.”

  I wanted to believe her, I was desperate for hope. I n
eeded the confidence I had lost in that basement.

  “Stop being so hard on yourself. It’s been five days. You’re allowed to feel like this, you’re supposed to feel like this. Bea, you’re so used to being the rescuer that you don’t know how to handle needing to be rescued. Is that it? Are you upset with yourself for needing a rescue?”

  “Maybe that’s part of it. I just… I keep seeing that basement. I keep feeling like I’m still there… still tied to that table. You… you didn’t see how he had me tied.” I stared at my lap, at our clutched hands. I squeezed her hand hard, holding on tight to this reality.

  “Bea, honey… look at me.” I stared into her brown eyes, seeing nothing by kindness and love. “You’re not there. It’s over. Your men saved you. That evil is over.”

  “But it’s not. It’s not over until I stop these men. I have to find these bastards who are selling girls like furniture. Maybe then, I won’t be so cold.”

  “No, you won’t. I agree that these men need to be stopped, but, Bea… that’s not going to make you feel better. You need to face this and feel it, really feel it before you can move on. You’re stronger than anyone I know. You can get past this. It’s just going to take time.”

  “I don’t have time.” I moved to try and stand, but she pulled me back down.

  “You’re not the only one hurting. Jordon…” My heart skipped a beat at his name. Since the day we had spent curled up on the couch I’d had even more trouble ignoring him. He was never too far from my thoughts. I craved his kiss like a drug.

  “What about Jordon?” I snapped. My anger overriding my anxiety.

  “Don’t take that tone with me and you know what— he’s hurting like you are. You need to talk to him. Help each other.”

  “Maybe.” I didn’t want to let the thought take root. Having anything to do with Jordon beyond the most basic of interactions was dangerous. For so many reasons.

  “How are you feeling now?”

  “Better,” I truthfully admitted. Just having Aunt Beatrice here with me was amazing. I nearly felt guilty because I was fortunate enough to have a slice of happiness and family, while the others weren’t so lucky.

  “Just thinking about Jordon helped you level out just now. What does that tell you, young lady?” Aunt Beatrice laughed softly.

  “How’s Jackson?” I snapped back, trying to turn the tables on her.

  “He’s amazing. Such hands…” She trailed off, staring at the wall with a dreamy look on her face.

  “Ew, I don’t need to know that.” This time, when I tried to stand, she let me. Too lost in thoughts about Jackson and his hands apparently.

  “I’m old, not dead, my dear,” she said, patting my hand.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll talk to Jordon. Someday…”

  “Make it soon. He needs you as much as you need him. Even if you don’t want to admit it.” She rose and left me alone, the cabin door shutting softly behind her.

  Chapter 2

  Jackson had been waiting for the phone to ring for over thirty minutes, and his patience was beginning to wear thin. If this wasn’t such an important call, he’d blow it off completely. Answering to his de facto boss was not something he enjoyed, though it was a necessary evil. Tapping a pen against the table, he let his thoughts wander. Beatrice was always on the forefront, but right now he was worried about Mic.

  She’d been kidnapped before—held hostage for days in some cases. This time was different. She didn’t fight her way out or radio in for back-up. Being helpless was hard for anyone, but for Mic, it was a big pill to swallow. She’d given herself up, turned herself over to the evil that was Julio. Knowing full well as she did that she might not make it out alive.

  The ringing of the phone interrupted his thoughts.

  “Jackson,” he barked, letting his impatience be known.

  “I have the information you requested.”

  “And?” Jackson had little respect for the man on the line, and the bastard knew it, not even giving a crap.

  “Check your inbox. I want a full report within twelve hours of completion.”

  “Fine. You’ll have your report.” Jackson gritted his teeth, biting his tongue to keep from spewing obscenities at the man.

  “Tell Beatrice I said hello.”

  A click and a dial tone were Jackson’s only response, taking childish pleasure in hanging up on the bastard. He hadn’t discussed Beatrice with this fucker, and he had no intention of doing so. Ever.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on, as was the norm anytime he had the misfortune of having to deal with his handler. The war room door opened and Beatrice came in, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. Her sixth sense for when someone needed to talk showed itself over and over again.

  “Are you okay, Fisher?” Beatrice’s voice soothed him.

  “I’m fine. Come here.” He pushed his chair back from the table a bit and opened his arms. Her gorgeous smile hit him like a punch to the gut every time. He felt lucky to see it; even better, to be the cause of it.

  “Gladly.” She sat sideways on his lap and wrapped her arms around him. Holding her close, he breathed her in. She smelled as delicious as ever, like apples and her favorite Chanel perfume.

  “What’s troubling you?”

  “It’s not any one thing, honey.” He brushed his fingers through her hair, loving how the strands clung to his palms.

  “Start at the beginning.” She spoke against his neck, pebbling his skin with goosebumps. He shivered and pushed her back slightly. If she kept it up, they wouldn’t get any talking done.

  “It’s my handler; he’s an asshole. There isn’t much else that I can tell you. Not yet, anyway.”

  She sighed heavily and nodded. “Okay then.” Running her hand over his freshly shaven head, she kissed his cheek—unable to help herself. “I’m worried about Mic.”

  “Doc said she was healing nicely.”

  “Physically, maybe.” She chewed her lip, worrying it back and forth. He groaned internally, wanting to do the biting for her.

  “Is there something going on with her mentally that I need to be worried about?” Jackson tried to stand, but Beatrice wasn’t having it.

  “Not yet. I was just with her. She’s… upset. But I think it’s a reasonable level of upset considering what she’s been through. It hasn’t even been a week yet. I think we need to give her space and time, while still keeping an eye on her.”

  “I have faith in her. You two have just gotten back in touch; I’ve seen her through missions and tragedy you can’t imagine.”

  “I told her to talk to Jordon.”

  “That might work, or it might blow up in our faces.” This time, Jackson did stand. Stress was piling upon stress.

  She stood before him, her hands on her hips. “I don’t understand what the problem is. They’re adults; and they both know the risks.”

  “There’s more to it than that. This isn’t about what she can handle. She’s in command. Having feelings or whatever for Jordon will compromise both her authority and her effectiveness in the field. That I cannot allow.”

  “They’re both human beings, Fisher. It’s natural for them to want a partner.”

  “Things are changing for us. It’s not the same Steel anymore. The future might hold hope for them; but for now, they need to keep it in their pants.”

  Beatrice backhanded him on the arm and left the room in a huff. Even mad, she took his breath away. Anger lent an extra sway to her ass as she stomped off.

  ****

  I layered up in warm, but lightweight, cold weather gear and grabbed my Jeep keys. Before heading out, I needed to get some toys from my locker. I hoped the others were gone from the hangar by now; the last thing I wanted to deal with were questions about my red eyes and blotchy skin.

  I cautiously opened the door and peeked around the corner. It was quiet; and I didn’t see anyone near the lockers.

  Stepping softly, though I didn’t know why, I reached my
locker without incident. I was spinning the dial on the combination when a noise behind me stopped my movements.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Mic?” Rook’s voice echoed throughout the silent hangar.

  “Getting a rifle.”

  “Okay, where are we going?” Rook asked as he opened his own locker.

  “You? You’re not going anywhere. I’m going to the range.” I grabbed my M-4 and began checking it over and seeing if I had enough full magazines to suit me.

  “I’m not letting you go shooting alone.” He jerked the slide back on his own M-4 and slipped the strap over his head.

  “This isn’t up to you, Corporal. You’re not fucking invited.” I added three full magazines and a bottle of water to my backpack.

  “Don’t care. I’m coming.” He held the door of the hangar open for me as we exited out into the frigid winter air. The cold wind was of the breath-stealing variety. I shuddered at the sensation and struggled through the snow to my Jeep.

  “I’m not fit for company.” I knew if I didn’t let him come, he’d just follow me anyway. That wasn’t going to stop me from trying to discourage him, though.

  “I’m not joining you for witty repartee,” he said, as he pulled open the passenger door and slid inside. I opened my own door and stared across the vehicle at him. He had been letting a beard grow out, and his hair had gotten even longer since he’d joined us. I couldn’t believe he’d only been here a few weeks. He was still a mystery to us all. Quiet and stoic, this was the most he’d spoken to anyone in a few days. “Shut the door; you’re letting snow in.”

  My eyes seemed to roll of their own volition. “So what? You’re going to take turns babysitting me or something? I’m fine. I just want to be left alone for a bit until we can go to Russia.” I started the Jeep, letting it idle and warm up.

  “Maybe; or maybe, princess, I just want to go shooting, too. Ever consider that? Not everything is about you.” He turned from me and looked out the window, slipping aviator-style sunglasses on against the glare of the snow.

  “Fine.” I pressed the clutch, shifted into first, and got us moving toward the range. I squeezed my gloved hands on the wheel rhythmically, gripping and twisting my fingers. “I’ll just pretend you’re not here.”