Dev and his brother exchanged a look and started laughing. Ian slapped the table several times with his open palm, grinning like a loon. “Now why the fuck didn’t any of us think of that? I fucking love it.”
Extending his hand across the table for Mic to shake, Dev said, “Anytime you want to come work for Trident Security, the job is yours.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.” She stood, gathering her half-empty tray. “I have more debriefing to do. Catch you squids later. Watch your asses out there.” Without another word, she spun on her heel and left the mess hall. Shoulders back and head high, you could almost see the attitude on her like a custom suit. There wasn’t a single person in the camp who didn’t fully respect the corporal at the moment. But at what price had it come?
7
Six months later . . .
Leaving the gates of National Ground Intelligence Center—NGIC—behind, I hit the interstate heading north. Even though the air was cold, I had the top down on my Jeep. I loved the fresh air slapping me in the face. My usually unruly hair was contained under my cover, which, for once, came in handy. My orders were to report to a small town in Pennsylvania, change into civilian clothes, and await contact. My CO either didn’t have more information than that or refused to give it to me. Either way, I’d find out soon enough.
Following the ambush in Iraq, I had been sent stateside and awarded both a Purple Heart and Silver Star for bravery and excellence in combat. The shiny pink scar on my bicep was my only wound. McCoy had ended up losing his leg. I’d given him my medal—since he was really an undercover CIA agent he wouldn’t receive one—and left my Silver Star on Montez’s grave in Arlington National Cemetery. I wanted no part of either one. I had the memories, which were plenty.
Crossing the border into Pennsylvania, I glanced down—my speedometer had me at eighty-five. Shit, the sign I just passed had said fifty-five. I’d no sooner noticed my speed when flashing blue and red lights appeared in my rearview mirror.
“Fuck me. This is not what I need.” I muttered to myself. I slowed and flipped my blinker on, pulling over onto the shoulder. Maybe I’ll get lucky, and he’ll let me off. My BDUs were wrinkled as hell, but at least I was in uniform.
Turning off the engine, I kept my hands at ten and two on the wheel, well within sight, and waited for the state trooper to come up to the door.
“Afternoon, ma’am.” He was huge, his gray uniform emphasizing his six-foot-six frame. He probably topped the scales at 250 or so. With a strong jaw and black hair, he was very intimidating. Well, to most people.
“Sir.” I respectfully nodded.
“Can I see your license and registration, please? And since you’re in uniform, I need your military ID as well.”
“Yes, sir. They’re in my glovebox. And before I reach for them, I just want you to know that I’m carrying a firearm.”
“Where is it, ma’am?” His stance was casual but alert. I knew if I made a wrong move he’d have me out of the car and on the pavement in seconds.
“It’s in the center console. It’s loaded, and I have a permit.”
“Well, in that case, get your papers and step out of the car so I can secure your weapon, please.”
“Yes, sir.” With my left hand remaining on the steering wheel, I slowly and carefully reached into my glove box and found the little plastic thing with my registration and insurance card. I handed it to him. “My IDs are in my wallet, which is in my left cargo pocket.”
“Go ahead and step out and get them.” When he stepped back, I opened the door and climbed out, then moved to the front of my vehicle, away from the busy interstate with cars and tractor trailers whizzing past us. I retrieved my IDs and handed them over, standing near the hood of the Jeep. I kept my hands in sight and remained still. “Do I have your permission to enter your vehicle and retrieve your weapon, since this is just routine?”
I knew how fast this could go from routine to not routine. Without probable cause that I had committed a crime or a warrant, he needed my okay, unless this was an emergency and lives were in danger. I had nothing to hide, so I shrugged. “Go ahead.”
He leaned in through the driver’s door of the Jeep and pulled my M9 from the console. He glared at me with a strange expression on his face. “This is your issued weapon, not a personal piece?”
“Yes, sir, it is.” I took a second and read his name tag, Sgt. Gaines, as he popped the magazine out, made sure the safety was on, and set both the pistol and its magazine on the hood.
“Where were you headed today, ma’am. If you were on leave, you wouldn’t be in uniform.”
“With all due respect, Sergeant, that information is classified.”
“Is that so, Corporal Michaels?” Stressing my rank, he raised an eyebrow at me, probably thinking he was smelling bullshit.
“It is, yes, Sergeant. Go run my ID and plates. You’ll have your answer.” I crossed my arms under my breasts and leaned my ass on the bumper—content to wait. Without another word, he headed back to his cruiser.
Boy, was he in for a surprise. He’d get some sort of error message on his computer, telling him to cease and desist with any further inquiries without military authorization and that my Army service number was classified. There would be no information available to him.
He came back a few minutes later, looking slightly perturbed. I couldn’t help but chuckle.
“I stand corrected, Corporal. Your plate came back as unfounded. And when I called in your civilian license, it came back restricted. I did three tours with the Cavalry in Iraq. I’m not an idiot. You’re military intelligence.”
It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t say anything, just gave him a blank stare.
“I wasn’t going to give you a ticket anyway, unless you were a zoomie, that is. Those fuckers in the Air Force have it too easy.” He handed my documents back and tipped his hat. “Have a good day, Corporal, or whoever you are. Slow the fuck down on my highways, though.”
“Yes, sir. Be safe.” I shook his hand and watched him walk away.
As he drove by me, I reloaded my weapon and stowed it back in the center console. Restricted, huh? That’s a first. My gut was a hard knot. My orders had been mysterious enough, which wasn’t that unusual, but now I was beginning to think there was much more at play here than I knew. Only one way to find out. I had about three more hours of driving before I got to the small town in the middle of bum-fuck Pennsylvania, but with my lead foot, I’d make it in two.
Stomping on the gas, I hit eighty-five easily once more. Fuck, I loved this Jeep. Blasting the radio, “How’s it Gonna Be” by Third Eye Blind filled the Jeep. I tapped my fingers on the gear shift and sang along.
Sergeant Gaines had pulled into one of those emergency vehicle turnaround places in the middle of the highway. I waved and honked the horn as I passed him. I slipped my sunglasses on against the setting sun as it flared red and orange against a darkening sky.
Forty-five more songs on my playlist later I pulled into the parking lot of a small motel—it had maybe six rooms, tops. It was a little run-down, which wasn’t all that surprising considering the town I’d just driven through. I’d seen a post office, church, bar, and not much else.
Shutting off the Jeep, I stepped out into the cool night air. We were nearing the end of spring and soon the nights would be sweltering.
Entering the brightly lit office, I was greeted by a grey-haired old lady, who was about four feet tall, using a twisted wooden cane to walk.
“Evening, dear. What can I help you with?” She looked and sounded like a classic grandma, the kind that baked cookies and knitted you scarves.
“I need a room, ma’am. At least two nights, please.”
“Rooms are sixty a night, ice machine is between rooms four and five, and I don’t allow smoking.” She flipped a book around so I could sign in. I hesitated a moment, unsure if I should use my real name or not. I had several aliases, along with corresponding IDs in my duffel, but I didn’t
think a false name was necessary here. Anyway, I was still in my uniform with Michaels on the right breast and U.S. Army on the left.
I handed her the cash, paying for both nights. She promptly handed me sixty dollars back. “No soldier for my country will pay full price. You get a free night. Thank you for your service, dear.”
“Ma’am, thank you, but that’s really not necessary. I can pay.”
“Nonsense. I won’t hear of it. I lost my boy in the damn jungle of Vietnam, and my father fought the Nazis. I won’t hear another word about it, young lady. My name is Harriet, and if you need anything, you let me know.”
“Of course, ma’am. Thank you.” I took the old key she handed me for room number two. Leaving the well-lit office behind, I headed back out into the darkness.
Opening the door to my room, I was greeted by beige walls and green bedding. It was outdated, but like the rest of the hotel it was clean and smelled fresh. Leaving my duffel on the bed, I stripped and stepped into the small shower stall. The water felt amazing washing off the gritty feel from traveling.
The shiny pink scar on my bicep was a reminder of Iraq. It had been six months, but it felt more like six days. It didn’t take much to send me back to that dirty roadway . . . to see Montez’s body jerking with each bullet that slammed into him.
Shaking the water from my eyes and the memories from my head, I got out and dressed. Jeans and a long-sleeved, black shirt, paired with my boots suited me just fine. I wasn’t exactly going to a five-star joint—it was an Irish pub in the middle of nowhere. Unless I walked in there naked, I don’t think I’d garner much notice.
My orders were to report there by 1900 hours and await contact. It was 1845 now, time to get going and see what the future held. I hoped I was getting a new assignment. I couldn’t stand being on base anymore. Something changed within me after that ambush. Riding a desk was torture for me now. If I couldn’t be in the field, when my tour of duty was up, I was done with the Army.
8
Sipping his beer, Carter’s gaze darted furtively around the large room of Finnegan’s bar. The place was near what would be the new compound for Steel Corps, the elite and secret, military team being formed by the man sitting on his right, who was also keeping an eye on all the patrons. Master Sergeant Fisher Jackson and Carter had met several times in Abu Ghraib. Jackson had been assigned there, and the black ops spy had flown in on occasion whenever an al Qaeda prisoner with information he needed wasn’t too willing to divulge said information. In other words—the prisoner had to be tortured. Carter wasn’t thrilled with some of the things he had to do to gather intel to protect the citizens of the United States, but he was good at it. Damn, fucking good at it.
When he’d heard Jackson was putting together a new covert team, he’d contacted him with one person in mind. The man had been shocked when he’d been handed the file on US Army Corporal Bea “Mic” Michaels, but as he read through the paperwork, he began to see what Carter had—the woman was a natural leader. Despite starting off in intelligence, Michaels had ended up in a combat situation from Hell. Six Humvees and one cargo truck, filled with US military personnel and the huge weapons and intel cache that’d been found in a bunker, had been hightailing it back to base from a small Iraqi village where she’d interrogated an important source. Mic’s Humvee, along with a second one, had been about five or ten minutes behind the others. Hers was the only one with survivors after an ambush. And it was because of her they had survived after the initial assault had killed several troops, leaving her as the ranking NCO on scene. She’d led her ragtag and injured group to safety and received several commendations as a result.
The only thing Carter found in her file that might be a problem was her aunt, Beatrice Grant. Jackson’s group would have to be off grid, meaning their lives as they knew them would be over. What little family they had, if any, would be told they’d died in combat. They would be wiped off the face of the earth. Carter was all too familiar with how that was done.
The front door to the establishment opened, and the woman in question strode in. Carter gave a subtle nod to the redneck he’d spoken to earlier. For $300 cash, the man had agreed to make a strong pass at her, sight unseen. Carter wanted to see how she would handle herself. He knew she would need a lot of training to get to where Jackson needed her to be. But she was intelligent and had responded favorably in a situation where many soldiers in the same position would have frozen and peed their pants.
He and Jackson watched as she scanned the room, looking for someone who fit the military image she had in her head. All she knew was to come here and wait to be contacted by a superior for a potential new assignment. They had been told she’d been curious about the secrecy, but had followed the orders and traveled the four hours from where she was currently based. She eyed them both before moving on to another group of men. Carter and Jackson appeared as scruffy as all the rednecks in the place, with three-day-old beards, and the former’s hair long enough for a ponytail. He would have been surprised if she’d picked either of them out as her contact. While she knew Carter by his code number from when he’d called her office for intelligence occasionally, they’d never met in person.
As she took a seat at the bar and ordered a drink, he studied her. She was five foot four, about one hundred twenty pounds with short, curly, blonde hair, and hazel eyes—a far cry from the black ops soldier they wanted to turn her into. And that was part of the reason he’d recommended her to Jackson, especially after talking to Ian about the interrogation she’d done, followed by the convoy ambush. Looks could be deceiving. Carter knew under her long-sleeve, black T-shirt there were several tattoos and toned muscles, which gave away her training—at least to an experienced eye, which the redneck approaching her did not have.
Carter took another sip of his beer. Neither he nor Jackson had said a word since Michaels had walked in. There were about two dozen other patrons in the dimly lit bar, but no one else would be a problem they couldn’t handle if things got out of hand within the next few minutes. He couldn’t hear what the redneck was saying as he invaded Michaels’s personal space, but her body language was clear—back off, asshole. Even the bartender was giving the guy a warning glower which was ignored. He saw Michaels’s shoulders tense then loosen—oh yeah, this was going to be fucking good.
I sat on the hard stool and ordered a Guinness—hard to find a bar that has it on tap anywhere, especially down by me. The cold, smooth creaminess slid down my throat. I scanned the bar again, not seeing anyone who fit the bill for my contact. I’d wait. If he was here, he’d come to me.
Propping my elbows next to my glass, I settled in. I felt more than heard someone walk up behind me. Glancing to the left, my muscles tensed. Some local asswipe was gonna have a go at me. Canting to the side, I tried to tell him with my body alone to fuck off. The idiot didn’t get the message.
“Hey, darlin’, can I buy you a drink?” He switched his wad of chew from one cheek to the other, spitting into a cup clutched in his hand. Yum . . . so attractive.
“No. Got one already.” I waved my nearly full pint at him.
“You’re not from around here, are ya?” The bold redneck sat on the stool beside me. Glancing down the length of the maple bar. I saw a few people watching our exchange. The bartender walked toward us, thinking he was going to come to my rescue, no doubt. I was no damsel, and the horribly scarred bartender was no knight.
“Listen, pal, I’m here waiting for someone. Go away before I make you.” I pushed my beer further back on the bar, well out of reach.
“I’m better than any man you’re going to meet here, baby.” He put his hand on my waist, trying to pull me in against his body. I gritted my teeth and took a breath, relaxing my shoulders.
Reaching around, I grabbed his hand, twisting it backward and to the side. His yelps of pain only pushed me on. Turning my body around, I pulled up on his hand and arm, bending him forward at the waist. He was stomping his feet and making a pitiful, whiny
noise. Too fucking bad.
I gripped his greasy hair with my other hand and smacked his forehead off the bar. Catching movement on my left, I saw the bartender rounding the end of the maple bar. Anticipating trouble, I tapped the redneck’s head on the wood again, hoping I’d knock some sense into him.
“Listen here, fuck face,” I hissed in his ear, “I was ready to be polite, then you put your fucking paw on me. Keep your slimy hands to yourself, got it?”
Sweat covered his reddened face, highlighting the giant lump forming on his forehead. “Ye . . . yes, ma’am. I’m s-so sorry.” He stuttered and quaked in a combination of pain and fear. I let go of his arm and used his hair as a handle to throw him backward onto the floor. He scrambled away like a crab as fast as his boots could move. I wiped the hand that had been in his hair on my pants in disgust.
“Well, luv, I see ya got this under control just fine.” The bartender’s thick Irish accent threw me for a moment as he went back behind the bar.
“Apparently so.” I sat down again and took a long drink of my beer. Smacking my lips, I eyed the bartender. Studying him closely now, I noticed that scars covered one side of his face and neck, down under his shirt and over his arm. They highlighted his looks, instead of ruining them. Slick and pebbled at the same time the white scars rippled, showing clearly the path the fire took when he received them. I didn’t try to hide the fact I was staring—he knew they were there, and the scars were worth a glance.
“If you’d like a private showing, I can arrange that, luv.” He smirked and walked away, a swagger in his step. His jeans sure did fit nice . . .
My line of thought was broken by the approach of a very scruffy looking guy. Tall as fuck—my guess was about six foot four and two hundred pounds easily. With long, blond hair pulled back into a small ponytail at the nape of his neck and classic good looks, I’m sure he had women everywhere throwing their panties at him. It takes more than a pretty face to get me, though, and he was wasting his time.
No Way In Hell: A Steel Corps/Trident Security Crossover Novel Page 6
