No Way In Hell: A Steel Corps/Trident Security Crossover Novel

by Samantha A. Cole

  “Understood.” I was rigid, at loose ends, and unsure of what happens next. “When does training start?”

  “0600. You get the cabin that’s farthest away.” He pointed to his left even though we couldn’t see the other buildings from here. “The other is mine. Stow your gear, sleep if you need to—do whatever. But in the morning you report here, ready for a ruck. You’ll find standard gear in your cabin. After training tomorrow, we’ll go shopping for weapons. Dismissed.” I was not looking forward to a hike with full gear, but it was the name of the game when training.

  Slopping back through the mud, I opened the door to what was going to be my home. The inside was finished and, surprisingly, painted a soft blue. There was a couch and coffee table in the living room, but nothing else. Toeing off my muddy boots at the front door, I then followed the open floor plan—shiny new appliances greeted me in the kitchen. An apartment-sized fridge still with the stickers on, a narrow, two-burner stove, and a coffee pot still in the box were the only amenities.

  A standard bathroom, stocked with towels and everything else I’d need was next. At last, a bedroom was at the end of the short hallway. It had a plastic wrapped mattress and a queen-sized bed set still in its package. I had expected a cot or bunk; this was much nicer.

  Dumping my bag on the floor, I ripped the plastic away and set myself to moving in. I’d need to do some shopping, but that could come later. Whatever training Jackson had in mind was sure to be more intense than anything I’d experienced before. I pulled out some running clothes, deciding to get a quick run in before it got too hot out. No time like the present, huh?

  Taking the secure elevator from under the White House up to the back entrance of the Oval Office, Carter ran a hand through his hair—nonexistent as it almost was now. He’d gotten a buzz cut this morning, as instructed by Larry Keon, the Deputy Director of the FBI. While Keon wasn’t exactly his supervisor, Carter was on loan from his own covert unit, Deimos, for the next few months. Deimos was the Greek god of terror, which fit perfectly for the black ops group whose war against terrorists of all kinds included torture and assassinations, if necessary. When the unit was being formed, though, one of the other operatives had jokingly suggested calling it SRU—Spies R Us. While that hadn’t gone over well, as expected, the name had stuck among the agents. That was why the SRU letters were tacked onto their code numbers.

  The elevator doors opened to reveal the two Marines he’d known would be there. They’d been expecting him as he wouldn’t have been able to access the underground tunnels from off-site and then the elevator without jumping through a few hoops first. After his retina and palm had been scanned, he’d then had to recite the first line of Abraham Lincoln’s famous speech into a voice recognition box. Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. The current president, Nathaniel Garrett, was a big fan of his long-deceased predecessor.

  With barely a nod at the two, stoic men, Carter made a right into the short hallway and knocked on the door at the far end. When a strong, baritone voice answered, “Enter,” he opened the door and stepped into the president’s lair. Garrett, Keon, FBI Director Bill Moran, and Alan Frankfort, the Secretary of Homeland Security, were gathered in the sitting area by the unlit fireplace along with another man he had not expected to see. Liam Cooper was an agent from Britain’s MI6, the equivalent of the CIA, and was as embedded in the world of black ops as his American counterpart. Carter stepped over and shook everyone’s hands, starting with the salt-and-pepper-haired Garrett. “Hello, Mr. President.”

  “I almost didn’t recognize you, Carter. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you clean cut before.”

  He chuckled and took a seat on the couch next to Keon. “It’s definitely been a while, sir. I take it there’s a reason for it, and it’s not just because you got tired of my scruff.”

  Getting right to the point, Frankfort leaned over and handed him an orange folder, which was the designated color for classified information. “Meet Hans Wexler.”

  Carter opened the thick file, and on the first page was a picture of a man in his forties, with a blond crewcut, cruel blue eyes, and a faint, one-inch scar on his left cheek. But what stood out the most was the uniform the man was wearing. It was the exact replica of ones worn by Hitler’s SS organization. Fuck.

  Tilting his head toward the man on his left, Frankfort continued. “Cooper has supplied us with some of the information in that file, which is why he’s here. Since Wexler is on US soil and Cooper wouldn’t be considered a poster boy for a neo-Nazi organization, we’re sending you in.”

  Grinning at the MI6 operative, Carter nodded. The black man would stick out like a sore thumb among what Hitler had described as the perfect race—blond-haired, blue-eyed men and women. “I can understand that. Your British twang and tea fetish would give it away in a heartbeat.”

  "Go swivel, ya bastard." The Brit flashed him the finger.

  Garrett and Carter both barked out a laugh as the latter pointed at Cooper. “It’s been way too long, my friend.”

  “So it has.”

  Settling back on the couch, Secretary Frankfort took over the conversation again. “Wexler has been slowly gathering weapons, cash, and personnel under the radar for the past few years. While he hasn’t left the US, that we know of, he has associate cells in the UK, France, and, of course, Germany. MI6 came across some intel that leads them and us to believe major domestic terrorist attacks are being planned for the four countries. The problem is we haven’t been able to get any info on how organized they are and how widespread the attacks are supposed to be. That’s where you come in. Wexler’s compound is located in South Dakota, but you’ll have to work your way through the organization to get invited there.” He handed Carter another folder—this one was blue, and he could take it with him. In it would be the information he needed to start worming his way into the organization. “We expect it will take you at least six months to do that. You’ll be starting in the Colorado cell. Cooper will be an outside contact for you for any info his man trying to get in the UK cell can deliver. France and Germany are also trying to infiltrate their own cells. We’ll provide you with any other support personnel you need. If you don’t have any objections or concerns, the mission is yours.”

  Closing the orange file, Carter added the blue one to it and nodded his agreement—not that any of them had expected otherwise. Unlike the other covert agencies, he had his choice of assignments. This was what he excelled at, though, and if it saved one American life, then to him, it was worth giving it his all. “Mr. President, do you mind if Liam and I have lunch somewhere in your house, privately? We have a mission to discuss and a psychotic bastard to take down.”

  10

  I popped three Motrin and tried to stretch out my muscles after I was woken up from the pain and stiffness. Jackson was putting me through the ringer. He was nearly impossible to keep up with. Never mind that he had a significant more amount of training than I did, his stride was as long as my whole body. I had to run faster just to stay even with his jog.

  Today, we’d gone weapon shopping after a rigorous hand-to-hand combat session. There was a guy in town, he’d given me the obviously fake name of John Friggin’ Smith, who could order us whatever we wanted. I had been allowed to choose two rifles to start with and had selected a Colt M4 and a Heckler & Koch MP5. There were some new goodies coming out from both companies that I also ordered. I loved the idea that I could customize my weapons to suit me. Jackson had tried to get me to give up my M9 sidearm, but I couldn’t. That weapon had saved my life in Iraq, and there was no way in hell I would part with it.

  I needed some air and a change of scenery. Hopping in my Jeep, I drove off the compound and toward town. My mind flashed back to the bartender at Finnegan’s. Although I had figured out he was also the owner, I didn’t know what his name was. That was something I wanted to remedy. He
might be just the thing I needed to relax after the day I’d had. Other than weapons shopping, it had been running, fighting, and crawling through the mud from dawn until well after sunset. The nap had refreshed me, and now I was wired. Jackson said we were working on something different tomorrow, so the day wasn’t starting quite as early.

  Parking the Jeep in the nearly empty lot, I climbed out and headed for the entrance. I pushed the heavy wooden door open. It was nearly two a.m., and the scarred bartender was yelling out “last call” as I quietly stepped inside. There were three people at the bar and a couple playing pool. The woman was using her pool cue to keep herself upright, and her boyfriend was stumbling and tripping over his feet.

  The bartender lifted the little built-in shelf on the bar, walking around to the pool table. He spoke softly to them, slinging his arm around their shoulders, and smoothly collected their keys. He deposited them on stools and picked up the phone near the register. I stayed back in the shadows near the door, letting their deep safety keep me hidden until I was ready to be seen.

  I took a moment to really look around, which I hadn’t done when I was here a few days ago. So much had changed since then. My whole life was resetting like a clock after a power surge—blinking the time over and over, just waiting for instructions.

  There was a large fireplace on the far wall, its mantle full of framed photos of Ireland and various people here in the bar. It was a nice touch and made you think he really cared about his patrons.

  Warm, dark colored wood and low lighting made the whole room feel inviting and relaxing. There weren’t TVs in every corner or flashing beer signs. This was a pub, a home away from home for many.

  I slid further along the wall, away from the door, but careful to stay in the deep shadows. I waited there as the few remaining people trickled out in ones or twos. The two drunks stumbled into a taxi that had pulled up to the door.

  The bartender came out and began wiping down the tables and stacking the chairs on top. He was wearing a simple, white, cotton shirt and nice, broken-in blue jeans—the kind that have a few holes and fit just right. And fuck me, did they fit him nicely. The denim cupped his ass perfectly, hugging his strong legs and lean hips.

  “Are ye going to stand there all night, or can I get ya something, luv?” His whiskey-amber eyes pierced the blanket of shadows I was hiding within. He must have been in the states just long enough for his accent to come and go. I wonder if strong emotions made it thicker? I looked forward to testing my theory.

  Giving up my ruse, I stepped forward into the light. My own black cargo pants and fitted green shirt felt comfortable and good. For now.

  “I don’t know. Do you have what I came here for?” One careful step at a time, I advanced on him. He was loosely holding the cleaning rag in his hand, twisting the end back and forth around his scarred fingers.

  Was he nervous?

  “What do ye have in mind?” His voice was low and husky, sending shivers down my spine.

  “You. I came for you.” I didn’t have the time or inclination to play games. I’d come here for one reason, I wanted this Irishman in my bed, or his bed, or on the fucking floor. I didn’t much care, as long as I had him. I needed to blow off some steam and couldn’t think of a better way.

  “Aye.” He dropped the rag on a table and glided the last few feet to me, stopping close, almost, but not quite, touching me. “I think I might have a spot of what you’re lookin’ for.” With just his knuckles, he traced his hand down my cheek, chin, and along my neck. Goosebumps raced along my skin in a tingling rush.

  Surprising me, he grabbed my waist harshly with both hands, jerking me flush against him. His hardness pressed against me, spilling a groan from my lips.

  “Name’s Willie and I’m happy to be of service to one such as you.” His lips descended to mine, and my thoughts and reasons why this might not be a good idea fled. Our clothes fell away, landing in little piles on the barroom floor as he backed me up to the pool table.

  Coming up for air, I managed to gasp out a few words. “I’m Mic. And this is just for fun.”

  “Oh, aye, fun indeed. That’s just the start of it.” He lifted me up and onto the felt covered top of the table, pushing me back until I was in the center. After climbing up after me, he propped himself up on his hands and looked down my body. His eyes tracing the tattoos over my shoulders and chest, down to the center of my torso. “You can come here anytime you’d like.”

  His hands and mouth grasped and pulled, licked and sucked every inch of my sensitive skin. I knew torture, and this was it. He drew it out, content to taste and grasp every inch of me. My legs shook, and our bodies grew sticky with sweat.

  I returned the favor. His scars were slick and just a little bumpy under my tongue. The salty sweetness of sweat and an earthy taste I couldn’t explain exploded in my mouth. I sipped from Willie as if he were a delicate wine. He was sweet and spicy all at once as I explored every inch of him. The backs of his knees were very sensitive, and my kisses made him twist and groan. His hipbones were firm under my teeth.

  When he flipped me over onto my stomach, jerking me up on my knees, and surging into me, I saw stars. My muscles screaming and burning with the delicious torment he inflicted. He rasped sweet words into my ear, sucking on my neck as he took me . . . no, took us higher.

  “Fffffuck . . .” I screamed, thrashing against him as an intense orgasm crashed over me. His hand was buried in my hair, holding my head up and back as I shattered around him.

  “Oh, aye.” He groaned, his body jerking against me, finding his own release.

  We filled the bar with our panting breaths and gasps. My heart was pounding in my chest, and sweat coated my body in a shiny film.

  “Mic . . . have a drink . . . upstairs,” Willie gasped between breaths. “I’m not . . . through with you, woman.”

  “Sure.” I panted, laying my head down on the table. My knees ached from the slate, and my arms were shaking. “Water first. Then round two, yeah?”

  “Aye . . . oh, sweet Mother Mary, aye.” He kissed the side of my neck before sliding off the table and offering me his hand.

  His palm was filled with a star-shaped burn. Just like an old-fashioned doorknob. I jerked my eyes back to his, their amber depths welcoming. I laid my hand in his and jumped down, following him, gathering our clothes as we passed them.

  I was going to like it here.

  After tying the lace-up crotch of his black leathers, Carter shut the door of the permanent locker he had in the private, elite, BDSM club in the heart of Washington D.C., then pulled on his open, leather vest. The security at Club X was top-notch since it catered to a number of powerful people who enjoyed a little kink in their lives away from the prying eyes of the public.

  He’d never known what the world of BDSM held in store before he’d gone undercover in a club in Russia, years ago. Not only had he gotten the information he’d needed from his target, but he’d found the lifestyle that suited him perfectly. In between, and sometimes during missions, he had found time to learn and explore the Dominant/submissive lifestyle, training under some of the best Doms and Dommes in the United States and Europe. None of them had known exactly who he was and what he did for a living—they’d all bought his carefully cultivated cover as a playboy businessman in the import/export world.

  It had taken him years to establish the alias of Carter Burke. To make sure he would answer when called by either name, he used his real last name as his first. Then he’d taken the name of a high school history teacher whose positive influence had set him on the path that had led him to where he was now. If it wasn’t for Ashford Burke, Carter would have been either in jail or dead a very long time ago. As it was, he hadn’t gone by his real first name since transferring to the third junior high school he’d attended, instead, going by T. Carter. When he’d been drafted for Deimos, his despised given name, which had caused him quite a bit of misery and bullying in his young childhood, had been eradicated from every pos
sible record. In fact, T. Carter did not exist in any computer database or document in the world now, except maybe in speculation of who he really was.

  Striding out to the main dungeon of the establishment, he let the sights and sounds soothe him. Music pulsated through the air, mixing with cries of pain, ecstasy, pleading, and sexual release. The pain was never induced without the submissive’s consent—they had full control over the scene with a Dom, weird as it may sound. Some people were just wired that way—they got off on the pain.

  He had memberships in some of the most private and elite BDSM clubs in the world, and each one had its own personality. This one in D.C., however, was always entertaining. The citizens of the United States would be shocked if they knew how many movers and shakers in the federal government and business world, enjoyed various kinks which were outside the norms of society. But who set those norms? Usually, closed-minded people. Here, there were no closed minds, just open acceptance.

  Stepping over to the crowded bar, he ordered a bottle of water. He wouldn’t have any alcohol until he was done playing for the night. Dulling your senses before a scene could result in the submissive being hurt. He’d be heading out to Colorado in the morning, so tonight he was going to enjoy himself, in more ways than one.

  “Carter, my love, it’s wonderful to see you again. Although it’s a pity you cut those long, luscious locks of yours. You really must stop in more often to let me admire what you won’t let me have.”

  Turning his head, he smiled at the tall transvestite who could pass for a supermodel if it weren’t for the cock and balls under her sparkling, red sheath. “Only in your dreams, Mistress Trixie.”

  The shemale fluttered her false eyelashes. Her throaty voice was whiskey-laced as she stroked the head of her nearly-naked, male submissive kneeling silently at her feet. “Oh, and what dreams they are, Master Studly. You’ve starred in many of my wet fantasies over the years. One of these days I’m going to convince you to take a walk on the wild side.”