“It had to be done.” Reid stepped closer, holding out his jacket for me, his knuckles split open and seeping blood.
“So does this.” Summoning the little strength I had remaining, I punched him in the jaw with every ounce of rage and disgust I felt. He cursed and fell to one knee. The impact spun me around, onto my ass on the cold, wet ground. My hands slipped in the slick mud, and my head hit the earth.
This time, when my eyes closed, I didn’t fight it. I welcomed the darkness and slipped gratefully away.
12
The warmth surrounding my body woke me first. I was no longer freezing and half-naked. Softness cradled my back and head, heavy comfort, which was distinctive to a well-made quilt, covered me. I blinked, bracing for harsh light, but a soft glow from the bedside lamp was easy on my eyes and aching head.
“It’s okay, you’re safe.”
Jackson’s gentle, deep voice spoke softly next to me. I cautiously turned toward the sound. My head swam as dizziness assaulted me. It was like being on the worst bender of your life, then getting on a roller coaster.
“Am I?” My voice was hoarse, my throat sore and dry.
“Yes.”
“Water?” I waved my hand at my mouth, licking my lips and wincing when I found all the cuts.
“Sure, just a second.” I could see him clearly enough to tell he was sitting in a chair next to my bed. He reached for a pitcher of water and a glass with a straw in it on the bedside table.
Accepting the glass with a shaking hand, I carefully closed my split lips on the straw, and painfully took a drink. I noticed the bandage circling my wrist and looked down to see my other wrist was also wrapped. “How long have I been out? Where am I?” I needed to get the facts first, then proceed from there. One step at a time, Michaels.
“Just over a day. You must not remember, but I’ve been waking you every hour or so, keeping an eye on your concussion.” He crossed his arms over his chest, looking very unsure and defensive for the first time since I’d met him. “You’re in a secure room of the local hospital. The doc here is an old friend, he’s been taking care of you.”
“I thought I was dead.” Setting aside the glass, I struggled to sit up further. Jackson reached forward, propping the pillows up behind me. Hissing from the pain in my ribs, I settled back as slowly as possible. I gently explored my face, feeling each bump, bruise, and cut. My nose was packed with gauze and taped securely. The break felt properly set, very sore but not the sharp needlelike pain of a break. “How many ribs were broken?”
“Five. Plus two with minor fractures.” His voice was gruff, filled with unspoken words.
“Why?” I didn’t elaborate because I didn’t need to.
“It was the only way. You’re vetted now. I know that no matter what happens, you won’t speak of Steel Corps, me, or your team. When we get the rest of the team, that is.
I was pissed the fuck off. Anger was a living, breathing—thriving—thing settling deep within me. “Provided I don’t tell you to go fuck yourself and leave.”
“True. You have that option, but I think we both know you’re not going to do that.” Retrieving something from the table, he handed me two folders—one orange, one a regular manila. I set the orange one aside, I knew top secret when I saw it. I’d save it for last. Instead, I opened the plain folder and began to read.
This was obviously the first candidate for my team. His name was Sergeant Gary Phillips. According to this file, he had advanced medical training and was a SEAL, ready to leave his team. His parents had been killed shortly before he graduated high school and he has no living relatives. His career has been a good one. He was well-trained and capable of leading the team in my stead if necessary. The perfect candidate in every way. Dark and tall, with a serious face and five o’clock shadow, he was intimidating, which I would have to handle. I was already thinking ahead to when I would meet him and how I would have to deal with him.
I didn’t notice Jackson leave the room until the door softly clicked shut. My mind was reeling. The possibilities were nearly endless. We could do so much good in this world. A team. Steel Corps. A band of men with a specialized skill set—ready to go anywhere in the world and do what needed to be done. No matter the cost. Led by me.
Jackson was right, I couldn’t say no. Decision made, I opened the orange folder and began to read. The contents and details of the upcoming mission erasing any remaining doubts I held. This was not something I could walk away from, not and live with myself after.
Mitch Sawyer pulled into the large compound on the outskirts of Tampa that his cousins, Ian and Devon, had just purchased at a federal auction. They were getting ready to open their new business, Trident Security, when their retirements came through in two and three months, respectively. Their teammates, Brody Evans, Jake Donovan, and Marco DeAngelis, would all be opting out of the Navy around the same time and joining the brothers in their new venture. Mitch hoped he could talk them into an additional one. He eyed the stack of papers he’d brought with him. With his MBA, he’d been able to put together an impressive business proposal for a private BDSM club he’d dubbed, The Covenant, and he hoped his dominant cousins agreed.
Many years ago, it was Ian who had introduced Dev and Mitch to the lifestyle they’d both embraced with open arms. While Dev found the answers he’d needed to deal with the unwarranted guilt over his younger brother’s death, Mitch discovered a community that suited his personality and where he felt he belonged. All three men had Alpha tendencies which had drawn them into the lifestyle like moths to a flame.
After parking his SUV, he grabbed the business proposal, then climbed out and glanced around. The property looked like an industrial park, which had been the former owner’s intent. However, the import/export business had been a front for an illegal operation which had been funneling cash and drugs to and from Asia. The DEA had auctioned off the place after the billion-dollar operation had been shut down and the men who’d run it were either dead or in jail. When Ian and Dev’s father, real estate mogul Charles Sawyer, had heard about it, he’d sent his boys down to check it out for their business.
The compound was already surrounded by a security fence and beyond that there were plenty of trees for privacy. The surrounding acres were all undeveloped land, and there was only one road in and out to the highway, which was about a half mile away from the front gate. Four warehouses sat in the middle of the property, and three of those would house the Trident offices, a gym, indoor shooting range, training area, and apartments, so the brothers could live on-site. They still hadn’t decided what to do with the fourth building, and Mitch hoped he had the answer in his hand.
The door to the second warehouse was propped open so he figured his cousins were in there. In addition to a rental vehicle, there was a large Ford pickup truck with “New Horizons Construction” decals on the rear and side panels. He knew they were meeting with the owner of the company, Parker Christiansen, to go over the renovation plans. It would be a huge undertaking, but Christiansen had come highly recommended. Since Mitch had lived in Tampa all his life, Ian had asked him to monitor the construction while he and Dev headed back to the base in Little Creek, Virginia to finish out their time.
He was glad they were getting out of the Navy—they’d done their time and Ian had almost bought it two years ago over in that hellhole. An Iraqi police officer who had been invited to train at the base had actually been an al Qaeda plant. His plan had been to shoot as many members of the US military as he could. Ian, another SEAL, and two Marines had been hit before the tango was taken down by Marco. The two Marines had died, and the other SEAL had survived with a bullet wound to his upper arm, but Ian had been hit in the chest. He hadn’t been wearing his body armor, or flack vest as they called it, coming out of the mess hall. It had been touch and go for a bit, with the round passing through his body a centimeter or two above his heart.
Mitch’s Uncle Chuck and Aunt Marie were just as happy their boys were getting out. Howe
ver, their youngest son, Nick, had just been selected to go through the same SEAL training his brothers had. They would be supportive, while worrying about his safety for more years to come.
Stepping through the open door, he let his eyes adjust to the dim interior light. The three men looked up from the building plans they were going over at an abandoned work table. There was debris all over the place—it would take many dumpster loads to get rid of it all, and that was just in this one building. He was sure the others were just as bad.
“Hey, Mitch,” Ian called out. “What’s up?”
He strode over to them. “Thought I’d stop by with another business proposition for you, in addition to Trident.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
Dropping the research he’d done on top the floor plans, he replied, “Take a look.” He then held his breath as his cousins poured over his proposal.
Carter sat at the bar of Good Time Charlie’s, a hole-in-the-wall in the tiny town of Westcliffe, Colorado, population under six hundred. Country music blared from the jukebox and cigarette smoke filled the room—apparently, the Colorado Clean Air Act wasn’t enforced in Westcliffe.
He’d spent the past few weeks gathering intel to plan for his entry into the neo-Nazi compound about twenty minutes from town, in an unincorporated section of land. After going over things with Liam, Carter had done his own surveillance on the compound until he’d learned everything he could about the place, the people, and the timetables they kept. Now, his cover was that he was a transient just passing through, and with Liam’s help, he was hoping to be invited into the fold of the organization they wanted to take down.
There was only a handful of Nazi sympathizers from the compound in the bar and even fewer local residents. This was probably as hopping as it got on a Friday night in this town. Party-city it was not. The only woman currently in the place was the bleached blonde owner/bartender, who was in her early fifties. It was evident from her rough skin and expression that time, cigarettes, and alcohol hadn’t been kind to her. Her raspy voice had him thinking she’d be hacking up a lung someday soon.
Glancing at the Coors Light clock above the bar, he noted he had about another fifteen minutes before the black “weary traveler in need of a stiff drink” would be walking in, prepared to get his ass kicked. The trick was Carter needed to ensure he was the only one pounding on Liam so the Brit wasn’t hurt more than necessary. There was a fine line between pulling your punches and making sure there was enough blood and bruising to make it realistic. Liam had planned to put a small capsule of fake, but realistic, blood in his nostril, so Carter would only need to punch him hard enough to break the capsule and not the poor guy’s nose.
Ordering a second bottle of beer that he would nurse until Liam got there, he stood and took it with him to where the neo-Nazi bunch was playing pool on a table which desperately needed a new felt lining. Taking two quarters out of his pocket, he placed them on the scarred and cigarette burnt edge of the table above the coin slots, indicating he wanted to play the winner. One member of the group eyed him while waiting for his opponent to miss a shot. Carter ignored him, pretending to be interested in only the game.
The guy was in his late twenties and had a shaved head, but the blond hair was just starting to sprout up from his scalp once more. The other men’s hairstyles ranged from just as short to a basic crewcut. A dark T-shirt, tan, black, or camo cargo pants, and military-styled boots, seemed to be the uniform of the organization because all five of the group were dressed similarly. A variety of tattoos were either visible or partially hidden by the clothing. The ones in full view were innocuous, but he could make out the edges of swastikas and Nazi eagles peeking out from the necks and sleeves of their shirts.
There was no way Carter was putting a real tattoo anywhere on his body—they were too easy for people to remember, and in his business, it was wise not to stand out. So his other option had been to have a semipermanent one applied by a CIA disguise artist. The great minds at MIT had discovered an ink which could be tattooed on in the traditional sense, yet only require one simple laser treatment to remove without leaving any scars or trace ink. The process was new and not available to the public yet. The only colors available so far were black and dark brown, and it would last for as long as needed or desired.
Carter had met the CIA tech in Denver when he’d first arrived, and after warning the guy his life was over if there were any permanent marks, he’d sat for his very first tattoo—temporary though it was. Instead of the swastika, he’d opted for the Black Sun, also known as Sonnenrad, which was German for “Sun Wheel.” It was a recognized, but not as common symbol of the Nazi’s under Hitler. Carter’s stomach churned in disgust, knowing it was on his upper left arm for any length of time. Right now, it wasn’t visible with his long-sleeved shirt on, but when he wore a T-shirt, half of it would be exposed, enough to be noticed and accepted for what it was—a symbol of hate.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” the guy eyeing him asked while stating the obvious. Carter already knew his name was Brett Harmon, born and raised in Denver before being recruited by the New Order two years ago.
The urge to roll his eyes was strong, but he needed to befriend these assholes. Harmon wasn’t the alpha of the group. That was the thirty-year-old man sitting at a pub table to Carter’s left and the one he needed to impress—Michael Strauss. Bowing to this idiot staring at him would fail to do that. He looked the skinhead wannabe in the eyes. “Considering this Podunk town isn’t big enough for a traffic light, I figure the locals know everyone here. So you’re correct. I’m just passing through.”
Harmon nodded as if that made all the sense in the world and Carter turned his attention back to the table, where another striped ball was sunk in the side pocket, while waiting for the next question. The guy didn’t disappoint. “Got a name?”
“Yup.”
There was a long pause as the idiot waited for more, but Carter needed to make these guys come to him, and not appear interested in anything other than a beer and a game of pool. “Well, what the fuck is it?”
“Carter.”
With a huff, Harmon rolled his hand in the air. “That’s it—you only got one fucking name?”
“Yup.”
The guy shooting pool—Daniel Robisch—missed a shot. “Shut the fuck up, Brett, and play the damn game.”
“Fuck you.”
Robisch glared at Harmon as he lined up his shot and missed it. Two more balls were sunk, and Robisch won when the eight ball disappeared into the corner pocket. Without saying a word, the winner nodded for Carter to rack up a new game. Dropping the quarters into their slots, he pushed them in, and the balls fell loudly into the end receptacle. The wooden, triangle shaped rack, held together by Duct tape, was hanging from a peg on the wall next to the selection of pool cues. He grabbed it, then selected the least warped cue stick he could find, which was a feat in itself. After he had racked the balls, he stepped back and watched Robisch send the solid white ball flying into the set of fifteen with a resounding smack. One solid and one striped fell into pockets—the man made a few quick calculations and chose solids. He sank three more balls before missing one. Carter circled the table and lined up his shots, sinking four balls before purposely missing the fifth.
“Where you from, Carter?”
The question had come from Robisch as he sank the seven ball. Carter noticed Strauss was paying attention to the answer. “Was born in bumfuck Nebraska. Left that shithole as soon as I was old enough to make it on my own. Since then, I’ve been bouncing all over the place. Just call me a rolling stone.”
Robisch missed, and as Carter was planning his next shot, the front door to the bar opened and in strolled Liam Cooper, wearing dress pants, a polo shirt, and a nice pair of shoes—looking very preppy and out of place in the hick bar. Perfect timing. Carter stared at the man and snarled, “What the fuck? Can’t even enjoy a beer without some fucking spook ruining it.”
H
e’d spoken loud enough for everyone to have heard him, and they all froze. If it wasn’t for Blake Shelton’s voice blaring from the jukebox, you could have heard a pin drop in the place. He saw Liam’s shoulders tense, but then the Brit pretended to ignore the derogatory slur. Taking a seat at the bar, he ordered a beer and a menu. Carter was surprised when the bleached blonde shook her head. “We don’t serve your kind here.”
Jesus, talk about falling down the fucking rabbit hole and coming out five or six decades in the past.
“‘My kind’?” Liam asked in the smooth East Coast accent he’d adopted for this charade. “What exactly do you mean, ‘my kind’?”
Carter tossed his cue on the table and ambled closer to the bar. In his head, he was counting down. An undercover FBI agent, in a state trooper uniform and vehicle, was just outside of town and would be driving down Main Street in a few minutes. Carter needed to time it right so he was throwing Liam’s ass out of the bar just as the “trooper” was driving by. They couldn’t trust the local sheriff, so that meant they had to improvise. Otherwise, Liam might end up seriously hurt or worse. “She means, go back to fucking Africa, boy.”
Standing, Liam squared his shoulders and glared at Carter as everyone else gathered around. “First off, I’m not a fucking boy. And second, I’ve never been to Africa, so I can’t exactly go back there. Now fuck off.”
He turned his back to the group, and that was the moment Carter had been waiting for. Before anyone else could act, he stepped forward, lifted his leg, and literally kicked his buddy in the ass, sending him sprawling across the room. Liam flipped over and scrambled to his feet fast. The last thing they needed was him on the ground before Carter had declared this a one-on-one fight. “Fucking spook. Turning your back on me like your shit don’t stink. Get the fuck out before I kick your ass.”
No Way In Hell: A Steel Corps/Trident Security Crossover Novel Page 10
