“Fucking try it, asshole.”
Harmon stepped forward. “I’ll kick your ass, too!”
Lord, save me from arrogant asswipes who would piss their pants without backup. Carter smacked the back of his hand across Harmon’s chest, stopping him short. “I didn’t ask for your fucking help, and I don’t need it. The day I can’t kick a spook’s ass on my own is the day they’ll have to fucking bury me. Now back off.”
He shoved the prick to the side, then took another step toward Liam. The Brit moved into a standard, schoolyard, fighting stance, and Carter almost laughed out loud. The guy knew numerous ways to fight dirty and kill someone, yet you’d never know it from looking at him now. Without hesitation or warning, Carter jabbed the agent in the nose, breaking the capsule inside. Liam’s head snapped back as he stumbled, but he managed to stay on his feet. Wiping the “blood” from his face with the back of his hand, he glared at Carter, then came at him with full force. Fists were thrown, both men getting in good shots, as the bigoted bar crowd cheered for the white guy to win.
Liam feigned left, and Carter purposely followed, allowing the guy to punch him in the ribs. Fuck! That one hurt. But he needed some bruises on his body.
They were working up a sweat, and despite the pulled punches, they’d both be sore in the morning. Carter threw one more right cross, which connected with Liam’s chin. It was just about time to move this farce outside. With a sweep of his foot, he knocked the Brit’s legs out from under him, caught him by the shirt and dragged him out the front door to the street, throwing him to the ground. If he hadn’t been expecting it, the sharp whelp of a siren would have caught him off guard.
He stepped back as the “trooper” pulled up, jumped out of his vehicle, and pointed at him. “You! Put your hands on the front of my car and stay there.”
Turning slightly, he rolled his eyes at the group that had followed him outside, then did as he’d been ordered. “No problem, sir. Just teaching the boy some manners.”
“Shut it and spread ’em.”
The guy gave him a quick frisk before slapping the cuffs on him. He then spun him around until Carter’s back was to the hood. The whole time the locals were shouting for him not to be arrested—that they were all witnesses, and the black guy started it. The trooper ignored them and “called in for backup” on his radio. An off-site operative acknowledged him. She would now alert the sheriff to the situation. If all went well, Liam would be told to take his business to another town, and Carter would be released with no charges filed.
The trooper shoved him against the car. “Stay there.”
“Yes, sir.” As the man went to check on Liam, Carter rolled his eyes again at the group, and several of them chuckled. Strauss leaned closer to Robisch and said something that had the other man nodding his head.
There were a few more minutes of bullshit, with the trooper taking down the names of the witnesses and doing everything he could to make it all look legit. Carter was impressed. If he hadn’t known the guy was a plant, he would have bought the act.
A marked unit with “Sheriff” emblazoned on the side pulled up, and a uniformed man with a narrow mustache and potbelly climbed out. Carter recognized Sheriff John Buford right away from the piles of intel the spy had gathered. The guy’s name was ironic since it reminded Carter of Sheriff Buford T. Justice of the old Smokey and the Bandit movies. However, he doubted that the Jackie Gleason look-alike here was as funny as his Hollywood counterpart had been in the movie.
The sheriff pulled his duty belt higher on his hips, but his gut prevented it from going any further. “What’s going on here, Trooper?”
The undercover agent filled the useless excuse for a lawman in. As expected, Buford “convinced” the trooper there was no need to arrest anyone, and it would be best if Liam got into his vehicle and moved on to the next town. The “victim” did his part to protest a little, then finally gave in when it appeared no one was going to arrest Carter. After the Brit limped to his car and drove away, the handcuffs were removed from Carter’s wrists. He assured the trooper and the sheriff he would stay out of trouble.
The bar crowd strolled back inside, leaving only Strauss and Robisch with him. The former eyed him a moment longer, then held out his hand. “Name’s Mike Strauss. What’d you say your name was again?”
13
Two weeks later . . .
The bruising on my face was nearly gone, thankfully. I was still stiff and sore, but able to get back to full duty, which is why I was in the, now completed, war room waiting for Jackson to arrive. The walls were paneled in rich wood, giving the whole space a warmth and comfortable closeness, without being oppressive. I paced near the long, wooden table in the center. There were expensive looking office chairs around it, still wrapped in plastic.
The door opened, and Jackson strode in, purpose in his every step. He had an orange folder in one hand and an unlit cigar in the other. Opening my mouth to speak, the words stuck in my throat as Sergeant Phillips came in a few steps behind our master sergeant.
“Staff Sergeant Michaels, this is Sergeant Phillips. Get acquainted.” Jackson sat, opening the folder in front of him. Jackson and I had gotten used to each other over the past two weeks. Often either calling each other by our names alone, or just rank. I was really starting to love the informality.
Phillips didn’t say a word. Instead, he was standing at attention near the door. I felt small next to him and hated it. He was not only taller than me, but he was also broad in the shoulders and chest. His dark hair was cut very short, and a scruff of whiskers covered his jaw and cheeks. I couldn’t quite make out his eye color from where I stood. I needed to assert myself as his commander right away, or this would never work.
“You may be a big badass SEAL, but around here, I’m in charge. If you have a problem with that, there’s the fucking door. Do we understand each other, Sergeant?”
“Yes, ma’am.” His brows furrowed, but he didn’t make eye contact.
“If the dick-measuring contest is over, mind if I brief you on your mission?” Jackson chewed on the end of his cigar, a coffee cup clutched in his other hand, and waited impatiently for us to take our seats in the plastic wrapped chairs. They crinkled and rustled as we settled in.
“Yes, Master Sergeant. My only concern is Phillips just got here. We aren’t mission ready.” I felt like I was pointing out the obvious. I was willing to bet just about anything that the info Jackson was about to dole out was from the same top secret folder I’d read in the hospital a few weeks ago.
“Why, thank you, I hadn’t realized that.” The sarcasm in his voice was thick enough to be touchable. “This mission will be happening, but your part won’t come into play for at least three months. That should be more than enough time for you two to train, shouldn’t it?”
I didn’t respond and neither did Phillips. With a stern glare at us both, Jackson continued. “There’s a neo-Nazi militant camp in South Dakota.” He handed us both satellite photos of the area. “What you’re looking at is a well-organized group with deep pockets and a hatred of anything not white, straight, or Protestant.” There were bunker type structures as well as long communal buildings and small cabins spread throughout the area. “One of those bunkers is suspected to be full of enough weapons and explosives to supply a third world country. We have a covert operative working on getting into the group. Once he does, Mic, you’ll be his girlfriend, Phillips here will be your brother, and you’ll go in and raze this fucking place to the ground.”
“Which operative?” I had my suspicious and was curious if Jackson would confirm them.
“I think you already know the answer to that question. He’s perfect for this, and you two already know each other. You’ll be able to fake a relationship much easier than two strangers would be able to.”
Ah, fuck. “That’ll be fine, but I know how these fucking neo-Nazis are about women. We’re less than second-class citizens, and they expect us to bow to the men. Just so long as
I don’t have to call him ‘Sir’ or ‘Master.’”
Jackson choked on his coffee, coughing harshly. When he finally caught his breath again, he said, “Don’t worry, Mic. He would never want you to call him ‘Master,’ I can promise you that.”
Confused, I narrowed my eyes at him. “What’s so funny?”
He was doing his best to contain his laughter but failed horribly. “I can’t tell you, but I’m going to tell him, and you can expect to get a razzing out of it. Oh shit, is he going to love this.” Slapping his chest, Jackson got himself under control.
Phillips had yet to say a word, just kept glancing back and forth between the two of us. I would have said Carter’s name, but while I knew next to nothing about the spy, I knew he appreciated secrecy more than anything. When we began the mission, Phillips would be brought in on the US government’s secret that was T. Carter.
“In the meantime, you two need to get your asses moving. I want you training every day, all day. You need to get to know each other well, or the ruse of you being siblings will never be believed. Good news is, the Panic Room should be finished in about a week. Start today. Dismissed.”
Standing, I led the way out of the war room, racking my brain trying to decide where to begin. We not only had to become a team, but I also had to continue asserting myself as his officer.
“What are your orders, Staff Sergeant?” Phillips forced respect into his voice. My job was to make him feel the respect for real and never let on that this was my first time in command. Other than those two days in Iraq, anyway.
“Just call me Mic, everyone else does. This unit is different. While rank is observed—we’re a bit more casual.” It was a gorgeous day outside, warm and sunny with perfect blue skies. “Get your pack, we’re doing a ruck. Pack provisions for at least two days.”
Veering off from Phillips near his cabin, I entered my own. For now, we’re storing our gear in our cabins, but once the large hangar is finished, we’d have lockers. They’d been delivered, and there were more than I had expected. I would have to ask Jackson who would be using them.
I grabbed my large ruck and checked its contents. Jackson had purchased these for us, but like most soldiers, I was particular about how it was packed and what it contained. I had four MREs, a decent first aid kit, water, entrenching tool, flashlight, and various other items for survival in the wilderness, including a radio. I already had my KA-BAR strapped to my hip, along with my M9 in a thigh holster. After strapping on my flack vest with my adjustable MOLLE vest on top, I slipped my H&K MP5 over my head on its tactical sling. I adjusted a few straps and settled everything as comfortably as I was able. Patting my left cargo pocket, I double checked that I had my compass and map. I was ready to go.
Nearly forgetting, I pulled my new phone from my pocket and sent Jackson a text. I wasn’t used to having the stupid thing yet.
Going for a ruck. Back in two days.
His reply pinged seconds later.
Copy that. Take a radio.
Rolling my eyes, I shut off the phone and stuck it back in my pocket. Shutting the door behind me firmly, and double-timing it out, I scanned the compound. Standing in the muddy field of what would soon be our training yard and track, was a fully-geared up Phillips. He was dressed nearly identically to me, black, tactical cargo pants, snug, Under Armour T-shirt, and his pack snugly strapped on. The only difference I could see was the butt of a shotgun sticking up from the top of his pack.
“Ready, Phillips?”
He cradled his rifle carefully. When his eyes finally met mine, I noticed his were a startling, dark blue. Not waiting for his reply, I led the way toward the tree line. Stepping into the cool, dark forest, I didn’t hear Phillips behind me. His training made him both silent and deadly, even in the woods with thick leaf litter on the ground.
We didn’t speak, didn’t really need to. The forest was full of sounds all around us. Birds, insects, and all manner of life rustled and called out.
“How much combat experience do you have?”
The question startled me, and I almost didn’t answer. “Enough.” I paused, then figured “what the hell.” I spilled my guts about Iraq and the two days I’d spent in the desert with my men, running and fighting.
As soon as I said SEAL Team Four, Phillips grunted in response. “Sawyer’s a good man. I was in Team Eight. We’ve crossed paths a few times. I remember that mission, now that you talk about it. I didn’t realize that was you. If you earned the respect of Sawyer and his men in combat, that’s good enough for me.”
This time, when Phillips spoke, there was real respect in his voice. Fuck, if I had known that story would earn me the respect I needed, we wouldn’t be out here. Too late to go back now. The mountainside steadily rose, and with every mile that fell away beneath our boots, we gained a better understanding of one another. Not quite a friendship, but close. I could live with that.
Phillips eyed the back of the woman in front of him. Sure footed and quick, she climbed the mountain like it was a personal challenge to her. She didn’t seem to do anything half-assed. It was all in your face, all the time. He hadn’t lied to her when he said he remembered that mission. Word had spread like wildfire through the SEAL teams. For Sawyer to give kudos to a nobody army corporal from M.I. carried a lot of weight.
Her whole team had been slaughtered and here she was, itching to get back into the shit. Some men could live through something like that and come out unable to even hold a weapon, let alone go back in. She was one tough bitch. She’d earned his respect with her story, but she’d yet to earn his trust. That would come over the course of the next three months. It grated on him that his NCO was a woman. He wasn’t sexist; he’d known some fine sailors that were women, but being a SEAL taught him a lot—some of which was not just anyone could hack it with him. In his experience women just didn’t have the personality or physical strength to be Special Forces. He hoped she was going to prove him wrong.
Keeping on her heels through the woods, he decided to give her a chance and see what would shake loose. He had to have a little faith in his superiors. They wouldn’t have put her in charge lightly—not a unit like this. He’d seen the fading bruises and lingering stiffness. Someone had worked her over a bit, yet she was still here. That had to stand for something.
Shrugging his shoulders to settle his ruck better, he took a sip from the straw hooked to his Camelbak canteen and followed her up the damn mountain.
Turning to look back at him she said, “Hurry up, Phillips. We don’t have all damn day.”
“Copy that,” he mumbled, picking up the pace. How could someone so small be so damn fast?
A few minutes before 1100 hours, the buzzer for the front gate sounded. Ian moved the mouse on his desk, then hit the computer icon which would slide open the gate and allow the government-issued sedan into the compound. Trident Security was unofficially open for business, but there was still much to do to secure the property. After letting several of their federal contacts know they were available for contract work, they would need the facility secure in case any mission, past or present, came back to bite them in the ass.
They also wanted the security for the future members of The Covenant. The club would be in the first building upon entering the compound, and the renovations of the existing warehouse were coming along nicely. They were already taking applications for what was being billed as the most elite, private BDSM club in the Tampa/St. Petersburg area. It was scheduled to open in five months. Mitch was doing an awesome job, handling all the things that had to do with the club so Ian and Dev could concentrate on Trident.
The New Horizons Construction crew had completed the Trident offices first and were concentrating on getting Ian and Dev’s apartments done next. In the meantime, the brothers were renting a small house nearby.
Standing, Ian exited his new office, passing Dev’s on his way to the reception area. He stuck his head through his brother’s open door. “They’re here.”
D
ev finished the phone call he’d been on, then followed him out. Brody was still busy setting up his massive war-room—they were already kidding him that it looked like NASA in there. The former SEAL was one of the best hackers in the world and had turned down jobs with several federal and private agencies to work with his teammates. Leaving him to do his geek stuff, Ian asked their new secretary, Mrs. Lillian Kemple, to send a text to Jake and Marco asking them to meet everyone in the conference room. The two were over in the multi-purpose building, arranging the newly delivered gym equipment.
The front door swung open, and two completely opposite-looking men walked in. With his Irish heritage, Larry Keon, the Deputy Director of the FBI, had fair skin, reddish-blond hair with a touch of silver in spots, and hazel eyes. His five-foot-seven frame was dwarfed by Master Sergeant Fisher Jackson. The bald, black man stood six foot six, three inches taller than both Ian and Devon, and his sharp, brown eyes didn’t miss a thing.
Ian and then Dev shook both men’s hands. Taking a step back, Ian swept his arm toward the conference room. “This way. There’s coffee set up if you’re interested. Mrs. Kemple, please hold all calls until we’re done.”
“Absolutely, Mr. Sawyer.”
Biting back his grin, he shook his head. He’d been trying to get the gray-haired, older woman to call them all by their first names because he couldn’t get used to being called Mr. Sawyer. That was his father. Since he was eighteen, Ian had been a rank, followed by Sawyer. It was just one more thing he found different being a civilian for the first time in sixteen years.
The newcomers made their coffee and, by the time everyone was seated at the table, Jake and Marco had joined them, shutting the door on their way in. Keon opened his leather briefcase and slid orange folders over to each of them. “Gentlemen, Trident Security is officially on retainer with the FBI. You’ve more than earned your reputations as SEALs over the past several years, and Uncle Sam wants to continue to use the valuable resource we have in you.
No Way In Hell: A Steel Corps/Trident Security Crossover Novel Page 11
