A Dead Man's Pulse: Trident Security Omega Team Book 1

by Samantha A. Cole

  Logan pulled on the chain that went from the shackles on his wrists to the wall behind him. After Sherwood had gotten free, the tangos had added several more spikes through chain links into the adobe, ensuring no one else could get loose. Maybe Logan should have fought the assholes when they’d come into his cell, despite the threat of the three guns pointed at him. A death caused by a hail of bullets would have been preferable over what waited for him on the other side of that door when his time came. But a part of him had held onto a sliver of hope that a rescue would come. Now as each hour passed, that sliver got smaller and smaller. Even if a rescue came, he was a dead man. He would never recover from this nightmare—maybe physically, since he hadn’t really been injured up to that point, but definitely not mentally or emotionally. Each time one of his buddies’ heads had been brought in, another part of his heart and soul had died.

  Letting his head fall back against the wall, he tried to remember the way his life had been a few years ago, or even a few weeks ago. He’d been happy. Everything had been going exactly as he’d dreamed it would as a kid. His grandfather and father were retired Marines. Logan had known by age five he wanted to follow in their footsteps, and everything he’d done from that point until he’d enlisted on his eighteenth birthday had been with the goal of becoming a Marine in mind. He’d kept up his grades, gone out for team sports almost every season, and had even been in the Junior ROTC program during high school.

  Once he’d finished boot camp, he’d been assigned to Marine Corps Base Camp Lejeune in Jacksonville, North Carolina. After his first three years as a Marine and two long tours overseas, he’d applied for and been accepted into MARSOC training. His father had been so proud the day he’d called home and told his family he was going to be one of the elite, Spec Ops Raiders. Not only did the title demand respect and awe, as did the Navy SEALs, it was also a chick magnet. If it was a tossup between fucking a Marine or a Marine Raider, the latter usually won the girl, nine times out of ten.

  Upon completion of his ITC—Individual Training Course—the intense, seven-month program all candidates had to go through, he’d been an official MARSOC Critical Skills Operator (CSO). The training wasn’t for the faint of heart or the weak-minded. It was physically and mentally demanding, and most candidates dropped out long before graduation neared. Upon completing the course, he’d been assigned to the 2nd Marine Raider Battalion, also located in Camp Lejeune, and had been there ever since. He’d been twenty-two when he’d earned his CSO status, and nine years later he was left wondering if it had all been worth it, knowing how the end of his life was going to play out.

  Of course it’s been worth it, asshole. He could hear Clutch’s voice in his mind—the stupid jerk was probably giving him the finger from the great beyond. Think of all the lives we’ve saved. Hell, think of all the women we’ve fucked . . . that’s more fun. Hold out as long as you can, brother. Make it back for both of us. And the first woman you screw when you get back there, tell her you’re me, so there’ll be one more woman screaming my name in ecstasy.

  The door swung open again, and two other terrorists strode in, tossing plates of rancid rice through the steel bars onto the floor of the two occupied cells. Logan just ignored them, making no attempt to retrieve the food. One of the men yelled and gestured from him to the plate—from the few words Logan understood, he was being ordered to eat. Well, that wasn’t happening. Just looking at it made him want to throw up, so he closed his eyes again as the yelling continued. Maybe a little competition would shut the asshole up. “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer! Take one down, pass it around, ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall! Ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-eight bottles of beer! Take one down, pass it around, ninety-seven bottles of beer on the wall!”

  Logan kept singing as the Afghanis stared at him in confusion. His raspy voice was getting stronger with each word and so was his heart. They hated all things American, and what was more American than “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall”? The only things he could think of were apple pie, a freckle-faced girl-next-door, and baseball. “Ninety-three bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-three bottles of beer! Take one down, pass it around, ninety-two bottles of beer on the wall!”

  The men must have thought he’d finally cracked under the pressure, because they left without saying another word. Logan got all the way to sixty-three bottles of beer on that damn wall before exhaustion began to overtake him. Who knew singing that ridiculous but catchy tune could be so tiring?

  Logan had no idea how long he’d slept, but he was jolted awake when an explosion rocked the compound. His eyes flew open just as a second, and then third, blast sounded, followed by automatic rifle fire, deafened the world around him. Struggling to stand on his weakened legs and bare feet, he tried to see through the thin spaces between the wooden slats of the door at the front of the building, and the tiny glassless windows at the sides and rear, to figure out what was going on. At some point during his sleep, the sun had set and the moon had risen. A lit oil lantern sat on a shelf next to the door and illuminated the makeshift prison, but it prevented him from being able to see anything in the darkness outside. It was too soon to know if this was a rescue staged by the US military, but a seed of hope took bloom in his gut.

  “Stash!” His tone was filled with urgency. “Stash, wake the fuck up, man!” Logan yanked on his restraints, even though they hadn’t loosened all the other times he’d tried to free himself. “Stash!”

  More explosions went off as the battle raged on outside. If this was a war between ISIS and anyone other than the US or its allies, Logan and Moretti were dead, but since they would have been dead anyway, maybe this was a better way to go.

  Shouts filtered in over the commotion. Some were in Arabic, others in English. And not just the heavily accented English spoken in Afghanistan, but—thank you, Jesus—that of those people who could have only been born and bred in the good ol’ US of A.

  “Hey!” Logan shouted. “In here! We’re in here! Hey! Americans! In here!”

  The door burst open, and, to Logan’s horror, an insurgent rushed in, his assault rifle at the ready to blow the prisoners to smithereens. Without conscious thought, Logan dropped to the ground, trying to make himself the smallest target possible, as the trigger was pulled. But nothing happened. The gun had jammed. The bastard shook the rifle, as if that would get it working again, as two dark figures in camo and war paint skirted around the door frame and fired their own weapons. The tango danced unnaturally as his body was riddled with bullets. The gunfire ended when he fell to the ground, his dead eyes staring at the ceiling, seeing nothing.

  One of the two men let his rifle hang from the strap around his neck and back, while the other kept watch for danger at the door. Occasionally he set off a burst of bullets at someone or something outside that Logan couldn’t see from this angle.

  The first man retrieved the keys from the dead guy’s body and worked quickly on the metal lock on Logan’s cell. At least he didn’t need to blow it with C4. As the steel door was pushed open, the man finally looked at him. “Lieutenant KC Malone. US Navy SEALs are here to save your sorry, fucking, Marine ass.”

  Never had Logan heard more beautiful words in his entire life. A turbulence of emotions rolled through him. “First Sergeant Logan Reese, and I think I love you.”

  “Just don’t fucking kiss me, ’cause I don’t swing that way.” Malone hurried over and, after finding the key to the shackles wasn’t with the other ones on the chain, dropped them and pulled out a lock-pick set. As he worked to free Logan, he cocked his head toward the next occupied cell. “Are you the only two left?”

  Logan had to swallow the lump in his throat. “Yeah, but Stash has been out of it for over a day with a fever. The others . . .” He couldn’t finish the statement.

  Malone got one of his wrists free and started on the other. Sympathy filled his eyes and voice. “We know. We found them, and we’ll be bringi
ng them home with us.”

  It took a moment for Logan to realize the gunfire had died almost completely. There were a few scattered bursts here and there, but for the most part, there was silence from the automatic weapons. As more US troops entered the building, Malone paused his lock picking, stepped on the heavy keyring and, with a flick of his foot, slid it toward the open door behind him. “Peanut, here’s the key to the cell door.”

  The shortest of the men, presumably “Peanut,” grabbed it from the dirt floor, and then quickly unlocked the other cell. Hurrying to the unconscious Marine, he glanced at Logan as the second shackle fell from his wrist. “Is he injured?”

  “He was saying he thought a few ribs were broken, and he’s got bruising on his back. Other than that, I don’t think so.” Logan touched his abused wrists, which had been rubbed raw, and winced. “But he’s had a temp for almost two days now and been out of it since around noon yesterday.”

  While he hadn’t had a watch or clock to tell time, the sun’s location in the sky had helped him keep track.

  As the SEAL assessed Moretti’s condition and began treatment, another man stepped into Logan’s cell. “Reese? You okay?”

  Even with his face covered in black, camo paint, the familiar voice told Logan exactly who the man was, and the empathy he heard almost ripped him to shreds. Apparently, the rescue had been a joint mission between the SEALs and Raiders. Captain Louis “Bear” Bradshaw was Logan’s team leader. “As good as I can be, Cap.”

  There no longer appeared to be an urgency in the other men’s movements and tasks, so it was safe to assume the ISIS members had all been killed or captured. Bradshaw stepped forward and pulled Logan into a manly, but gentle, embrace, clearly not caring his charge was covered in dirt, grime, and sweat. If his superior hadn’t been holding him up, Logan would have dropped to his knees as the relief at being rescued, combined with the grief for his lost teammates, hit him hard. He wasn’t ashamed of the tears that spilled forth and rolled down his cheeks. He was alive. He was going home. And he’d never be the same person he’d been before.

  C

  HAPTER 2

  Slamming her locker door shut, Dakota Swift grabbed her duffel and headed for the door. Her 3-11:00 p.m. shift on patrol for the Tampa Police Department hadn’t been over fast enough for her tonight. It had taken everything in her not to stomp into her captain’s office to raise hell. Thankfully, she’d resisted, since it wouldn’t have helped her case any and probably would have resulted in a charge of insubordination.

  Seven years. Seven fucking years. Seven . . . fucking . . . long . . . years. She slapped her hand on the heavy, wooden door leading out to the hallway and sent it banging against the concrete wall. A few officers, some in uniform, others in plainclothes, were in the corridor, coming and going from the shift change, and most startled at the sound, then sent her a range of looks from annoyed to sympathetic. So, word was already getting around. She ignored them all, striding down the hall to the exit for the parking lot behind the station where her vehicle was parked.

  “Hey, Dakota! Wait up!”

  The shout came from behind her at the other end of the hall, and she almost didn’t slow down, but Officer Ricardo Hernandez was one of her best friends—and had been since they’d gone through the academy together. When she reached the double doors, she paused long enough for him to catch up. He was four inches taller than her own five foot five, and outweighed her by at least eighty pounds, yet she could still take him down on the sparring mat. In fact, she could take down most of her fellow male officers, something she knew grated on a lot of them.

  Sighing, Dakota tried to sound like she was just tired, and everything was fine when it wasn’t. “What?”

  “Outside.” Gesturing for her to lead the way to the parking lot, he followed her out to her SUV. After making sure no one was in earshot, he crossed his arms over his chest and shook his blond-haired head. “I’m sorry. I heard they shit-canned your transfer request again, the fucking pricks.”

  Swallowing hard, she willed herself not to cry. In front of Ric was one thing, but if anyone else saw her, they’d use it as proof she couldn’t handle the promotion into the Special Ops Division. She’d been trying to get into undercover work for four years now, and every time a position opened, she got passed over. Several times, it had been for someone with less time on the job than her. She didn’t know what problem the higher ups had with her—she was a damn good cop, with several commendations, and no black marks in her file. Her immediate supervisors had written glowing letters of recommendation, too. Yet, once again, they’d given the position to someone else. She couldn’t even claim it was sexual discrimination, since this last time, another female officer had gotten the go-ahead.

  To top everything off, as soon as her father heard about it, he’d be siding with the brass as he had been for years. You’d think her old man would be thrilled his daughter followed in his footsteps onto Tampa PD, but he wasn’t. He’d wanted her brother to be the one to fill his big shoes, but Gerry Swift had gone into engineering instead.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t know why I’m surprised.” She snorted. “I wouldn’t put it past my father to have been the one to blackball me. God forbid his daughter advances to a position he’d never held while he was working here.”

  Ric rolled his eyes. “No one is blackballing you. If they were, you’d have the worst shift in the worst corner of the city for the rest of your career, instead of working next to yours truly.

  “C’mon. Let’s head over to Chasers for a beer.” When she opened her mouth to turn him down, he held up a hand to stop her. “C’mon, one beer won’t kill you. Besides, I need you as my wingman. Some chick from a fender-bender report I took earlier might be stopping by, and you need to tell her about all my wonderful attributes so I can get laid.”

  This time, it was Dakota rolling her eyes. “You’re such a man-whore.”

  “Yup. And it wouldn’t hurt you any to pick out some stud for a roll in the hay every once in a while. I mean, seriously, when was the last time you got laid?”

  Obviously far too long ago, since she honestly couldn’t remember off the top of her head, so she bypassed the question. “One beer. The minute you’ve got the green light and two tickets to paradise, I’m out of there.”

  Less than five minutes later, they pulled into the parking lot of the tavern that was a known cop hangout. Turning off the ignition, Dakota made sure she had her keys, phone, wallet, and money. Before exiting the vehicle, she removed her concealed, holstered firearm from the back waistband of her jeans and locked it in the glove compartment. Guns and alcohol didn’t mix.

  Ric was waiting for her at the establishment’s entrance and, as she approached, he pulled on the handle, holding the door open for her. The man had manners, charm, and looks, and not for the first time, she regretted there was nothing between them. But hooking up with Ric would be like hooking up with her brother.

  Loud music and conversation filled the bar, along with cops, badge groupies, and plain ol’ civilians out for a good time. It was a popular place—the food was good, prices were reasonable, and the bartenders gave the occasional buy-backs—a free beer or drink after every third or fourth one. The owner of the bar was a retired TPD sergeant, who made sure his patrons were well taken care of.

  After running a hand through his short hair, Ric waved at a few people and pushed his way through the crowd with Dakota on his heels. She tended to be overlooked in situations like this, when most of the people around her stood over six feet tall, and more than once, she’d been stepped on in crowds, so she usually let her friend lead the way.

  Toward the back, the mass of bodies opened up a bit as Ric found a group of cops who had just gotten off shift with them. Dakota greeted them as well, and then waited for one of them to flag down the bartender for drinks for the newcomers. Taking her usual beer, she thanked him before glancing around the bar. There was the usual college clique, badge bunnies looking to hook up with
a cop, one girls’ night out for a bachelorette, and plenty of others. Her gaze passed over a table full of men, and then shot back with interest to a handsome, dark-haired hunk in a dress shirt and slacks. His sleeves were rolled up, showcasing his muscular arms, and the top button of his shirt was undone and his tie was loosened around his neck.

  Well, well, well. At least something is going my way today. Only took twenty-three hours and fifteen minutes for it to happen.

  Shane Littleton was a Dom she knew from Pandora’s Box and, at twenty-seven, was two years younger than her. They’d played together a few times, enjoying the fact neither one wanted a relationship outside the club. But what’s he doing here when he lives an hour away?

  When a set of teal green eyes met her brown ones, her gaze immediately and involuntarily dropped to the floor, in silent respect for his title, before rising again. He winked at her, and then using the hand resting on his thigh under the table, gave her a crook of his finger, inviting her over. Giving him a subtle shake of her head, she pulled out her cell phone and located his name in her contacts. The only reason she had the Kissimmee fireman’s number was because they’d made plans in advance to play one night a few weeks ago, and she’d needed a way to let him know if she got held up at work.

  Using her forearm to hold her beer bottle against her side, Dakota typed out a quick text to Shane.

  Sorry, Sir. Not here. With my coworkers. Just got off shift.

  She turned away to acknowledge a question one of her fellow cops asked her as the Dom grabbed his cell from the tabletop in front of him when it lit up, and read the text. Moments later, her phone vibrated in her hand.

  No worries. Does “not here” mean we can meet somewhere else, or will my favorite sub have to disappoint me tonight?

  The corners of Dakota’s mouth ticked upward as she typed in a response. She had no illusions he didn’t have a small harem of favorite subs. Nor was he unaware she enjoyed several Doms at the club.