Hardened by Steel

by J. B. Havens

  Jackson took the elevator down to Sub-Level Two. He followed the smells and sounds of cooking. Mentally he told his stomach to shut the hell up. He didn’t care how much like home this place smelled; she couldn’t stay. Pushing open the door, the heavy scents of cinnamon and apples hit him. His mouth watered at the scent.

  There was pastries everywhere; three pies were cooling and Beatrice was filling a fourth with steaming apples. Flour coated her hands and apron, there was even a smudge on her face. A giant golden brown turkey rested on a platter, its stuffing spilling out. Apparently Thanksgiving was in October now.

  “Can I help you, Master Sergeant?” She asked, never looking up from the dough she was carefully placing over the pie. She cut the excess off in a swift, practiced motion and slit some holes in the top. He forced himself to stop watching her clever hands.

  “We need to talk,” he croaked before clearing his throat; his voice felt like it was stuck in there somewhere.

  “What about, exactly?” She turned and bent down, sliding the pie into the oven. He quickly snapped his eyes back to her face when she turned around.

  Did she catch him checking her out?

  “Master Sergeant?” She prompted.

  “You can’t stay here,” he barked out. Anger tightened her face, looking as good on her as the flour.

  “Where exactly would you have me go?” Her voice sounded just like Mic’s when she was pissed off.

  “Not now. When we neutralize the threat, then you have to go. You can’t stay with us.” He was trying and failing to get his point across. He sounded like an asshole. Fuck, he felt like an asshole.

  “Oh really? And who is going to make me leave? You?” She placed a flour dusted hand on one hip and stared him down. He’d faced terrorists that didn’t scare him as much as this woman. In moments, she had turned his thoughts upside down. With just a few simple words, she was making his decision feel like the wrong one.

  “You’re a civilian.” It sounded lame even to his ears. She flapped a hand at him and turned back to the sink.

  “I don’t care about that. I am the only family Mic has left, besides you lot. I am going to be here for her. You may as well get used to the idea, Master Sergeant.” She kept up her work, cleaning green beans.

  Was she making green bean casserole? Oh God, he hoped so.

  “Stop calling me Master Sergeant. I am not your NCO. Call me Jackson.” This conversation was not going the way he planned. Try a different approach?

  “I am not one of your soldiers. Either I call you by your rank or your first name. Your choice. You do have one, don’t you?”

  “No one has used my first name in a decade or more.” He gave up the intimidation route and sat at the table, picking up and biting into an apple. The juicy sweetness burst onto his tongue. Beatrice had her chestnut colored hair pulled back and up; a piece fell down and she tucked it behind her ear. He followed the movement with his eyes, brushing over the delicate skin of her neck.

  There were a few streaks of grey beginning to show near her temples, but he thought they only added to her attractiveness.

  I bet she tastes like apples…

  “How sad for you. Tell me, what is it?” She paused and turned to him, startling him from his thoughts.

  “You want to say my name, huh?” He couldn’t help it, the words popped right out of his mouth before he could stop them. This woman was disarming him. He wasn’t sure who was more shocked at his attempt at flirting—Beatrice or himself. From her file, he knew she was two years older than his own forty-eight.

  Her shock quickly faded into a smile and laughter, and it was a sight to behold. She was beautiful in her anger, but her joy made her stunning.

  “You deserve to have a woman say your name.” His face heated like he was sixteen again and talking to a girl for the first time. His brain went on vacation.

  “Fisher,” he managed to choke out.

  “Fisher Jackson. Has a nice ring to it.” She was putting the green beans into a big dish and covering them with sauce.

  Oh yes…

  “Don’t tell anyone or use it in front of the team.” She stared at him, raising an eyebrow in the same manner Mic did. “Please,” he added quickly. While her anger had been beautiful, he didn’t want it directed his way. Standing, he was much closer to her. As he moved to toss the core into the garbage, she stopped him with a hand on his forearm. Her skin was naturally fair, next to his darker skin, it looked porcelain and delicate. He tried to only see her hand and not imagine what the rest of her would look like; her bare, white body pressed against his own darker skin. This was Mic’s aunt, not someone he should be fantasizing about. He was having trouble focusing on the conversation.

  “I won’t use your name in front of the others, Fisher. Will you tell me why?” Her eyes burned with curiosity.

  “Back before Steel, when I was just a regular Army grunt, the other men called me Fisher King. I was good at tracking and everything that went with it. My name was spoken with fear on the other side of the line. When I was transferred, I stopped using the name.” He tossed what was left of the apple into the trash and left the kitchen. He saw where Mic got both her beauty and balls, but Beatrice still had to go. It wasn’t safe for her here, or for him. She was entirely too attractive.

  ****

  Jordon tucked his M-4 tight into his shoulder and sighted down range. Here he was, underground in a military bunker the likes of which he didn’t think existed outside of the movies. The range itself was damn impressive, benches separated by dividers and equally spaced. The targets were on motorized tracks that could be positioned wherever the shooter wanted. Low lights and sound suppressing acoustics made it a grunt’s dream. This was just the range; down on Level Three was the gym area and a freaking pool. He would be partaking of that later tonight. Swimming had a way of sapping every last once of energy. Unless he was fall-on-your-ass-exhausted, he didn’t think he’d be sleeping.

  Mic was haunting him; he couldn’t keep his eyes off her, trailing them over all of the places he wanted to put his hands. The woman had done something to him last night when he’d had her under him, her skin against his palms. There was no going back for him, no matter what he had told her and Pierce.

  “Yo! Jordon! What the fuck are you doing man?” Flynn shouted at him, bringing him back to the present. It was then he realized he hadn’t fired a single round.

  “What?”

  “Where are you, dude You sat there on that rifle so long we thought you exchanged rings or some shit. Are you going to fire that weapon, boy-o, or fuck it?” Flynn mouthed off in typical Flynn style.

  Jones joined in on the fun in a rare moment of levity for him. “Maybe he will, but I don’t think it’s that rifle he wants to make it with. I think boy-o here has a thing for Mic.”

  They all surrounded him, one by one, mouthing off and busting his balls. He didn’t bother to defend himself or deny it, it would be as effective as giving an addict another hit. Instead, he pulled back the slide and loaded a round. Tucking the rifle into his shoulder, he stood in off-hand position—right hand on the pistol grip, left hand on the forward hand grip, his feet shoulder-width apart. He balanced lightly on the balls of his feet and rapidly fired.

  Not really aiming and not adjusting between rounds, he just fired, one round after another, the recoil knocking into his shoulder, burning slightly and stinging. His world narrowed down to his sights and the target down range. The loud shots echoed even with his ear protection, drowning out his thoughts for the first time that day. His vision continued to tunnel and focus, until he clicked empty.

  Empty shells were rolling across the concrete with a soft hollow metal sound and smoke stung his eyes. His world was slowly opening up; he became aware of his breath and heartbeat, and he could hear the echo in his head. Taking his ear plugs out and letting them hang on his neck he returned the stares of the others.

  Pierce was the first to speak. “Well. Guess we won’t pick on you about
Mic anymore, Jordon.” Jordon looked at their shocked faces, not understanding the source of it. “What are you talking about? What did I do?” he asked, breathless still.

  “Look at your target,” Rook spoke up.

  Jordon turned and hit the button to bring the little paper man closer. His mouth fell open in disbelief. For not paying attention to where his shots were going, he did a damn fine job. Nearly every round was in the center mass; those that weren’t were solid head or neck shots.

  “Well, damn. Who are you pissed off at?” Mic chimed in out of nowhere. They had all been so focused on his target, no one heard her come in. On second thought, Rook didn’t seem surprised, but it was hard to tell with him. A rock showed more emotion.

  “No one. Just practicing,” Jordon said. Flynn choked on a laugh, trying and failing to disguise it as a cough.

  “Looks like I missed the training again.” Mic turned her back to Jordon and focused on the newbie. “Rook, did you have a go yet?”

  Flynn came over and patted Jordon’s shoulder. Leaning close, he whispered in his ear, “Don’t worry, she still likes you best.”

  Jordon dropped the barrel of his rifle down and quickly knocked Flynn right in the nuts. Clasping his abused jewels, Flynn staggered over a few feet, gasping and supporting himself with one hand on the wall.

  “What the hell?” Mic snapped.

  “Accident, Staff Sergeant,” Jordon said as sweetly as he could manage.

  “You going to make it Flynn?” she asked him.

  “Copy, Staff Sergeant,” Flynn gasped out, bravely standing.

  Shaking his head, Rook took his place and began firing down the line. Mic stood back, her arms crossed over her chest. She was watching his form and his aim. He was textbook perfect. The man seemed to be exceptionally proficient at anything he set out to do.

  Jordon ground his teeth in irritation.

  ****

  I stood back and watched the men; there was something going on. They had all been very relaxed until I came in, other than Jordon who was flushed and tense. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out, since everyone had shut up when I’d walked into the range. They were giving Jordon shit about me. We had a serious problem if the others were all picking up on whatever this was. It was bad enough that Pierce had walked in on us. If the others sensed something was going on, sure as shit Jackson did as well.

  I didn’t have time for this high school drama bullshit. I had the new guy to train and a cartel to make a grease spot of. Shaking off the thoughts of Jordon and all that he entailed, I focused on Rook.

  His stance was perfect, each round going exactly where it should. Nothing seemed to faze him. I needed to shake him up somehow. Knock him off-kilter and see what was really inside him. A plan began to form, but I needed to talk to Jackson first. After dinner seemed like a good time, once he was full of turkey and apple pie.

  Chapter 9

  Flynn was once again setting the table. Aunt Beatrice had gone all out. What must be a thirty pound turkey took center stage on the table, surrounded by all manner of traditional side dishes. Green bean casserole and sweet potatoes with marshmallows. A gravy boat brimming with golden brown deliciousness. Cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes. Everything we all loved about the holiday was spread out before us on a glorious culinary playground.

  “Aunt Beatrice, you’ve outdone yourself. This looks amazing.” I took my seat and looked around, trying to decide where to start. Too much food with too small of a plate.

  “We have five years to make up for. This is just dinner; you haven’t seen the desserts yet.” She smiled so broadly at us that I thought her face would stay that way. I looked around at everyone, seated together, enjoying each other’s company, and this amazing meal. We were a family, but this made us really look like one.

  “Thank you for this, Beatrice, but you know it doesn’t change anything,” Jackson said softly. Aunt Beatrice blatantly ignored him.

  “I don’t know where to start…,” Flynn said, looking overwhelmed.

  “Start with this.” Aunt Beatrice handed him a meat fork and a carving knife, pointing at the turkey.

  He looked terrified, but took the tools. He stood and examined the turkey, no doubt deciding how to execute his plan of attack. He moved to stab the fork into the turkey, but before he could, Jackson stood and took the fork and knife from him.

  “Sit down boy, let me show you how it’s done.” Jackson quickly and confidently carved the turkey with precision. Aunt Beatrice sat back and watched him do it, even though I knew for a fact she was perfectly capable of carving a turkey.

  Interesting…

  Jordon was sitting across from me; Rook was to my left and Pierce on my right. Aunt Beatrice was at one end, with Jackson on the opposite end. It felt like we were in some sort of fucked up, Norman Rockwell painting. All happy family and smiles, except with lots of weapons and proficiency with explosives.

  I was savoring a bite of the tender, gravy soaked turkey when I felt something touch my foot. I looked up and Jordon was staring at his plate, not looking at me at all. It definitely came from across the table, not to the side. Flynn was beside Jordon and I almost didn’t put it past him to be screwing with me. When the foot trailed up my leg, I knew it wasn’t Flynn. Deciding to have a little fun I spread my legs apart a little farther, letting him get to my thigh. Jordon’s face was flushing slightly. He was doing a good job of ignoring me, deep in conversation with Flynn about the latest mods available for our M-4’s.

  Slipping my left hand under the table, I placed my hand on his ankle, just above his boot. I felt his whole leg tense as he froze. He was doing a damn good job of not looking at me, which made this easy and delightful. Quickly palming an ice cube from my glass with my right hand, I ran my left hand slowly up and under his pant leg. I could feel the hair there tickling my palm. His skin was very warm and firm under my hand. When I had his pant leg pushed up high enough, I slid the ice cube under the edge of his boot and made sure it stuck on the sensitive skin near his ankle. He jerked back sharply, but I held on to his leg, pushing the cube down deeper from the outside of his boot.

  I stared at him, letting my smile stretch my face. I let go of his foot and picked my fork up again. Returning to my turkey, I enjoyed seeing him turn beet red and quickly excuse himself. Mark one in the win column for me.

  Pierce was looking at us sideways, taking in my satisfied grin and Jordon’s sudden exit.

  “Something happen, Mic?” he asked me.

  “Not a thing, Pierce, not a thing.” He didn’t look like he believed me, but I didn’t really give a crap. I was done with this day.

  It was then that I noticed the looks passing between Jackson and my aunt. If that wasn’t a case of two people making eyes at each other, I didn’t know what was. I felt like the whole unit was turning into a soap opera and I was not a fan.

  Just as Jordon returned to the table, an alarm began to sound on Jackson’s phone. The high-pitched screech was broken up only by shrill beeps.

  Seemingly not worried about the alarm, Jackson calmly checked his phone, ending the grating noise with a practiced swipe.

  “We have incoming. Beatrice, go to your room and stay there until I come get you.” His possessive tone had us all raising eyebrows. He gave us no time to comment.

  “Mic, we need to get the room downstairs prepped for a visitor. Get the team on it. You’re coming with me to greet our guest. Jordon, you too.” Jackson stood and walked out of the room. We did what any good soldiers would do: we followed.

  ****

  After giving the others their instructions, I geared up and waited just outside the elevator in the parking area with Jordon. We both had our tactical hoods on, covering our faces except for our eyes; our helmets covered the rest of our heads. We were dressed the same, with no skin or identifying marks showing. Jackson had only said this visitor was being delivered by the local PD on orders from the DoD and that we needed to be anonymous.

  Jackson had
quickly put on his BDUs with his rank displayed. Jordon and I flanked him, looking every bit the black ops assassins we were. With gloved hands clutching our MP-5s on their slings, the matte black weapons and our black clothes would be enough to intimidate nearly anyone—which was precisely the point.

  “Don’t speak. I’ll handle the exchange. Mic, do you have zip ties ready? They’ll want their cuffs back.” I showed him the plastic strips I had in my pants pocket. “I know you want to know what’s going on, but there’s no time to explain. Just stand there and look scary.”

  “Copy.” I muttered into my hood. Jordon echoed my response. Using the remote, Jackson lowered the floor of the garage and we walked up the ramp. Once we reached the top, he raised the floor back up, quickly hiding the entrance. After this, the locals would know that that was a safe house of sorts, but they didn’t need to know all of our secrets. Pressing the button on the wall, Jackson raised the garage door and we waited. The cold night air hit us in a chilling blast. It was raining steadily, making the cold worse with the dampness. The only sounds were our breathing and the rain on the metal roof of the garage.

  We didn’t have to wait long. Headlights shone through the darkness, coming steadily closer.

  “Show time,” Jackson spoke over his shoulder at us. Jordon and I raised our rifles, the effect more for appearances then any real threat.

  The standard police cruiser pulled to a stop, splashing muddy water across the gravel as it hit a puddle. Two sheriff’s deputies exited the car: one was older and obviously in charge, the other was young and fresh looking with just enough shine worn off to make him dangerous. He looked like someone who was willing to do whatever he needed to do to make a name for himself.

  Opening the rear door of the cruiser, the younger deputy pulled out a hooded and handcuffed man who was bandaged in a few places and walked with a heavy limp. He was on the short side and a little soft around the middle. Otherwise, there wasn’t much to note about him. Judging by the little of his skin I could see, he was Mexican. The pieces began to fall into place in my mind like dominos.