No Way in Hell: A Steel Corp/Trident Security Crossover Novel (Steel Corps/Trident Security Book 2)

by Samantha A. Cole

  What the fuck am I supposed to do in a kitchen? I can work a coffee pot and microwave, but that’s the extent of my culinary training. Kitchens were gold mines of torture implements, though . . .

  I pushed open the double swinging door and stepped into chaos. A bleached blonde bitch-face was screaming at a brunette with the largest breasts I’d ever seen. The triple-D princess was shouting back, stomping her foot. Her black tank top was stretched so tight I was sure it was going to give, her ample flesh would explode everywhere, killing us all. And wasn’t that a disgusting thought?

  “That is not how you fucking do it, cunt!”

  “Who you calling a cunt, you whore?” The blonde threw a stainless ladle at the brunette, smacking her in the face.

  “What the actual fuck is going on here?” I muttered under my breath as the brunette gasped in pain and backed down.

  This pit of vipers clearly had excellent hearing because their heads rotated and they glared at me with the focus of a single unit. The blonde, who I was guessing was their leader, placed her fist on a popped out hip and stared me down with more confidence than I felt. This must be the woman Carter was talking about—Brittany. Lucky me.

  “Who the fuck are you?” She raised her nose in the air a fraction, looking down at me like I was dirt on her shoe. She was around five ten or so and built. Cords of muscles tightened under her fitted T-shirt. Great. I get to have a slap-fight with a girl-version of a Bradley tank.

  “Mikayla. I’m Carter’s woman.” I was trying to follow orders and keep my “alpha” shit under control.

  “Oh, so you’re the new whore he brought in. I’m Brittany, and I run this place. Do what I say and we won’t have any problems. Got it, bitch?” She sneered, not worried at all, secure in her position.

  “I said my name is Mikayla. Not bitch or whore. If you have to call me something, call me Mic.” My fists clenched as I imagined all the ways I could kill her with my bare hands. So much for keeping my attitude in check.

  “What did you say?” She strode closer to me, her hands tightening into fists.

  Is she going to punch me? If she swings, then I can use fists, too. Oh please let me use fists . . .

  “You heard me, ya white trash twat.”

  Her face twisted with rage, flushing red. She ran straight at me, a rookie mistake, but one that I couldn’t take advantage of. So I did what any untrained, mouthy upstart would do. I ran.

  Smacking the swinging doors open with my palms, I skidded out into the mess hall, with the screaming banshee on my heels. I saw Carter, Strauss, and Wexler jump to their feet seconds before I was tackled from behind. We hit the floor—hard. Dammit, she was fucking heavy. My breath was knocked from my lungs, slowing my reaction.

  I screamed with real pain as she took a fistful of my hair, pulling with everything she had. My advantage was the wetness and short length of the strands. Her grip slipped, and I wrenched out of her hold. Carter’s words in the back of my mind kept me in character, so instead of throwing her, I reached up and slapped her across the face, then pushed her off me and onto the concrete floor. My palm burned, and I fought to keep from climbing onto her chest and beating her senseless.

  Gaining my feet, I stood, letting her get up. She flew at me again, all scratching nails and slaps. She was strong but incredibly unskilled. I managed to latch onto her wrists and knee her in the gut. Once. Twice. She was doubled over now, coughing and gasping. I let her go and shoved her down as hard as I could. My palms connecting square on her clavicles. Unable to catch herself, she teetered backward, and her head cracked off the floor. She lay there, dazed, her bleached hair spread out on the concrete like a blonde fan. Her shirt was riding up and her low-rise jeans, falling down, revealing a red, lacy thong. Classy—a real Walmart queen.

  “Mikayla!” Carter bellowed as he advanced. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was really fucking mad. His eyes flashed in anger, and I thanked God that I knew it was all a charade—at least, I hoped so.

  “Brittany! Goddammit!” Colonel Strauss was at Carter’s side, fury darkening his features.

  Carter grabbed me by the back of the neck, jerking me to his side. “What the fuck is going on here?” He snarled in my face as he shook me. “Explain yourself, Mikayla!” He was pressing on the back of my neck, forcing me to look at the floor and hunch over. Blood was seeping out of a few scratches on my arms, and I felt the burn of a few more on my neck. Dammit.

  “She called me bitch. I have a name.” I whimpered for effect, doing my best to act contrite.

  “You disrespected Colonel Strauss and me in front of the General!” he shouted, shoving me away. I saw the apology in his eyes seconds before his hand struck out, connecting with my cheek. Sharp pain exploded throughout my face, and I collapsed to the ground. I gritted my teeth, keeping my eyes down.

  “Brittany.” Strauss’s voice was cold and hard. Peeking through my hair, I saw her go pale, and her hands were trembling.

  Her voice wobbled and cracked with fear. “Y-Yes, sir.”

  There was no warning, nor hesitation. He punched her in the face, throwing his entire body into the hit. She cried out, and blood flew from her mouth in an arc before she went down. Her body was limp, unconscious. He’d knocked her out cold with one hit. Fuck. Me.

  “I will not fucking tolerate petty catfighting. Make sure your woman knows that, Carter. Get these two bitches out of my sight.” Strauss turned sharply on his heel with military precision and left us there, marching over to join Wexler, who was watching us carefully.

  Phillips appeared from nowhere with fire in his eyes, getting into Carter’s face. For a split second, I was worried since we hadn’t had time to warn him about the slap. “What the fuck was that for? She was defending herself!”

  Carter’s mouth turned into a sneer as he grabbed the front of Phillips’s shirt, twisting the material in his fist. “Check your fucking tone. She may be your sister, but she's my property, and I’ll discipline her as I see fit. If you don’t like it, you can have a turn under my hand. Do I make myself clear?”

  Taking a step back, my “brother” growled, but relented. “Whatever.”

  “That’s not the correct response, and you fucking know it. Do I make myself fucking clear?”

  “Yes, sir!” Phillips snapped to attention and raised his right arm in a Nazi salute.

  Carter jerked me to my feet and shoved me into Phillips’s arms. A flash of pain and regret appeared in his eyes before he blinked, and fury tightened his face once more. “Get her the fuck out of here. Put her in my room.” Pointing at me, he added, “And fucking stay there until I come get you. This isn’t fucking over.”

  I got the message—there was going to be more yelling in his room for the sake of those listening. Gripping my arm, Phillips helped me step over Brittany’s still prone form and marched me out of the mess hall. Keeping a tight hold on my arm, he leaned down and whispered in my ear. “I’ll bring you some food later and ice for your cheek. Nice performance, although I’m not thrilled he had to hit you like that. How did you keep from kicking her ass?”

  “No way in hell was I going to compromise us for that stupid twat.” I jerked my arm from his grasp and entered Carter’s cabin myself. Even though it was a charade, I still felt like a child who’d been chastised and sent to my room. Better than a closet I guess.

  7

  Under the moonlight, Carter jogged through the woods in silence with Mic at his side. After he’d returned to his room and yelled at her for the sake of the listening devices, he’d told her to get changed for a run. They had a meeting scheduled with Ian and Liam at a new rendezvous point the former had scouted out. He’d given the coordinates to Mic before she and Phillips had arrived at the compound. Carter had received a bullshit account update text from his “cell phone provider” a few hours ago. It’d actually been a coded message with the meeting time. As with his runs in Colorado, he made sure they were inconsistent. Sometimes he went into the woods in the early morning,
other times before or after sunset.

  The three miles out were a piece of cake for the two of them and neither one was breathing hard. The elevation here was much lower than Colorado and his lungs were grateful. Spotting the rock formation he assumed Ian had been referring to, Carter checked the longitude and latitude on his military watch to confirm it. He slowed to a walk, then stopped, and Mic did the same.

  “This is it?”

  He nodded as he glanced around. No one had followed him the first few days here, but he always made sure he hadn’t picked up a tail. “Yeah. We’re about ten minutes early.”

  Mic took off the lightweight backpack she’d worn and pulled out two bottles of water, offering one to him. He ignored it, instead studying her face. Her right cheek, where he’d backhanded her, was swollen and discolored, and he winced as his gut curled in guilt and disgust. He’d never hit a woman in anger or self-defense with the one exception of a female member of the Taliban several years ago. She’d been trying to kill him at the time, so he was sure no one else would have done anything differently. He’d sparred with several women agents, including Jordyn, and, of course, there was the spanking or flogging involved with being in the lifestyle, but that had all been consensual. This, though . . . this he regretted more than anything.

  Reaching out, he cupped her jaw, and turned her head toward the fading sun so he could see the bruise better. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I hope it doesn’t hurt too much.”

  “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

  Mic tried to pull away from him, but he wouldn’t allow it—the Dom in him wouldn’t allow it. He tightened his grip to hold her still and disregarded her scowl. The second before he’d hit her, he’d seen a flash of fear and then resignation in her eyes. He was sure it was the same look she’d had when she was young and her father had been beating on her. It would be kid’s stuff to track the bastard down and slit his throat for what he’d done to Mic, but Carter suspected she would want that honor for herself—if her sperm donor was even worth it. “It’s not nothing. You don’t know how sorry I am I had to do this.”

  “Are you going to kiss her, jackass, or can we get on with the meeting?”

  Slow grins spread across their faces at Ian’s interruption. It wasn’t surprising the former SEAL hadn’t made a single sound on his approach. In fact, if he had, he probably would have been staring down both Mic and Carter’s pistols, which were currently in their shoulder holsters. Most, if not all, of the New Order’s members open carried in and around the compound, but the concealed carry laws of the state prevented them from wearing them when they went anywhere else. The last thing Wexler wanted was to draw suspicion to them—little did he know it was too late for that.

  Dropping his hand from Mic’s face, Carter spun on his heels to find Sawyer in a ghillie suit designed to help him blend and disappear in the forest with ease. The former SEAL whistled like a bird, and moments later, Liam joined them, dressed in all black. Carter knew other members of the Trident team were spread out around them in the woods, and would alert them to any incoming interference from the compound, so it was safe to take care of business.

  Sawyer stepped forward and when he caught sight of Mic’s bruised face, his eyes flared in anger. “What the fuck, Mic? Who the fuck am I going to kill for hitting you?”

  The woman had a warped sense of humor because she just smirked and said one word, “Carter.”

  Before Ian could come after him—it wouldn’t be a shock if he did—Carter used his hands to make a “T”—the universal sign for timeout. It was evident that while the man obviously respected Mic as a soldier and operative, he also viewed her as a kid sister of sorts, and his innate need to protect and defend had risen to the surface. “Dial the Dom down, Sawyer. It was necessary.” When Ian’s eyes narrowed, he added, “Yeah, I know all about you and your team being in the lifestyle. Takes a Dom to know a Dom.”

  Beside him, Mic’s jaw dropped almost to the leaves at her feet. “What? Are you shitting me? Is everyone a fucking Dom these days?”

  Holding up his hands, Liam shook his head. “Don’t look at me, luv. I’m a romantic.”

  Ian grunted. “Yeah, there’s an oxymoron—a romantic Brit. But getting back to my original question, Mic, tell me what the hell happened.”

  Before she could explain, Carter did. “An opportunity came up—Mic got involved in a fight with one of the women. I needed to show Wexler I was on his side and wouldn’t let anyone sway my favor, including my woman. You don’t know how much I hated to do it—at least I didn’t knock her out like Strauss did to Brittany—but it seems to have worked.” He hadn’t had a chance to fill Mic in yet. “I’ve been invited to a meeting tomorrow morning with his trusted officers. Robisch told me he thinks they’re going to promote me to Major, which means I’m in on the details of D-day. As for Mic here, don’t worry, after this is all over, I’m going to let her kick my ass in retaliation.”

  The petite but mighty woman snorted loudly and crossed her arms over her chest as she glared at him. “Let me, pretty boy? I don’t think so.”

  He’d known that would get a rise out of her and hoped it would get them back on an even keel again. Things had been a little off between them since he’d hit her. “Yes, sweetheart. Let you. I’m about a foot taller than you, eighty pounds heavier, and have been trained in numerous forms of self-defense and have lost track of how many ways I know how to kill someone. But my biggest advantage over you is, unlike a few stupid rednecks, I would never underestimate you. You may get one or two good hits in but that would be it.”

  Liam and Ian let out barks of laughter and the latter said, “Oh, shit. Mic, let me know when you’re going to take this jackass down . . . I want to sell tickets to the show. And if you ever want an introduction to the lifestyle, I’d be more than happy to show you the ropes. You would make an awesome Domme and have both the male and female subs drooling over you, whichever you’re into.”

  “I know, right?” Carter countered with a chuckle. “I was thinking the same thing.”

  Mic rolled her eyes, clearly done with this conversation. Ignoring their amusement, she pulled out the seemingly blank papers Carter had stuffed in her backpack earlier. He’d written on them with a special pen, similar to the old invisible ink from the 1970s. But this stuff had been updated by the CIA. The only way to see it was with an infrared light, which Liam pulled out of his pocket and handed to Carter. They couldn’t take the risk of the paper being discovered by anyone in the compound.

  Lighting up the pages, the ink reappeared. It was a list of license plates to all the vehicles in the compound and to several trucks that’d made deliveries over the past few days. Another page was an updated map of the compound where Carter had filled in the info on the contents and uses of a few buildings that he hadn’t been able to scout out immediately after his arrival. There were several ammunition dumps, and one large building housing over 12,000 pounds of ammonium nitrate fertilizer—two and a half times the amount Timothy McVeigh had used in the Oklahoma City Bombing in April 1995. And Carter suspected there was another delivery of the volatile stuff due any day now. If they didn’t stop the domestic terrorists in time, a lot of people were going to die.

  After going over the rest of the intel as quickly as possible, he glanced at his watch. “Mic and I have to head back. We’ll keep in touch.” Before they’d gotten twenty yards down the hiking path, their contacts had disappeared into the woods.

  When they got back to the main compound, Phillips was sitting on the steps leading into Carter’s cabin. The guy was acting casual, spending his time honing the blade of a Bowie knife on a sharpening stone while waiting for them—but they knew he was alert to everything going on around him. The sun had set a while ago, but the overhead moon was almost full, illuminating the night.

  As they approached, Phillips spotted the duo and stood, sheathing the blade in leather. “Have a nice run?”

  “Yup,” Carter responded. While Mic wiped the sweat from h
er face, he studied Phillips staring back at him. Something was on the guy’s mind and it was clear he wasn’t going to reveal it with his teammate present. “Mic, why don’t you go take a shower? I’ve got to check on my men. They’re on guard duty tonight.”

  She hadn’t noticed the tension and headed for the door. “All right.”

  When she disappeared into the cabin, Carter cocked his head for Phillips to join him as he began strolling across the compound—the cool night air chilling his sweat-covered skin. His squad was actually off tonight and probably playing pool or darts in the rec hall. Wexler was smart—he trained the men hard, but also made sure they enjoyed some downtime. Dissension in the ranks was never good.

  Carter subtly made sure no one was in earshot. “All right, what’s on your mind that you didn’t want to say in front of Mic?”

  Running a hand over his short hair, Phillips hesitated a moment. “Shit, how do I say this . . . I don’t want you to think I’m ratting on her or putting her down, because I’m not. I wasn’t thrilled to have a woman as my superior at first, but that was just because it’d never happened before. I like Mic a lot. She’s earned my respect on the training front, but this is our first op . . .”

  “Understood. Now spill it.”

  “From what I understand, you knew Mic prior to Steel. Do you know about her PTSD?”

  A heavy sigh escaped Carter. He knew she had a few issues, but anyone with her past—both military and childhood—would have, at least, some post-traumatic symptoms. “What exactly happened?”

  “She fell asleep in the car. I’d pulled over to grab some food and tried to wake her. I know better than to startle anyone who’s served, so I just put my hand on her shoulder. Fuck, man. Thank God I wasn’t doing 65 mph down the highway because we would have rolled ass over teakettle. After that, it was like she couldn’t get into the bright lights of the restaurant fast enough. I asked her how long she’s been like this—I figured it was from the ambush she’d been in—but she said it was from long before that. Anyway, I just wanted you to know since you’re sharing a bed.”