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

by Samantha A. Cole

  Phillips knew there was nothing to the fact that the two operatives were sleeping together beyond their cover, but his concern was valid. Carter suspected Mic had more symptoms than the flashback she’d had earlier, he just hoped like hell he hadn’t been wrong about her. If Jackson was aware of her screwed-up-childhood-induced PTSD then it was evident he didn’t see it as a problem—if he was aware.

  They’d been out walking long enough and Carter steered them back toward his cabin. “I’ll talk to her without telling her about this conversation. I wouldn’t want her to think this was more than just concern for her and the team.”

  “I appreciate it . . . I really do like her. She can be badass when she needs to be.”

  Carter snorted. “You have no idea.” His thoughts went back to the shack in the Iraqi desert. He hadn’t been present, but he’d heard about it afterward—the woman from Steel had guts of steel, pun intended. “Anyway, Cooper and Sawyer are looking into some details for us. Keep your eyes and ears open. I’ve got a meeting with Wexler in the morning and from the sound of things, I’m getting that all important promotion and entry to his inner circle.”

  “Sounds good. I better go hang out and make nice with rednecks. Catch you tomorrow.”

  They bumped fists and separated, with Carter heading into his cabin and down to his room. He’d sleep on Mic’s PTSD for tonight. Tomorrow he’d find out if it was going to be a problem and, if so, how much of one.

  Opening the door to his room, he found Mic in a clean pair of cotton shorts and a T-shirt, towel drying her hair. The bruise on her face was getting more pronounced as time passed and his gut clenched once more at the sight. He stepped inside and closed the door on the rest of the world. “Did you save me any hot water for my fourth shower of the day?”

  She gave him a teasing sneer. “Of course I did.”

  Little brat. He shook his head as he grabbed a pair of lightweight sweatpants to sleep in and headed for the shower. When he finished, he came back out, shirtless and sockless, and opened the drawer to the nightstand, pulling out the book he was in the middle of reading. Mic was sitting at the small table by the room’s window with her M9 broken down to individual parts, giving them a good cleaning. Her backup piece was within reach in case shit went down while her main weapon was unavailable—although he knew she could have it reassembled in the blink of an eye.

  Propping his pillow against the wall, he sat on the bed and stretched his legs out, setting his own weapon on the night stand. He had three backup weapons hidden in various places around the room and one more in the bathroom in case his primary gun was compromised. His room didn’t have a TV, so he flipped on the clock radio to the classic rock station he’d found. The Eagles’ “Hotel California” came through the speaker. Opening the book, he felt Mic’s eyes on him and he glanced at her. She raised an eyebrow, causing him to chuckle. It wasn’t his choice of music she was questioning, it was the book he was reading—Mein Kampf, an autobiography by none other than Adolf Hitler. The psychotic leader had written it while imprisoned for a failed coup against the German government in 1923. Following his release in 1924, he’d risen to power, and history had been made. Carter had read the book several years ago, but was rereading it now because the best way to learn how to take down your enemy was to get into his mind. The key to Wexler’s demise was hopefully somewhere in the pages of his idol’s book.

  They continued in silence—him reading while Mic reassembled her M9 then repeated the whole cleaning process with her backup weapon. When that was done, she got up and started sorting through her clothes and other things. After watching her for about fifteen minutes, Carter couldn’t stand it anymore. As she walked past him for the umpteenth time, his hand shot out. Grabbing her arm, he yanked, catching her off guard and tossing her over his body into the bed. Mindful of the listening devices in the room, she glared at him as she tried to scramble to her feet again, but that was not going to happen. He pulled her back down each time she tried to stand. His arms and legs were much longer than hers as he wrapped them around her, and he weighed a lot more. Since she couldn’t do anything that might cause him severe harm or pain, her resistance was futile. She was trying to avoid the two of them being in bed together, and if either of them were going to get a good night’s sleep, she had to get over it.

  After a few moments of halfhearted struggling, Mic finally came to the conclusion she was in bed to stay . . . at least, for now. When she let out an exasperated sigh, Carter grinned at her. Rolling her onto her side, facing away from him, he placed his book on the night stand and shut off the radio and lamp. He then spooned behind her—nothing sexual, just a comforting embrace. Tucking her close to his chest, he whispered in her ear, “You’re safe. Get some sleep.”

  And she did.

  8

  Phillips tried to contain his revulsion at the bastard’s words. Harmon the Flunky was talking about a girl he’d physically and sexually assaulted in Chicago a few years ago.

  “The black bitch was moaning for it by time I was done with her.” Leering and grabbing his crotch, Harmon turned his attention back to the bottle of rye whiskey he was doing his best to empty.

  It would be so easy to kill this fucker and blame it on a drunken mistake. He slipped and fell . . . No, sir, I don’t know how that knife got in his throat . . . He was playing Russian Roulette and shot himself like the fucktard he is.

  The expectant stares of Robisch and one of the many nameless lackeys snapped him back from his murder fantasies. “Sorry, man, what?”

  Chortling, Harmon punched him in the shoulder. “You just can’t help thinking of that piece of ass I had, huh? That’s the only damn thing these darkies are good for. Taking shit I wouldn’t do to a good, Christian white woman.”

  His stomach recoiled, and his hands clenched into fists. “Listen, I got shit I gotta do. Later.” Standing quickly, Phillips hurried from the room before he beat Harmon to fucking death.

  The frigid air outside did little to clear his head. Pacing around, he tried to walk off his anger and frustration. This mission was going too slow. They should just break into Wexler’s house and steal the files, then call in some zoomies to cluster bomb the fuck out of this house of horrors.

  “Phil!”

  Turning his head toward the voice, he came to a stop. Robisch was jogging toward him.

  “Yes, sir?” He forced false respect into his voice—hating every second of it. He gave the sloppy excuse that passed for a salute around here. These taint-faces didn’t know the meaning of service or patriotism.

  “You need to chill the fuck out. I know Harmon is a dick and all, but you have to suck it up.” Pulling a knit hat down over his shaven head, Robisch continued. “There’ll be plenty of pussy to be had after D-day. No need to get so bent out of shape over some snatch you can’t have.”

  “Yeah.” Swallowing down bile brought up by the words he was about to speak. “I guess you’re right. Maybe I’m just frustrated, I haven’t gotten laid in weeks.”

  Robisch slung an arm over his shoulders in a bro hug. Phillips fought to keep from force feeding the arm to him. “You’re a good one, Phil. Next chance we get with a black whore you’ll get first dibs.”

  Faking a grin that scarred his soul, Phillips walked along with Robisch shooting the shit until he could escape into his assigned bunk house.

  Flopping face down onto his bed, still fully clothed, he mentally shouted everything he’d wanted to say earlier and hadn’t been able to, then replayed all the ways he wanted to kill these racists pricks. Over and over he watched their blood and guts spill as screams poured from their throats. This mission couldn’t be over soon enough.

  Brody Evans sat on a picnic table outside the local deli on Main Street in Clarksville, pretending to read a book on the local history. The tiny town was something from out of his mother and sisters’ favorite Hallmark Movie Channel. A town square, complete with a park and gazebo was surrounded by little mom and pop businesses. Everyone waved
when they walked by whether they knew each other or not. He’d had at least four people say hello to him within the last three minutes.

  When he’d first drawn the short straw for this mission, he’d been annoyed. They needed someone in Clarksville who could blend in and keep an eye on things. As far as the people in town knew, the current owners and occupants of the New Order compound were just another religious cult they wanted nothing to do with. As long as the newcomers didn’t bother anyone or break any obvious laws then the townspeople ignored and tolerated them.

  The team had lucked out when a check of the CIA database had located Mrs. Martha Albertson, a widow and aunt to an agency research tech, Sandra Albertson. The woman had been more than willing to open her home to Brody under the pretense he was her cousin’s son who was visiting while researching the family tree. While he hadn’t been looking forward to his detail, he had to admit Martha was not only a nice old lady, but she was funny, smart, sarcastic, and a fast thinker when talking to her neighbors. Never once had she come close to blowing his cover story, nor had she questioned what he was doing for Uncle Sam. She was also a damn good cook, as he let his teammates know every time they checked in with him. As far as the locals knew, he was a nice, young man who owned a dot-com business which let him travel and work anywhere that had Wi-Fi. Over the past three days, he’d met quite a few of the 3500 residents, and some of the older biddies had tried to set him up with their daughters. One or two of them had actually been tempting, but the mission came first.

  According to Carter’s intel, every Thursday the women from the New Order came into town to get supplies from the various shops—the grocery store, hardware, butcher, and farmer’s market. That was probably the best reason why the townspeople didn’t mind another cult in their mist—ironically, it was a moneymaker for many of the businesses.

  Two white commercial vans pulled into the parking lot across the street from the deli and six women poured out of them. One of the women he recognized right away since he’d been training with her for the past several weeks. Mic was one cool chick. If he hadn’t already been impressed with her from what had happened in Iraq, she would have gained his respect down in Tampa. While she was still new to this undercover shit, she never once backed down from a challenge. That, and being kick-ass and hot looking, made her a welcome addition to the team—at least, from his point of view.

  The team had no problem having her on their six, and, at some time since they’d found out she wasn’t six feet under, she’d become a sister to them. And Lord help anyone who messed with the sister of any of the Trident men.

  Brody came from a big family and was used to having sisters around—he had three of them, as well as three brothers, all living near their parents in Texas. And Marco’s sister Nina was close to the teammates, but Jake, Devon, and Ian only had male siblings. That hadn’t stopped them from accepting Mic into their extended family. It took a lot to impress them, and the woman had it in spades.

  Stretching his blue jean-clad legs out in front of him, he eyed the little group making their way from one store to the next. Mic knew he was there, having made brief eye contact with him, but unless it became necessary, neither would acknowledge knowing the other one.

  The women seemed to be separated into two groups. A trashy, blonde bimbo with a chip on her shoulder was the leader of the two chicks practically Velcroed to her ass, while Mic appeared to have won the allegiance of the other two women. From what Brody had heard, they were probably happy to have a new leader who wasn’t a C-U-Next-Tuesday toward them. Brittany, the blonde, he wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.

  Ian had filled him in about how and why Mic had gotten a black eye, and the fact that Carter was a Dom—go figure. Now that he knew, Brody could see the dominant nature in the other man, who he’d had dealings with on numerous missions. It had probably killed the guy to hit Mic, but sometimes you had to do things undercover for the greater good. That didn’t mean you had to like it though. At least Carter hadn’t knocked her out like Strauss had done to Brittany.

  About a half hour after they’d arrived in town, Brody noticed Brittany and her two clingers run across the street about a half a block east of him. Mic followed with the others, clearly trying to figure out what was going on. It didn’t take long before she and Brody got the picture. An attractive, young woman was walking down the street and Brittany jumped in front of her. While he couldn’t hear every vile thing the bitch was spitting out at her shocked victim, he did get the gist of the bigoted tirade. The woman’s flawless, café au lait skin had made her a target for racist venom.

  A flash of anger and then fear shot across the victim’s face as the other bitches from the New Order joined in harassing her. Mic stood a half step back from the group and glanced over her shoulder at him. Brody immediately understood. There was no way Mic could defend the woman without giving away her cover, and she also couldn’t stand by and let an innocent person get hurt. There were a few pedestrians on either side of the street, but everyone seemed afraid to get involved.

  Brittany shoved the woman, and jumping to his feet, Brody ran over to the group. “Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing to my girlfriend!” He purposely pushed Mic out of the way before giving Brittany an even harder thrust to the side that made her land on her ass—and he didn’t regret it one bit. Squatting, he looked the pretty but terrified woman in the eyes, silently encouraging her to play along. “Sweetheart, are you okay? I’m sorry I was late.”

  She swallowed hard, glanced at the women behind him, then back at his blond hair and brown eyes. Making a decision, she took his proffered hand. “I-I’m fine. And you weren’t late. In fact, you’re right on time.”

  Standing, Brody helped her up before turning and tucking her in behind him. Rage filled his eyes as he stared at Mic and Brittany, who had gotten back on her feet. He took a menacing stepped toward them. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  Mic crossed her arms and glared up at him—he had a good eight inches on her. If he hadn’t known her, he would have missed the regret and warning in her eyes. “We belong here, her kind doesn’t. And since you’re in love with a n—”

  Cutting her off, Brody got in her face and snarled. “Finish that sentence, bitch, and I’ll throw your ass in the sewer where it belongs. That goes for the rest of you racists, too. I see you within a hundred yards of my girlfriend, you’ll regret the day you were born.” He took another step forward, forcing Mic and the rest of them to back up. “Now get the hell out of here.”

  A whelp of a siren interrupted the retort on Mic’s tongue. Brittany grabbed her arm and pulled her down the street with the others following. “Let’s go. Strauss will be pissed if we get into trouble.”

  “Is there a problem, Evans? Julie?” The sheriff shut his patrol car’s door and strode over to them, glowering at the six troublemakers who were running back to their vans. He’d met Mrs. Albertson’s “relative” on Brody’s first day in town.

  Spinning around, Brody ignored the lawman’s question for a moment, instead, addressing the woman who had quickly pulled herself together. “Hi. You’re Mrs. Dawson’s daughter, Julie, aren’t you?” Surprised, she nodded, but before she could ask how he knew that, he continued with a smile to put her at ease. “I met your mom at the library yesterday when I was doing some research, and we started chatting. Your picture was on her desk. She’s really very proud of you.” The librarian had told him how her daughter and she had started a new life in the small town after Julie’s father had been murdered on the streets of Chicago. Julie had recently graduated nursing school and was working as a pediatric nurse at a hospital closer to Aberdeen. “I’m Brody Evans, by the way.”

  She smiled, her gratitude evident even before she spoke. “Thanks for coming to my rescue. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a run-in with people like that. Just never expected it here, and it caught me off guard.”

  “Never let it be said that Brody Evans doesn’t come to the rescue
of a pretty damsel in distress.” He gave her a flirty wink.

  Giggling, she glanced at the sheriff who was still waiting for an answer to his question. “Everything is fine, Sheriff Fowler. Just some lowlifes from that cult pulling the race card. I’m fine thanks to Brody here.”

  The older man let out a harrumph. “Looks like I’m going to have to go out there and talk to that Wexler feller again. They may bring their business to our shops, but that doesn’t give them the right to harass our citizens.”

  Shit, Brody thought. The last thing Carter, Mic, and Phillips needed was some interference from the local law. But Julie shook her head. “You don’t have to bother. I think they got Brody’s message. If it happens again, I’ll let you handle it, but I don’t think it will.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Her soft, brown eyes flashed to Brody and then back to the sheriff. “Yes, I’m sure. Now if my knight in blue jean armor has nothing better to do, I’d like to buy him lunch as a thank you.”

  Brody grinned. Yup, it was turning into a beautiful day.

  The compound’s gym was empty with the exception of Carter. Dressed in a pair of black cargo pants and military boots, he yanked his T-shirt up and over his head, throwing it to the floor. Without taping his knuckles or putting on a pair of boxing gloves, he attacked a heavy punching bag with his bare fists. He imagined it was Wexler’s face he was pounding and poured all his anger and frustration into the beating.

  How? How could the human race continue to come up with ways to destroy itself? And for fucking what? What makes assholes like Wexler, Strauss, Robisch, and the others, think they’re better than everyone else and it is up to them to “cleanse” the population?