No Way In Hell: A Steel Corps/Trident Security Crossover Novel

by Samantha A. Cole

  Sergeant Mitchell was pacing back and forth, muttering obscenities under his breath as the crowd from the graduation passed us by on the way to their vehicles. “This ends now, do you hear me?” Fury darkened his face and tightened his fists. “Did you get your stuff?”

  “No. He . . . uh . . . took it and threw it aside, then starting in on me. I didn’t get a chance to grab it.”

  “You two go to the restaurant. I’ll go get your stuff.” Sergeant Mitchell strode away, cracking his knuckles and not giving us a chance to respond.

  “What do you think he’s going to do?”

  Aunt Beatrice looked sideways at me. “I think he's going to deliver the beating your father deserves.”

  2

  Alex pulled up to the run-down, two-bedroom house where Bea had spent most of her life. A few years ago, her aunt found out about the abuse and stepped in, moving her niece into her place. But up until that point, this small house, with its falling-down porch and weed-choked lawn, had been Bea’s Hell.

  A rusted out Chevy sat in the gravel driveway, along with piles of other unidentifiable junk. There was a stale smell wafting out from the open door of the house. Sickened by what he was seeing, he slipped off his jacket and left it in his car, along with his cover, it was too hot for the damn hat anyway. What he was about to do could end his career, but he wasn’t sure if he cared. For any man to treat their own flesh and blood, their child, this way was deplorable. He was anxious to see how this bastard handled someone his own size.

  The porch sagged and swayed a bit when he stepped onto it, with dust and dirt thick as a carpet on the boards. He could see Bea’s small footprints in the dirt from the night before. They were straight and even on the way in, but on the way out, they were scuffed and staggered—as if she’d stumbled out, unable to walk properly. That tends to happen when you’ve been kicked to the ground like a dog.

  The stench intensified as he pulled open the squeaky screen door. Stepping into the living room, Alex gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light. As his vision cleared, he was disgusted by what he saw. Empty beer cans, bottles, and trash littered the house. Pizza boxes with flies gathered on top and plates with blue mold growing were on nearly every surface.

  The worst was the man sprawled on the threadbare, sagging couch in nothing but dingy, yellowed briefs. Overweight, un-showered, and repulsive, the man he assumed was Bea’s father was snoring openmouthed, showing tobacco-stained teeth and a bit of dried vomit on the corner of his lips.

  Gliding forward on silent feet, Alex kicked the man in the side with every ounce of strength and rage he could muster.

  The bastard rolled off the couch onto the disgusting floor with a grunt. Glassy, red-rimmed eyes popped open in pain and confusion. It was easy enough to tell by his expression and the smell coming from him he was still drunk.

  “Who the . . . fuck are you?” he choked out between gasps for air. A livid red mark was popping up on his ribs.

  Oh, I’ve only just begun . . .

  “Get your fat, fucking ass up, you worthless piece of shit.” Alex grabbed him by the arm as he stood and dragged him to the bathroom. The small room was just as filthy as the rest of the house. Shoving Bea’s father into the shower stall, he flipped the lever all the way to cold and turned it on. The man squealed in shock as the water hit him full on in the face.

  “Fuck . . . dammit . . .” He was stuttering and trying in vain to escape the spray.

  “Sober the fuck up, asshole. I don’t want you to forget the beating you’re about to receive.”

  “Who are you?” His eyes were clearing, and he was coming around. His expression becoming a mix of fear and anger.

  “I’m your worst, fucking nightmare come to life.” Alex took a fistful of the man’s wet hair and dragged him sputtering, thrashing, and yelling out of the shower back to the living room. Releasing him, he pushed the bastard back onto the couch.

  “I-I don’t know what this is about, but . . . but get the fuck out of my house. I don’t have any money—go rob someone else.”

  The drunken fool really had no fucking clue.

  “On your feet.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Stand the fuck up and take your beating like a man or I’ll kick you to death like the dog you are.” Alex snarled in his face, sickened by the sour stench coming from the drunk’s mouth. The bastard refused to move, so true to his word, Alex flung him down onto the dirty carpet.

  “Not so tough now, are you? How does it feel getting kicked like an animal?” Over and over, Alex planted his boot into the bastards face, sides, and stomach.

  Bea’s father twisted away, vomiting bile onto the carpet.

  “P-Please . . . stop,” he begged.

  “Is that what Bea said last night when you were beating her?” Alex kicked him in the back, bowing the man out in an arch. “Is it?” Jerking him up, he dealt out blows to the bastard’s face. The man’s nose cracked and he howled in pain. His lips and gums were bleeding from the beating. Alex’s arms were heavy and tired from the vicious ass kicking he was handing out.

  “S-Stop.” He was crying now, sobbing like a baby, tears mixed with the snot, blood, and vomit already on his face.

  Delivering one last, vicious kick to his ribs, the satisfying crack of a bone breaking was music to Alex’s ears. “If you ever, and I fucking mean ever, go near Bea again, I’ll come back and kill you. Got it?”

  The man curled up, sobbing in pain and shame. Leaving him to it, Alex glanced around and saw a small pile of boxes tossed to the side—photos and trinkets spilling out of them. He gathered them up and carried them out to his car.

  Bea’s life was about to start a new chapter and the only thing he wanted her taking was these small boxes.

  Beatrice stared out her bay window, her fingers with a white-knuckled grip on her elbows. Her mind flashed back to all the times her beloved niece had come over colored with new bruises. She blamed herself for all of it. She should have seen how her brother had spiraled down after his wife’s death. He blamed Bea for it, even though there was no way that precious baby had been responsible. Her brother was a weak man, always had been. Bea’s mother was a saint for putting up with him, but she saw something in him that no one else did. Beatrice couldn’t help but wonder how different things would be if Jessica had lived.

  Bea was escaping him, joining the Army and leaving all this behind. Her heart was breaking for her niece, that something like this was even necessary.

  A knock on the front door startled her out of her woolgathering. “I’m coming, just a minute.”

  Opening the door, she found a disheveled looking Alex holding an old cardboard box. “What did you do?” Not waiting for his reply, she pulled him inside and into the kitchen. Setting aside the box he held, she gripped his hands and examined his bruised and bloodied knuckles.

  “I did what should have been done years ago.” Unapologetic and maybe a little self-righteous, the bruises and Alex’s expression told the story.

  “I see.” Pausing, she grabbed a large metal bowl and filled it with water and Epsom salt. “Here, stick your hands in.”

  “You’re not pissed?” Hissing at the liquid, he tried to pull his hands out, but she just shoved them back in.

  “I’m sad. Not angry. Bea deserves a better life than this one. She’s been dealt a shitty hand, through no fault of her own. I won’t say that my brother didn’t deserve a beating—Lord knows he’s handed out enough—but it also solves nothing. It might even come back onto my niece. Though I suppose you didn’t think of that, did you?”

  “No, ma’am. I didn’t. She’s leaving in four days. What can he do to her now?” Shrugging and cleaning off his hands, Alex pointed to a box she hadn’t bothered to inquire about. “That’s what she was trying to get last night.”

  Beatrice sighed. “You’re a good man, Alex. You and the Army are saving my niece’s life. I hope you understand that. If she stayed here, one of them would end up dead.”
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br />   “The Army is just a means to an end for her; she’s saving her own life. I’ll make some calls and make sure she’s watched over, keep tabs on her as best as I’m able.” Slipping his jacket back on, he added, “Let’s go eat, I’m starving. Where’s she at?”

  “In her room, changing I think.” Walking down the hallway, she knocked softly on the second door on the left. “Bea?” Twisting the handle, she got an eyeful of her niece’s bruised back before Bea jerked her shirt down to cover them again. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Yeah, I’m ready. Why is he coming to dinner anyway?” she asked, obviously having heard Bea and Alex talking in the kitchen. “I mean, I get it now, since he beat the shit out of the asshole, but even before that he wanted to come. Why?”

  “Is it so hard for you to understand that maybe, just maybe, someone likes you and wants to spend time with you?”

  Confusion twisted her face. “Wait, you mean like like? As in, likes me? How is that possible?”

  “No dear. He’s twice your age and your superior now, sort of. He isn’t interested in getting into those ridiculous ripped jeans of yours. Really? We’re going out. Can you please wear pants that don’t have holes in them? And don’t roll your eyes at me, young lady!” Sighing heavily, she continued, ignoring Bea grumbling under her breath. “You’re brilliant, you know that, right? And strong—I wish you haven’t had to be so strong. But it’s part of what makes you who you are, and I wouldn’t change anything about you.”

  “That’s quite the speech, Aunt Beatrice.” Buttoning her fresh pair of jeans, Bea sat to pull on her shoes.

  “Don’t belittle it. Alex is a good man and he sees something in you. He also knows that you’re going to do great things and wants to at least be a part of your beginning.”

  “Okay, let’s go eat. And I’m totally going to play the graduation card. I want a root beer float with whipped cream.” Giving her an uncharacteristic hug, Bea walked down the hallway showing no signs of the pain she was in. Beatrice’s heart broke a little more; her baby girl was a woman, grown up far too early. Forced too soon to hide her pain within the depths of herself; shouldering her burdens and forging ahead each day. There was something unique about Bea—a rigidity in her spine and soul that was going to allow her to carve out her place in this world. Even at eighteen, her niece had a warrior’s heart. The Army was going to be her proving ground. Beatrice had faith they would draw every ounce of her potential out and shape her into who she was supposed to be. She just hoped it wasn’t too painful for her niece who’d already known a lifetime of heartbreak.

  3

  Six years later . . .

  Leaning against the hood of a run-down jeep in the bowels of Iraq, US government, black ops agent T. Carter waited for someone to answer his secure satellite phone call. It was hotter than Hades, but he didn’t dare remove the flack vest he wore over his T-shirt, even though he was within the confines of Abu Ghraib, the US prison and detention center in this hell-hole. On one of the military bases it would be fine, but not here. He was taking a break from an interrogation, and calling in to the US Army’s intelligence division to verify some information the prisoner had finally given him. Usually, someone from the division would be present for the interrogation, but due to a combination of circumstances, which included an emergency appendectomy, they were doing without on-site intel for the moment. Carter hadn’t wanted to wait for a replacement, especially since he could get someone on the sat phone.

  A clicking came over the line followed by a female voice. “Code number, please.”

  While she didn’t identify herself, he knew her name was Corporal Bea Michaels, but everyone at intelligence called her “Mic.” “Hey there, sweetheart. Always a pleasure to hear your voice. Code number 009-859SRU.”

  “Hello, 009-859SRU. The voice verification system confirms your identity and that you are not under stress. What can I do for you today? And don’t call me sweetheart.”

  Chuckling at her annoyance over the endearment, he wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand, ignoring the bruised knuckles, then gave her the three names he needed checks on. If the information was good, he would let the guards take the prisoner to the medical ward for treatment for the beating he’d been subjected to.

  The clattering of a keyboard being used came over the phone. A pause and then more keys being struck. “I can confirm the first two names as being part of the cell we’ve been watching in the Kirkuk region—low-level runners from what I see here. However, I’m not finding any information on Rifaah Khalaf, unless he’s twelve years old.”

  Carter snorted. “What the fuck do you have a twelve-year-old kid in the system for . . . never mind, this is Iraq. I can figure that one out for myself. Shit. No, the Rifaah Khalaf I’m looking for is in his late thirties or early forties.”

  “Sorry, that’s all I’ve got. I tried a few variations of the spelling, but nothing else is coming up. It’s either someone we haven’t come across yet or a false name.”

  And Carter had a pretty good idea it was the latter. Fuck. He really didn’t want to go back in there and start torturing the guy again. Shit like this sat in his gut for days afterward. “I’ll see what else I can get for you and then call you back. Thanks, sweetheart.” He quickly disconnected the call before she could yell at him.

  There was something about Mic that niggled at him. She was intelligent as hell, but he was starting to think her skills were being wasted behind a desk. Quick to put two-and-two together, she also had a tough-as-nails attitude. There were only two female interrogators over here, but Mic had the same instincts that were needed to be one—the question was, did she have the guts? Maybe he’d talk to her superiors. With her smarts, and the right training, she could be an integral part of the war against terror.

  He ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, glad he’d been able to trim it a few days ago for the first time months. At the sound of his name being called, he glanced over his shoulder to see Lieutenant Ian Sawyer walking toward him, along with Master Chief Jake Donovan. The two were part of SEAL Team Four, which had found the prisoner, that Carter was currently dealing with, in a cave and transported him here. It wasn’t the first time he’d worked with these men and the rest of their team, but it had been a good seven months since he’d last seen them in the party city of Rio de Janeiro.

  That mission had been a lot nicer than hanging out in this fucking sandbox, though. Team Four had been stateside at the time and had been sent down to Colombia to gather intel on the head of a drug cartel, Ernesto Diaz, who had also been dabbling in arms dealing and white slavery. They’d followed the man to Brazil which is where Carter had run into them . . . well, technically he’d only run into Devon “Devil Dog” Sawyer, Ian’s brother, who’d drawn the short straw. The SEAL had ended up renting a tuxedo and going to the black tie event where another cartel leader Carter had been tailing was set to have a meeting with Diaz. Team Four and the US spy had been attacking the arms exchange pipeline from both ends, only Carter’s end had come from the Middle East. A few months later, Diaz had been killed during a joint raid by Team Four, the DEA, and the Colombian authorities. Unfortunately, his brother Emmanuel was now trying to rebuild the fallen empire.

  After wiping his sweaty palm on his cargo pants, he extended the hand for them to shake. “How’s it going, Sawyer? Reverend?” Ian rarely had a nickname that stuck for more than a week or two, although not for lack of trying on his teammates’ part. But the team sniper had earned the moniker “Reverend” for sending his targets straight to Hell—do not pass go, do not collect your seventy-two vestal virgins.

  “Here. Thought you could use this.” Ian handed him a cold bottle of water which he gratefully accepted. “Get anything from him yet?”

  Carter nodded while downing the whole bottle, the cool liquid was heaven against his parched throat. Why anyone would willingly live in a desert was beyond him. When he was done, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Shit, that was good. Than
ks. Yeah, he started talking after I convinced him he wasn’t walking out of there without giving me something. Unfortunately, the asshole underestimated our intelligence department. He gave me two low-level pieces of shit and either a false name or someone we haven’t had the pleasure of meeting yet.”

  “My bet is on a false name.”

  “Mine, too. Where’s the rest of the team?”

  Tilting his head toward the military personnel mess hall, Reverend answered, “Taking a load off for a few. Babs had an engine light come on in the bird right before we were about to take off for the base and didn’t want to risk it. She’s checking it out.”

  Tempest “Babs” Van Buren was an Air Force chopper pilot who was often assigned to ferry the SEAL teams around. Her call sign stood for “bad-ass bitch” and referred to her remarkable flying and ironclad guts. While it was normally the Army helo pilots who flew the special-ops teams around, Bab’s skills in combat flying were incredible and in high demand. With a lot of convincing, and probably a little bribery, her superiors had put her on loan to the SEALs. If she said the bird was grounded, then there had to be a good reason for it. She did everything she could to make sure everyone got back to base safely and in one piece.

  The door to the interrogation bunker opened, and Fisher Jackson stuck his head out. Without speaking, the Army Master Sergeant raised a questioning eyebrow at Carter, who just shook his head in response. With a mumbled “fuck” the tall black man ducked back inside.

  Tossing the empty water bottle into a nearby trashcan, Carter said his goodbyes to the two SEALs, then headed back into the bunker, pulling on the black, balaclava mask to hide his identity. It made him sweat like hell, but the alternative of letting the man see and possibly memorize his face was out of the question. He stopped outside the room where the prisoner sat in a lone chair with his arms tied behind his back. Akram Latif’s face and bare torso were covered in fresh bruises and two incisions Carter had made across his chest with a knife before the guy had broken down and started talking. Two prison guards, who had been trained to assist during the intense interrogations, stood on either side of the door, awaiting their next orders. Their faces were also hidden by masks. Jackson was watching the action from another room, via a camera feed. Taking a deep breath, Carter barked, “Fill the tub.”