The waitress returned with their beers and then left again. As Reese continued to stew silently, Ian grabbed his phone, found the number he was looking for in his contacts, pressed “Send,” and waited for the call to be answered.
“Hello, Ian. You’ve got three minutes before my next client walks in.” Dr. Trudy Dunbar was a psychologist he’d known for the past few years. Although she wasn’t in the lifestyle herself, she’d done her dissertation on BDSM, so they referred members of The Covenant to her when a Dom or sub needed professional treatment. It wasn’t uncommon for an individual’s personal problems to interfere with their play time or reasons for being in the lifestyle, and that could result in someone getting hurt. Trudy had helped several members from the club. She was also on the government’s approved list to work with veterans who were privy to sensitive or classified information, and knew how to skirt around the subjects that couldn’t be talked about.
“Hey, Doc. I need a military referral up in D.C. One of my new employees has been seeing someone, but I don’t think it’s working for him. Survivor’s guilt from things associated with SERE, among other things.” The acronym stood for Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape in the world of spec ops, with “resistance” referring to torture. He didn’t want to say that over the phone in the busy restaurant, but the doc would easily figure it out. “He’ll need three to six months up here, before he moves to Tampa, and then I’ll hook him up with you or one of your approved colleagues.”
“D.C., huh? Who’s he seeing now?”
Not needing to ask, he responded, “David Preston.”
Surprised at hearing the name of his shrink, Reese’s eyebrows almost hit his hairline, yet he didn’t say anything. Trudy’s fingernails clacking on a keyboard came over the phone, so Ian held it away from his mouth. “How do you think I found you today? I wouldn’t have a successful business if I couldn’t track your ass down in less than five minutes. Well, technically, my geek extraordinaire, Brody Evans, found you, but I refuse to let him know he deserves the credit. His fucking ego is already too big when it comes to shit like that.”
“Ian?”
“I’m still here, Trudy. Whada ya got for me?”
“Sara Tennyson, she’s in Georgetown. I met her at a conference last year and was very impressed with a lecture she gave on PTSD in POWs. She’s worked with a few that had been captured and rescued in Iraq and Afghanistan. Did he try a session with her yet?”
He eyed Reese. “Have you tried Dr. Sara Tennyson?” The man shook his head. “No, he hasn’t. Can you send me the info?”
Before he had a chance to finish the question, his phone chimed with an incoming text. “Done. I have to run. If you need anything else, call me after 4 p.m.”
“Thanks, Doc. I owe you.” He disconnected the call and retrieved a pen and business card from the side pocket of his cargo pants. After copying the information Trudy had sent him, he slid the card over to Reese. “Give her a call. Like I said to the doc, you’ve got six months—max—to get your head on straight and get down to Tampa. That’s when the last of the new team cycle out of their respective tours and report for duty. In the meantime, hit the gym, firing range, and sparring mat, and get your ass back in fighting condition. When you’re ready to move, we’ve got bunks at the compound—you’re welcome to stay there until you decide to look for you own place. As for telling the rest of the Omega Team what you went through, it’s their right to know who’s covering their six. I don’t want to hit them with it right away, though. I want you working as a team first, so they can see how good you are before they have to make a decision on whether or not they want to work with you.”
Reese appeared to mull everything over. His anger had been dialed down and morphed into understanding. “And if they decide I’m not good enough or they don’t want to work with me because they don’t think they can trust me, then what?”
Leaning forward, Ian pinned him with an unwavering stare. “Then I’ll put you on my team. That is, as long as you don’t give me any reason to regret it and force me to fire your ass. I’m willing to give you a chance, if you’re willing to take it, Marine. No promises that everything is going to be a fucking fairy tale with pink unicorns and Snow-fucking-White—that’s not the world we live in—but if you give me one hundred percent, I’ll give it back to you in return. So . . . is this a done deal or do we have to sit here and negotiate some more?”
He held out his hand and waited. Seconds ticked by before Reese nodded and extended his own and they shook on it. “Done.”
“Welcome aboard.”
The Dom sat back in the comfortable, wingback chair and watched the female sub get worked over with a whip during the evening’s demonstration. His cock got harder with each crack of the leather, then a sharp cry of pain, followed by a moan of pleasure. Actually, he could do without that last part. It was the first two things that turned him on. In his mind, it was him wielding the whip, and instead of the pink welts up and down the woman’s back, they were deep and bleeding. She would be begging—not for more, as she was now, but for him to stop. For him to end her suffering in the only way possible . . . with death.
Why that was his fantasy, he didn’t know, but lately, that was what he needed to conjure up in his mind in order to ejaculate, whether in some sub’s mouth, pussy, or ass, or his own hand. But it was a fantasy he couldn’t indulge in—at least, not here in the club. One of the main requirements for using a whip in the respected BDSM clubs in the area was that the Doms had to prove they were proficient enough they never broke the skin with the repeated strikes. It took months, even years of training and practicing to become good enough—he knew because he’d gone through it and was approved for the impact play at several clubs. Practice and testing were done with very thin pieces of paper taped against the wall. If the Dom could hit the paper, over and over, without ripping it, then they were allowed to whip a sub on the play floor.
Shifting in the chair, he tried to give his hard-on some room in his leathers. He’d found the lifestyle a few years ago, pretty much by accident, but it hadn’t taken him long to realize it was what he’d been missing in his life. The sights, smells, and sounds that filled the air during play called to him. The first night he’d been surrounded by it all, he knew it was where he belonged, and he’d immediately signed up to train as a Dom. Yet, lately, he was getting the feeling that something was missing again. What would it be like if he didn’t have to hold himself back? If he could push a sub past her yellow limits, and beyond her red limits? If he didn’t have to honor a safeword? It would be up to him, not the sub, to say when enough was enough. He couldn’t do that here, but maybe he could find a place where he was the ultimate rule maker, and only his word mattered. It was something to think about.
He reached out and stroked the blonde hair of the sub who had agreed to play with him later. In a snug, black, strapless bodice and short, leather skirt that barely covered her ass cheeks, she was kneeling on a pillow on the floor next to him. Her pale, porcelain skin coincided with her Irish heritage, and he wondered what it would look like covered in stripes from his whip—not pink, but red. Deep, dark, crimson red.
With the macabre image in his mind, he leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Come, my pet, it’s time to go play.”
C
HAPTER 5
Eleven Months Later . . .
Pushing the heavy glass and metal door open, Dakota left the station, still confused about her conversation with her sergeant. For the first time in a very long while, she held onto a glimmer of hope. He’d told her a Captain Al Bowman had requested a meeting with her at the Special Ops Division. The reason for her confusion was because she’d finally given up on applying for an undercover position six months ago. She’d scored high on the supervisor exam and was also on the detective’s list, but in her heart, she’d still been disappointed at being consistently passed over for UC work.
Opening the passenger door to the patrol car, she climbed in. Some
days, she rode solo, but today she was partnered with Ric who was staring at her, expectantly. “Well? What did Sarge want?”
Dakota opened and closed her mouth several times before the words finally came. “Captain Bowman in SOD wants me in his office ASAP. Any idea who he is? I’ve never heard of him.” With nearly 1000 officers on Tampa PD and over 350 civilians in support positions, scattered between fifteen police stations, it was impossible to know everyone.
Putting the vehicle in drive, Ric pulled out of the parking lot and headed across town to where the Special Ops Division was located. “No idea. Maybe newly promoted?”
“Could be.” Her mind raced as she tried to tell herself not to get too excited. It would suck to get all psyched up only to find out the meeting had nothing to do with a UC assignment.
“Think you’re in?”
“How? I didn’t put an app in the last time a position opened.” But her previous applications would still be on file. “Anyway, I don’t want to get my hopes up, so let’s talk about something else until I find out what’s going on.”
Ric knew her well enough to change subjects to the date he’d gone on the night before. By the time he pulled into the station that housed the SOD, Dakota had her nerves under control again. Leaving him in the car, she headed inside and found her way to the captain’s office. After she introduced herself to his secretary, the woman picked up the phone and notified Bowman that the officer he was expecting was there. Dakota was then told to have a seat as the captain would be a few more minutes.
Thankfully, the chairs in the sitting area were wide enough to accommodate the duty belt resting on Dakota’s hips. A holstered .40 caliber handgun, extra ammo clips, two pairs of handcuffs, keys, pepper spray, and a PR24 baton were all attached to the belt. Add a backup pistol in a holster above her ankle, a Taser strapped to her left thigh, and her bullet-proof vest, she was wearing twenty extra pounds of equipment.
While waiting, she pulled out her cell phone and scrolled through some emails and Facebook notifications that had popped up over the last few hours. There was nothing big or overly interesting, but it kept her mind busy, and the butterflies in her stomach in check. Suddenly, the door to the captain’s office swung open, and a familiar looking man, dressed in a navy-blue polo shirt, with the TPD SOD logo on it, and khakis, waved her inside. His crew cut was sandy-blond, and his kind, green eyes welcomed her into his office. Standing, Dakota racked her brains, trying to remember where she knew him from, but couldn’t place him—must have been at some police function.
Entering the spacious office, she was surprised to see two other men, in civilian clothes, sitting at a small conference table. And, holy hell, were they good-looking. One was in his late thirties, with black hair, wearing a blue, polo shirt that matched his incredible eyes. The other was about ten or fifteen years older, with eyes the color of hot cocoa and salt-and-pepper hair—giving new meaning to the words “silver fox.” Their intense stares in her direction had her legs quivering, and she had to fight the urge to drop her gaze to the floor, followed by the rest of her to her knees. Stop it. You’re at work, not the club.
The man who’d waved her inside held out his hand. “Officer Swift, I’m Captain Al Bowman.” After she shook his hand, he gestured to an empty chair at the table. “Have a seat. Let me introduce you to Special Agent Cole Parrish of the FBI and Ian Sawyer from Trident Security.”
Neither man said anything, but both acknowledged her with a nod of the head. Dakota swallowed hard as she took her seat. Bowman sat next to her and silence filled the room. All three men were studying her, and she fought the need to squirm under their scrutiny or glance down at her uniform to see if something was out of place. Unable to take the silence, she cleared her throat, and directed her gaze toward her superior. “Was there a reason you wanted to see me, sir?”
The man glanced at Sawyer and Parrish. The former’s mouth ticked up at the corners but never fully formed a smile, while the other man remained stoic. When both gave another curt nod of their heads, Bowman leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. “I’ve called you in for a special reason, Swift. There’s an assignment I think you’d be perfect for—and not just because of your stellar career and the high praise you’ve received from you superiors—although those are major pluses. What I’m about to say has only been shared with these two men—no one else in the department is aware of this to my knowledge. If you turn down the assignment, then it goes no further than this room and you have nothing to worry about. It’s obvious you don’t recognize me, Swift, but we have been introduced before, about six months ago . . . at Pandora’s Box.”
Dakota’s confusion gave way to shock as her jaw dropped along with her stomach. Oh shit. “I’m sorry, sir, I—I don’t recall . . .”
He held up a hand. “That’s okay. It was only a brief introduction, and don’t worry, I didn’t ask to negotiate with you, nor did you turn me down.” A grin spread across his face. “One of the owners told me you were on the force—she didn’t want either of us running into an issue. I made it a point to avoid you since then, so don’t worry about not recognizing me.”
Now Dakota remembered him, and being on the same police department wasn’t the only reason he hadn’t tried to negotiate with her months ago. The other was that Captain Bowman was gay. She recalled he was a Dom with a long-term male submissive. Clearly, he had no problem announcing the fact he was in the lifestyle, but he still kept a few facts to himself.
Shit. That was why she’d joined a club in Kissimmee, an hour’s drive from her condo. She hadn’t wanted to run into anyone from the department. She had a hard enough time being a female officer in a man’s world and didn’t need any of those men to know she was a sexual submissive. Pandora’s Box was a members-only BDSM club that thoroughly vetted all applicants. It was the only reason the owners of the club, Mistress Raven and Madame Lola—who preferred the rarer title to honor her French heritage—knew Dakota was a police officer in the first place.
“Sorry, I didn’t remember you right away, Captain, but, now, I do recall meeting you.”
“Good. Now, I wouldn’t normally out you like this, but Master Ian, Master Cole, and I need your help. I’m sure you’ve heard about the Kink Killer.”
Holy shit. She should have known the two other men were Doms from their intense stares alone. And they needed her help? The press had dubbed the sadistic psycho, who was whipping his victims to death, the Kink Killer—how fucking original. Five women had been kidnapped and murdered so far, that they were aware of. Several other missing women might be victims, but their bodies hadn’t been found so they couldn’t be officially added to the count. “Who hasn’t? It’s been all over the news and the department.”
Parrish picked up a pen and twirled it through his fingers while he spoke. “Well, we’ve managed to keep a few things away from the press. Have you had breakfast yet?”
His fast change of topic confused her. “Um . . . no, not yet.”
The fed slid a manila folder toward her. “Good, because the photos are quite gruesome.”
Swallowing the spit that had gathered in her mouth, Dakota opened the file. As she stared at the first picture, she understood his concern. Her stomach roiled at the sight, and she was grateful it was empty. Any seasoned veteran of law enforcement would have reacted the same way as long as they had an ounce of sympathy. Whoever the woman had been, she was now a mass of abused flesh. Her body, from her neck to her feet, was covered in deep lacerations. There was barely a quarter of an inch between them. Dakota glanced at Parrish in revulsion. “He cut them all like this? With what?”
“A bull whip.”
Her jaw clenched as her gaze went back to the photo. There were almost no marks on the victim’s face, so they’d probably been able to identify her easily, but the rest of her body looked like something one would see in a slaughterhouse. The next few photos were of different women who had been tortured to death in the same manner. “Jesus Christ.”
“He can’t help them now,” Sawyer deadpanned, although it was clear he wasn’t trying to be funny.
Parrish dropped the pen on the table and leaned forward. “Here’s where you come in, Officer Swift. We’ve put together a task force to catch this bastard. In order to do that, we need to send officers and agents to the clubs in and around Tampa—undercover. Obviously, we can’t just send anyone in—they need to have knowledge of the lifestyle and be able to pass as either a submissive or a Dom—especially in the private clubs. If you accept the assignment, you’ll be under Captain Bowman’s and my command for the duration of the case.”
“I’m in.” There was no hesitation on Dakota’s part, and none of the men appeared surprised at her quick response. This was what she’d been striving for all these years—a chance to prove she was good enough to be transferred to SOD. There was no way she’d decline the assignment. “What’s next?”
“You take the rest of the morning off and report to the FBI headquarters at 3:00 p.m.—plainclothes. And I’m sorry in advance for the fed you’ll be partnered with, but I have no choice.” Parrish grimaced. “We don’t have enough Doms and subs on the force or local agency, whose attachment to law enforcement is unknown, to cover all the clubs—public and private. We’re pairing up some of the local agents with an experienced member of the lifestyle. You’ll be the lead inside of whatever club you’re assigned to even though you’ll go in as a sub. Your partner will be told that, and if he gives you any trouble, I want to know about it.”
Oh, great. She was probably going to get stuck with a high-and-mighty asshole. “Understood.”
“Unfortunately, the local SAC, Stonewall, is a prick, asshole, twatwaffle, and douche bag all rolled into one,” Sawyer said, before grinning at her. “Can’t you tell I just love the guy?”
A Dead Man's Pulse: Trident Security Omega Team Book 1 Page 5