“Having fun yet?” I whispered to him.
Glancing at me over his shoulder, he continued to haul me across the compound. “No, I fucking hate this. I feel like I’m hurting you, and it sickens me.”
Once we were out of everyone else’s sight, he released me, rubbing the tender spot on my upper arm that would be showing a prominent bruise soon. “I’m sorry.” Without waiting for a reply, he handed me an earpiece and mic before slipping on his own. Taking a few steps back, he spoke into the mic, “Testing . . .”
“Loud and clear.”
He nodded, signaling I was coming through on his end. We were standing in a small copse of trees at the rear of the main house. Wexler was gone and Strauss was occupied with the recruits. We didn’t have long but who knew when we’d get another opportunity. “Work your way around to the front and keep watch while I find the files. I’ll go out the back.”
“Copy that.” My bitchiness was gone; in its place was cool professionalism.
After a quick visual to confirm the coast was clear, Carter hurried toward the back porch steps and was inside within seconds. Moving swiftly, I made my around to the front of the house, staying in the shadows of the trees. Crouching down so I couldn’t be seen, I kept my gaze trained on the front door.
“Fuck, it stinks in here,” Carter rumbled in my ear.
Pressing the mic on my collar, I responded, “Sure it’s not just you?”
“Very funny. I did shower today, though, I assure you. There’s food sitting out in the kitchen. Nasty ass fucker.”
“Less talking, more sneaking. No idea how long the cocksucker will be gone. Move it.”
Minutes passed. The radio crackled slightly. Tapping it as if that would help, I watched in horror as Strauss appeared, striding across the compound and heading straight for the main house. Fuck! He didn’t appear to be in a hurry and wasn’t wearing his sidearm, but I had no doubt he was armed.
“Walk away . . . come on, fucker . . . go the other fucking way.” My murmured begging had no effect. Strauss bounded up the front stairs. “Carter, get the fuck out. Strauss is coming in.” No response. “Carter?” Crackling and the buzzing of static was my only answer. “Fuck!”
Jumping up, I ran toward the house. Strauss was inside and had shut the door behind him before I was halfway to the house. I had no weapon beyond my KA-BAR, it would have to do. I hurried up the stairs, avoiding the center of the boards which, according to Carter, squeaked. Seeing it was clear through the side window, I opened the door, and shut it softly behind me. Listening carefully, I heard footsteps toward the back of the first floor where Wexler’s office was located. Pulling my knife, I crept forward on silent feet. My heart was slamming around in my chest as dread and adrenaline shot through my system. Sweat dotted my brow but my hands were steady.
I heard a muffled thump and feared the worst.
10
It only took seconds for Carter to jimmy the lock to the backdoor of the house. For someone as wary as Wexler was, he didn’t have the greatest security measures. There were no alarms or cameras Carter had to take care of. Then again, why would Wexler need an alarm in a house on a secure and heavily guarded compound? The lock to the office was just as easy. It was one of those standard interior doorknobs that parents got to lock the kids out of their bedroom when they wanted a little nookie time alone. But when you didn’t have one of the universal keys handy, a nail was good in a pinch.
Once inside the office, he hurried behind Wexler’s desk. After their meeting the other day, Carter had watched as the leader put the manila files in the top, left drawer. On that lock he had to use the pick set he’d brought with him, but as with the other two, it was a piece of cake. Retrieving the files, he laid them on the desk and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He’d added a memory card earlier to the device so he could just drop it in the woods in a little while next to an inconspicuous operative masquerading as a pile of leaves.
A short pop of static sounded in his ear, and he froze. “Mic?” he whispered into the microphone hidden under the neckline of his shirt. There was no answer or further sounds. Shit. Wexler’s system to monitor cell phone calls was probably interfering with the radio frequency he and Mic were using.
This was the only chance he might have, so he yanked out his earpiece so he could use both ears to listen for anyone approaching. A brief scan of the UK and Germany files didn’t reveal any intel they weren’t already aware of. Opening the France folder, he quickly snapped photos of each page, some with text, and others with maps, before putting everything back the way he’d found it. Hurrying across the room, he glanced back to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.
He heard the door open and whipped back around, but it was too late. Strauss swung a marble statue he’d grabbed from a hallway table at his head, and although Carter ducked, it still made contact, glancing off his temple and sending him crashing to the ground. Fuck that hurt! He’d been so wrapped up in the mission and worrying about Mic, he’d let his guard down.
Nausea rolled through his stomach, and his skull felt like it was splitting open. Black and white stars flashed in front of his eyes as Strauss dropped on top of him wrapping his hands around Carter’s throat. He struggled against them, but the bastard was stronger than Carter had imagined he’d be. Red-faced and sweating, Strauss sneered as he put more pressure into his grip. “What are you? A fucking fed? ATF? Son of a bitch. Doesn’t fucking matter. They’ll never find your body.”
Shit. That’s usually my fucking line.
Getting a hand between them, Carter pushed up on the other man’s chin, but the head injury and position he was in put him at a disadvantage. His lungs screamed for air, but between the hands around his throat and the crushing weight of Strauss body on his chest, they were denied the vital oxygen they needed. His fingers stretched, aiming for the evil eyes staring down at him.
Suddenly Strauss’s head snapped back. The man’s mouth became an “O” in silent shock and pain as his body seized. His hands left Carter’s throat and tried to reach back for the KA-BAR Mic had shoved between his ribs to the left of the spine, but his attempts were in vain. She’d nailed the guy right in the heart—he’d be dead within a minute.
Carter’s lungs drank in copious amounts of air. “Don’t—” The word barely came out of his mouth in a hoarse whisper.
“I know, I know. I’m leaving it in there so he doesn’t bleed like the stuck pig that he is. I’m just pulling it out enough so his fucking heart stops. I wish I could say nice knowing you, Strauss, but I hate racist assholes like you. Tell the fucking devil I said hello.”
Moving from underneath a dying Strauss, Carter rolled to his knees and put a hand to his head. The room spun as Mic let go of her knife, and they both watched as the man died at her feet. While the blade in his back slowed the flow of blood, it had still darkened the man’s white shirt. They had to get him out of here before he bled onto the floor, or Wexler or anyone else showed up. Carter’s blood from the gash on his forehead had already dotted the oriental rug, but had blended in nicely with the red, gold, and green colors. Unless someone was looking for it, the drops would be hard to spot.
Ignoring the throbbing pain in his skull, Carter stood, trying to get his shaky legs to hold his weight. “You saved my life, Mic. Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it; you’d do the same for me. Let’s get this shit cleaned up. Did you get the fucking file at least?”
He chuckled, wiping the blood flowing down his forehead to his left eye. “All business. Our mission was almost blown, I’ve probably got a skull fracture, we have to figure out how to explain Strauss is missing, and you’re bossing me around—definitely a Domme. And yes, I found it. Took pictures of each page.”
“Whatever. We’ll pop open some champagne and celebrate later. Right now, we’re running out of fucking time.”
Carter reached for Strauss and with Mic’s help, a grunt, and a heave, he hefted the man’s dead weight onto his shoulder an
d headed for the kitchen. “There’s an old well out back. We’ll dump him in there. Put the statue on the table in the hallway.”
Mic relocked the office door and placed the marble, naked lady where she belonged, before pushing past Carter to open the backdoor for him, double checking to make sure they hadn’t missed anything obvious. “The well works for me. Just be sure to tell Phillips not to drink the water.”
After Mic recovered her KA-BAR, Carter pitched the body head first into the deep well with a grunt. A satisfying splash echoed up the stone walls. “Always the comedian, aren’t you?”
“You love me and you know it.”
She wiped the blade on the grass and used some leaves to clean her hands as best she could. Carter’s appearance wouldn’t be so easily fixed. He now had Strauss’s blood on one side of his shirt while his own blood covered the other side where it had flowed from his wound down his neck. Mic eyed him appreciatively as he pulled off his ruined, white T-shirt.
“Like what you see?” he asked with a smirk as he wiped the blood off his face and neck, then tossed the shirt into the well. The cut on his head was still seeping, but they could explain it as Mic having gotten one good shot in before he’d whipped her ass. “Let’s go grab a shower and then get these photos to the contact.”
“There you go, again. Trying to get me in the damn shower. Give it a rest already.”
He chuckled. “It was worth a shot, sweetheart.”
Wexler was pissed as he stared down into the well. His gaze was filled with rage as he turned to the man standing next to him. “How’d you find out he was a fed?”
Carter shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest. “I wasn’t sure at first. I spotted him in the woods last night on my run, and he kept looking around like he was worried someone was going to see him, but I didn’t see what he was up to. I didn’t want to bring it to your attention until I was sure—I mean, he was your second-in-command.”
Wexler’s eyes narrowed at the subtle jab, but he didn’t acknowledge that he might have screwed up appointing Strauss to the revered position.
“Anyway, while everyone was on the range before, he apparently told Robisch he needed to take care of something and headed up to the main house. I was coming out of my cabin after I put my woman in her place for her smart mouth again. I knew you weren’t home yet, and again, Strauss was looking like he didn’t want anyone seeing him. I followed him in and found him sneaking around your office. I know you’re the only one with a key, so he must have picked it or something. He freaked when I confronted him. We fought.” He pointed to the now clotted wound on his forehead as if that proved his statement. “Bastard pulled a knife on me and I turned it on him. Tossed him in here so no one would ask questions you didn’t want to answer with the mission coming up. Figured you’d make up a story to cover it for now.”
Carter retrieved a burner phone from his pocket. It was one of two he’d hidden in his room for emergencies—which this small cluster fuck qualified as. As soon as they’d gotten back to the room, he’d looked up the number for the Denver FBI office, then made a call to it. While he’d showered, Mic had taken care of dropping the memory card in the woods so Liam could pass on the information to the right agencies.
Showing the cell phone to the general, he said, “Found this in his room. Only one number on it, and it’s to the Denver FBI office.”
“Fuck,” Wexler spat. “When was the last call he made?”
Carter shrugged like he hadn’t thought to check and brought up the call log. “Right before I saw him enter the house, lasting three and a half minutes.”
Scowling, Wexler ran a hand down his face while Carter waited like a good minion when what he really wanted to do was throw the bastard down with his second-in-command in the well. The sadistic leader paced back and forth.
“Should we postpone D-day?” Carter asked.
Wexler spun to face him. “No! Everything’s already scheduled. Besides, Strauss didn’t know everything. No one does except me. If the feds interfere with the plans, they won’t be able to stop everything.”
His blood running cold, Carter fought the urge to attack and torture the man. What had he missed? Each country had three stadiums as targets. They now knew where and when. So what weren’t they aware of? He hadn’t noticed anything in the files that he hadn’t already learned or been told. Shit!
Following Wexler back to the main house, he ran the details of the D-day mission in his head. Bombs would be placed by the fake security officers and employees throughout the stadiums. When they went off at halftime, moments after the communication towers were taken out, New Order soldiers, pretending to be tailgaters in the parking lot, would be waiting to spray bullets into the crowds of people trying to escape. Using high capacity assault rifles, they would shoot as many innocent people as they could within two minutes before heading for the exits in the ensuing chaos.
But that’s not where it ended. Vehicles packed with explosives would be left behind scattered around the parking lots. Cars, SUVs, and vans, were set to explode fifteen minutes later after scores of first responders were on the scene and most of those who’d survived the initial assaults thought they were safe. As Strauss had said a few days ago, it was going to be like shooting fish in a barrel.
“Major.”
Carter came to attention in the very room he’d almost lost his life in earlier. Damn, he owed Mic big time. “Yes, sir.”
“Find Robisch and tell him I want to see him. Then take two men you trust and make sure every building and the perimeters are secure. We’re leaving first thing in the morning.”
“A day early, sir?” Shit, this wasn’t good. They now had less than eighteen hours to coordinate raids in four countries.
“Yes. Have the men finish loading the weapons and gear. I want each team at their assigned locations by tomorrow night. In the morning, I’ll give everyone the GPS coordinates of where they’ll hole up until it’s time to head to the stadiums.”
“Understood. Anything else, sir?”
Wexler shook his head. “Dismissed.”
Since he had to remain visible, pretending to make sure everything was secure, Carter sent Phillips in his place to a scheduled meeting with Ian to pass on the revised information. The raid would now have to be at 0400 hours tomorrow morning. They didn’t have to worry about this compound, as Jackson and Ian had approximately one hundred feds and special ops men and women ready to converge onto the property at a moment’s notice. The UK and Germany were also prepared for their raids. France was the one that would have to scramble to the main compound they’d just learned about. The other worry in his gut was that they were missing something—something vital—something that would put this mission in the failure column. Fuck!
Wexler stared at the door Major Carter had just walked through. His jaw clenched. How could he have missed Strauss being an undercover fed? And how many more had infiltrated his organization? Failure was not an option.
He’d planned this down to the last detail. Five years in the making, the New Order had grown, not just in the US but in the UK, France, and Germany. Hitler hadn’t been wrong; he’d just been born in the wrong era. His brilliant mind would have excelled in this day and age, and brought the rest of the world to its knees. Hitler was long deceased, though, but men like Wexler were more than willing to carry out the man’s prophecy. The perfect race would rise again.
Pulling his phone from his pants pocket, he dialed the number for the man who he trusted above all else. When the call was picked up, he didn’t wait for a greeting. “We may have a problem. I’ve moved up the timetable to get on the road. If anything happens, if you don’t hear from me by noon tomorrow, I’m counting on you to get it done. Heil Hitler, my brother.”
11
His internal clock hit 3:05 in the morning, and Carter awoke without moving a muscle. Mic was just as still, yet he knew she was awake too. In cotton shorts and a T-shirt, she was spooned against his bare chest and abs, as well
as his groin and thighs, which were covered by his sweatpants, just as she had been practically every night they’d slept together. Weird as it may sound, this was the longest he’d ever shared a bed with a woman, not to mention that sleeping was all they’d done.
He picked his head up a few inches and whispered in her ear, “I’m going to miss this, waking up next to you. I kind of like it. You know, it’s not too late to consummate this boyfriend/girlfriend relationship. We have a half hour or so to kill.”
Shocking the shit out of him, she shifted her hips and ground her ass against his morning wood, which had him hardening further in an instant. His arm around her waist tightened. All hope was lost, though, when he heard and felt her chuckle.
“Damn, woman. That was so wrong. I’m upgrading my opinion of you. You’re not just a Domme—you’re a sadistic Domme.”
“And don’t you forget it.”
Rolling onto his back, he sighed. They still had to worry about the listening bugs in the room, but stealth was something they were both accustomed to. Mic had gotten a hands-on lesson in that during this op and proved she was a fast learner. He’d spoken the truth moments ago. He was seriously going to miss her—not just in his bed, but working with her. They’d developed more than a teammates or friends relationship during the op. It was something he couldn’t explain. Maybe kinship was the word he was looking for. Whatever it was, Bea “Mic” Michaels would only have to snap her fingers in the future and Carter would move heaven and Earth—and even Hell—to run and cover her six.
By the time the digital clock on the nightstand read 3:25, they were dressed and geared up. Mic looked badass dressed in her black tactical clothing and armed to the teeth. She had a KA-BAR, three guns—on her hip, back, and ankle—and ammo in every available pocket. He was sure if he frisked her, he’d find a few more surprises just as he had on his own body.
No Way in Hell: A Steel Corp/Trident Security Crossover Novel (Steel Corps/Trident Security Book 2) Page 9