Special Forces: Operation Alpha: Protecting New York (Kindle Worlds Novella) (4 page)

F
aulkner’s phone
finally pinged an incoming message. He held up a finger as he fished it out of his pocket.

There wasn’t a power on this earth strong enough to stop the hungry groan that escaped him when he saw what his girl had sent.

Cheyenne was standing in front of a full-length mirror in a lounge area done in soft rose and peach. The lighting cast Shy’s exposed flesh in a rich warm tone and really bought out her lingering tan. She had her back to the mirror, was holding her skirt around her waist with one hand and her phone over her shoulder with the other.

The woman had great legs and an ass that fueled his dreams. To see them displayed so beautifully—and that he could also see her face as well—was a bonus. She looked sexy as hell, biting her lip, her eyes open wide and a little worried as she focused. With her skirt pulled up only on one side the way it was, it partially obscured one globe of that succulent flesh. The fact that he knew her well enough to know this wasn’t an attempt to be peek-a-boo on purpose made it all the more alluring.

Because it only revealed
almost
everything, the sexy quota of the photo was through the roof. It did funny things to his gut that she was so eager and willing to explore this side of their nature. That she blossomed in her own feminine power as their bond grew tighter and tighter was a huge fucking turn on.

“Well, now,” he said, knowing he sounded smug as hell. “Not a thing to complain about.” And returned his phone to his pocket.

“God.” Riley suddenly appeared again, with a flurry of dark curls, scarlet lips and a dress to match. “That took forever. Sorry to keep you men waiting, but girls gotta talk when they travel in packs.”

“Yeah,” Terryn agreed and took her own seat next to Brice. “It’s never just about peeing.”

Cheyenne slipped into her seat on his left as though she were trying to sneak in undetected, and it was all Dude could do to keep a straight face. It was adorable how embarrassed she was. And it was invigorating how willing she was to obey, regardless.

As soon as she sat, Riley and Terryn both started talking. Loud and animated at the same time. Dude—and he wasn’t the only one—could tell they’d planned this. They were distracting their men so she could slip him the designated items.

Subs. How cute were they? Banded together to run interference for the newbie. He felt a whelming sense of affection for the two gorgeous women and a measure of gratitude. Anybody who looked out for his girl got high marks in his book.

“So? Brice?” Riley asked loudly, with a sweeping motion of her hands. “Where are Kent and Angie tonight again?”

Brice wiped his mouth with his napkin before answering. Dude was sure it was to mask his grin rather than wipe anything away. Couldn’t blame the guy—her overacting attempt to distract him
was
pretty cute.

“Well, beautiful,” he answered when he’d somewhat gotten his expression under control. “You know they aren’t into BDSM. To quote Kent quoting Angie when they found out that this night was going to include play, ‘You all have fun with that. We’re takin’ our vanilla asses to the cop banquet instead’, end quote.”

The entire table shared an easy laugh. It was then that Shy made her move and clumsily dropped the remote and her thong in his lap.

He tucked the underwear in his pocket and palmed the remote in his left hand.

Then he turned it on at the same time he asked, “And what about Gage? I thought he was going to make it tonight. No way that guy isn’t a Dom.”

Everyone at the table pretended not to notice the way Shy jumped in her chair or the loud clatter of her spoon when she dropped it into her bowl.

“Oh. He is.” This from Brice as well. “The issue there is, he’s married to my baby sister. There are just some things I don’t need to see, and my little Oops in full bondage is one of them.”

Everyone joined in on the soft laughter. Then Cade added, “Since Brice and Oops are also my cousins, we all mostly stick to separate nights out like this. Easier and more comfortable all around that way. Evan and Gage mostly take their subs out together, while Brice and Terryn tend to come out when we do.”

“Of course,” Riley added, “we all get together plenty when no play is involved.”

Dude was sure that was true. In any case, he had no cause to doubt it at this point. Besides, he was too focused on the woman seated next to him to care one way or the other.

His Shy was shifting in her seat and squirming like a kid on a church pew.

The thought of what was happening between her naked legs right now in this crowded restaurant was enough to make him feel drunk. The knowledge that he held the power to control her vibrator literally in the palm of his hand gave him a hard-on the likes of which he’d never known before. Fuck.

He never bargained on the biggest test of this night being his ability to wait and not just drag her back to their room before the evening even had a chance to start.

“You ladies were gone so long we took the liberty of ordering,” Brice said to the table at large, then turned and laid a gentle kiss on his woman’s nose. “We got you a steak, my little carnivore.”

“No gloating when it gets here, you,” Riley grouched in a mock-threatening voice, then turned to Dude and Shy. “She’s one of those lucky girls who eats like she’s a real life Lorelei Gilmore.” She shot a wistful and longing look toward her friend. “It’s her superpower and it is strong with this one. I wants it too.”

The meal progressed much as it started—with laughter and teasing flirty banter. Dude could tell the other subs were also receiving instructions. By the time the dessert plates were cleared away and coffees were poured, the sexual undercurrent clinging to the atmosphere was so palpable it was spreading to the tables around them.

Dude wasn’t the only one who noticed the couple at the table to the left discreetly groping each other when they thought no one was looking. And unless there was an echo in here, Shy wasn’t the only sub with a vibrator attached somewhere. All around them, there was a hush in the air filled with longing glances, teasing touches and hot stolen kisses.

Right then, Shy’s phone went off again.

Everybody froze as she pulled her phone out with hands that trembled just a little. There was no use for her to pretend that she didn’t realize every single person at the table knew who the text was from or what it was about.

Dude watched as she read.

Excuse yourself to the bathroom again. Lock yourself into a stall. And come for me. You have two minutes from the time you enter the stall. If you do not come during that time frame, you are to come back to the table and let me know. There will be consequences.

Cheyenne didn’t lift her head when she said in an embarrassed yet sex-drenched voice. “Excuse me. I have to go to the bathroom. Uh-um, again.”

“No.”

“Don’t even think about it.”

And, “Not a chance, Red.” All were spoken simultaneously when the other two women tried to stand to accompany her again.

Dude locked gazes with Cade and gave him a brief chin lift of thanks.

“Let the little subbie take this mission solo, ladies,” Cade told the others.

Shy gasped, then pushed to her feet on knees that wobbled a little.

* * *

D
eep
in the underbelly of the hotel, Miguel worked steadily and fiercely. The fury of a zealot was upon him as he neither ate nor stopped for breaks. Sweat drizzled like tiny rivers of tickling, taunting death down his brow. He was terrified.

Terrified he’d fail.

Terrified he’d succeed.

“Um, shit—” Miguel wiped the sweat from his eyes on his shoulder for what felt like the millionth time. “Hail Mary. Uh, Mother of God. Um, Hallowed be Thy name.” As the words fumbled to a halt, he had a flashback to the young pastor who used to come to his low-income neighborhood to take all the kids to Sunday school when Miguel was little. It didn’t take Miguel or any of the other kids long to realize their parents only let them go to get them out of their hair for two hours every Sunday.

It was boring as hell. Dorky as shit too, with all the stupid songs that would get stuck in your head for days and days. Good thing he was too old for that to happen anymore.

Without realizing he was doing it, Miguel started a quiet hum beneath his breath that sounded suspiciously like “This Little Light of Mine.”

He had enough C4 and dynamite to bring down the whole building. If he’d followed the instructions right. His mom had found a ton of web sites and ordered a shitload of books on how to blow crap up. She’d been smart, he told the voice in his head that whispered like a scared bitch, about the FBI tracking their online activity.

She’d ordered things like books on stump removal from their home computer or used a public library computer and ordered shit on demolishing big buildings.

She’d even ordered a bunch of workbooks like he was going to school for this crap, and made him study and take tests. Which she’d graded and everything.

Part of him wanted to complain about the fact that if she’d paid that much attention to his studies when he was still in high school, he might not have dropped out. He quickly shut that part down and told himself to focus.

His hands shook like he was Sketchy, the crackhead who lived in his apartment building, as he placed the heavy clay-like blocks of C4 and wrapped them in duct tape. Miguel told himself he only had three more to go after this. He’d already planted his wares in two different spots within the warren of tunnels below the glitzy and glamorous hotel. Each station he’d chosen was out of the way from normal employee activity. At least he hoped it was. The places were all dimly lit and dust covered, so it’d seemed unlikely to him that anyone would accidentally stumble upon them. He’d be fucked if someone did.

He tried hard to ignore the voice that said it would be the best thing that could happen.

Miguel struggled to bring back to mind all the reasons he was here. All the reasons his mother had worked so hard to send him. He mentally groped for the righteous indignation that had fueled him as he’d made his way through the building earlier. Those rages burned hot, but never for long and usually left him feeling hollow and hung over once they’d passed.

“You can do this.” His frustration at his lack of focus was so great he risked speaking out loud. Albeit in a whisper. “Stop being a pussy. Think of your brothers. Think of Ma and how hard she cried. How long she screamed. This is right.” His hands steadied briefly as his mind flashed on his brother’s grave. “This is the only way they will get justice.”

The shaking returned because though he’d spoke them, those last words were not his. Nor had they ever been. They were his Ma’s words. And he would never tell her this, but Miguel didn’t believe that killing a bunch of strangers was justice for anything.

As he struggled to find the strength to overcome his doubts, Miguel thought back to the last conversation he’d had with his mother before she’d packed him up and sent him clear across the country on his own.

“I didn’t raise no pussies in my house. You don’t stand there and try and tell me that you’re afraid to spill a little blood!” She’d paced the filthy tattered carpet of their cockroach-infested apartment, a beer in one hand and a half-gone cigarette in the other. She’d worn a tank top that had seen a few too many battles with the washing machine. The original color could have been anything from bright red to dark brown, but had then been a muddy sort of pink that seemed to leech all but the gray out of her skin. It had clung to a frame that had faded to scrawny from a once-supple figure. She’d topped off the look with white denim jeans that she refused to believe had gone out of fashion in the nineties.

His mother, Miguel had thought, had not just told him that he was a pussy if he didn’t kill people.

Had she?

“Ma?” he’d asked, outraged. “What the fuck?”

“You listen to me.” She’d pointed the cigarette at him in one skeletal hand. “You quit your holier than thou judginess on me. You hear me, you little som’ bitch?” She had rejoiced in calling him a son of a bitch in one form or another for as long as he could remember, because she said it was not calling him anything bad. It was his father who was the bitch.

“Look around you.” She’d motioned him toward the apartment’s single window. It had crusted over with so much filth no one could see out of it. “I ain’t messin’ with your sorry ass. Go look.”

When he’d pushed to his feet and stood before the window to try and see through the grime, she’d continued, and her voice grew fierce as she spoke. Filled with emotion like he had never heard from her before. “Look out there at them useless people. They are us. Broke as fuck. Dirty. Either homeless or about to be. Just takes one bad day for most of us. You know who died in that robbing your brother was a part of? Him. Him and his friends.
Only
him and his friends. You see any rich people die that day?”

She’d stuck the stogie in the corner of her lips and grabbed him by the shoulder. “No. You didn’t. And you won’t.
We
get murdered. Poor people get murdered and shot up every day. You hear all about it on the news. But nothing changes. Nothing stops it. You know why?” The smoke must have bothered her, because she’d grabbed what had been nothing more than a smoldering butt and went back to pointing it at him as her bloodshot eyes bored into his. “Because our deaths don’t matter to the rich. Don’t you see? We
gotta
do this. We gotta take some back for the underdogs! Somebody’s gotta stand up and show those rich motherfuckers that they can’t keep killing us. This is war now. War.”