Elite Metal-ARE-epub (3 page)

“No…” The word fell from his lips as realization crashed down on him. He scrambled forward, forgetting everything but getting to his best friend.

He slipped in the ice and blood and landed on his belly beside his fallen brother.

Sniper fire lit up somewhere. Steele was exposed but he didn’t care.

“Zinc!” He rolled him onto his back, tearing away Zinc’s thermal mask.

The roar of the fires, the pop of gunfire, everything faded away as his focus narrowed to the pale face, shiny with sweat, and covered in blood.

No. No it wasn’t supposed to go down like this. Not here. Not this way.

“Hang in there, brother. Hang in there. Evac is on its way.”

Damn it. His hands fluttered over Zinc’s chest. The Kevlar covering him looked like shredded tissue paper. Where the hell wasn’t the man hit with shrapnel.

“Get. To. Safe—” Zinc stuttered.

“Not without you.”

“Go.”

“No!” he roared and clutched at the bloody jacket. “Not without you!”

“Please…” Zinc’s eyelashes fluttered and his breath hitched.

“Fuck me. Damn it. You hang on, you asshole. Got it? Hang on.” Beneath his palms he felt the rise and fall of Zinc’s chest go slower and slower. “No. You can’t do this shit to me,Zach. You will not die on me.”

The corner of Zinc’s lips twitched in the briefest of smiles as his eyelids drifted shut. “Looks like. You’re. Gonna win. That bet…”

Chapter Two

“Hey, Johnson,” the rig manager shouted. “Don’t even think about lighting up. What are you, stupid?”

Steele paused with his thumb on the cylinder of his grandfather’s antique Zippo. Almost two years, and it still took him a second to respond to his new name.

“Did you need something, boss?” he asked around the stub of his cigar.

“Yeah, I need you to stop trying to blow us to smithereens, dipshit.”

A dozen ways to kill the oil rig manager filtered through his mind—all of them far more painful than going down in a ball of flames.

Judging by the way the man paled and lifted his hardhat to swipe at the sweat on his shiny, hair transplant-covered head, he was reading Steele loud and clear.

“Anyway,” the rig boss continued after clearing his throat. “The last boat to Santa Barbara is leaving for shore in ten minutes.”

“So?”

“So, per union rules I gotta remind you of your right to take your leave.”

“Thanks.” He scratched at the goatee covering his chin then crossed his arms over his chest. “And as usual, I’ll stay right here.”

“Please. Go to shore, Johnson. Take a day off. Take a week off. You’ve got enough vacation time. Go get laid or something.”

If only the heat of a woman could ease the ache he carried in his chest. It had been too long since he found pleasure in having a woman pliant and submissive beneath him. After a while he found the effort he put into dominating a partner wasn’t even close to the payoff. It was then that he began to spend all of his time on the rig.

“Don’t worry, boss, I’ll stay out of your…hair,” he said with a smirk. “You won’t even know I’m here.” At six foot five inches in height and two hundred and forty pound of muscle, he almost took up a quarter of the rig’s platform by himself.

“Funny. Everyone thinks they’re a comedian.” He huffed and stomped toward the staircase as he muttered. “Bust a guy’s chops ‘cause he wants to look nice for his lady friend.”

As the pong of his boss’ footsteps pounding down the stairs faded, Steele brought the lighter up and watched the little flame kiss the end of his Cuban.

The one good thing about US opening up relations to Cuba, he could restock his stash. What cigars he’d been able to procure before he went underground was running low. He sucked in a long inhalation and enjoyed the burn of smoke killing the capillaries in his lungs as the sound of Zinc’s voice reverberated in his head.

“Those things will kill ya,” Zinc used to say.

Yep. If he was lucky.

The ocean breeze swept the cigar smoke away faster than he could produce it while flecks of ash stung his eyes. He leaned his forearms against the railing of the deck to stare down into the depths of the Pacific Ocean. Gritting his teeth, he watched the splash of sea lions in the distance as the weight of the dog tags around his neck pushed the fabric of his t-shirt away from his chest.

They didn’t belong to him. Zinc’s dog tags should have gone to his fiancée, but the moment the bedraggled remains of their team returned stateside, the government forced them underground. It was a shit deal after almost twenty years of service to the Corps, God and Country, but he wasn’t that surprised. Not really. The elite recon teams were so secret, they had always worked with the understanding that if they were caught with their asses hanging out, they were going to get fucked. And they got fucked. Hard. And without any lube.

Of the fifteen Marines who’d left on that mission, only six survived. Six.

All of Titanium’s were lost, half of Chrome’s. Zinc.

Dead. All the rest dead.

As soon as word of what happened got to the rest of his team, they immediately flew back to base. They were all brought to where Steele and the rest were being debriefed.

Routine he’d thought.

Only when his superiors denied him the opportunity to attend Zinc’s funeral had reality hit him like a sledgehammer to the gut. His friend was dead.

But the teams had been disavowed. They were all dead, all eighteen members of Elite Recon.

According to the US Marine Corps, all members of the three teams had been killed doing training exercises in the Baltic Sea. Except some of those caskets returned to the families at home had been empty.

But not Zinc’s. And not Uranium’s, or Tungsten’s, or Titanium and all of his fucking team. Those men and one woman had been returned to the earth with a twenty-one-gun salute while the rest had been scattered to the wind, just like the ashes from his cigar.

Most of their bodies weren’t recoverable from Russia. Another explosion had knocked Steele out as he tried to protect Zinc and he didn’t remember anything else until he woke on a chopper flown by Mercury.

He hadn’t even been able to say goodbye—to any of them.

After they got home they wouldn’t even let him get Titanium’s dog, a golden retriever. To this day he hoped Titanium’s girl still had him. Loved him.

He thought of his little sister, wondering if she was okay. Hoping—

With a shake of his head he kicked that gravy train of regret in the balls. Protecting her with his death was the only gift he could ever give her.

The sting of tears he blamed on the breeze and smoke as he took another long drag and watched the gray billow dissipate into the night sky.

As the haze cleared, he caught a movement from the corner of his eye. He turned and spotted three black shapes moving in the shadow.

Shit. Those hadn’t been sea lions.

Pfft.

“Ah,” he grunted and slapped at the dart embedded into his neck.

Who tracked him down? Russian intelligence? Red Wolf? Or was the US government ready to make sure he was a mistake that never came back to haunt them?

Adrenaline shot whatever drug they loaded him up with through his blood stream like a rocket, and instantly his body went heavy as though sand filled his veins. His knees gave way as if the bones had been replaced by Slinkies. He bobbed and stumbled into the railing.

Stay calm. Stay the fuck calm.

“It’s best if you don’t resist us, Steele,” said the tallest of the trio. Other than the height difference, the three looked like triplets in matching wetsuits and face masks.

American accent? So, he was being called home.

“What? You thought I’d make this easy for you?” he sputtered past numb lips and inched back, searching for a way to escape.

At this point it was looking as if the only option was over the railing to the open ocean below. If he was limp enough, he might be able to pop to the surface like a cork. If not, well…

“We’ve come to collect you.”

“Really? I’m no fucking postage stamp.”

With the last of his energy, he swung his leg around with a roundhouse kick, knocking the front man into his buddy behind him. Spots floated in his vision as he threw a right hook followed by an upper cut. From the sounds of grunting and a gasp of pain, he knew he connected with something, but he couldn’t tell what.

Two pairs of hands latched on to his arms and pulled him to the ground.

“Nice to see he hasn’t lost his spirit,” one of them said. “Even doped up, he still packs a bunch. Damn, I think he broke a tooth.”

“You’re so dead,” he slurred as the world went black. Either the ghosts put a bag over his head or the drugs victoriously sucked him under. “Dead, you… mother…”

* * * * *

Sweat trickled down his cheek. The sweltering fabric pressed against his face added to the discomfort of a throbbing head. Exhaustion weighed him down as though he’d hiked a hundred miles with an eighty-pound pack on his back.

Steele licked his lips and tasted nothing but nappy cotton and an acrid, metallic aftertaste. The nauseous feeling reminded him of his time in training when he had been drugged to condition his body to withstand enemy torture.

Drugged.

What the hell?

His eyes flew open to a vision of black, black and more black.

Oh… Right.

Memories of his last moments on the oil rig came flooding back. The men in black, the sting of the needle, and missing his former life so badly, he’d been tempted to jump into the ocean and sink to the rocky bottom.

But he hadn’t jumped. He’d fought, fought with his last breath.

Huh, well what do ya know.
He did have the will to live after all.

But for how much longer would he have the opportunity to do something with the rediscovered desire?

In typical hostage fashion, his arms and legs were shackled to a wooden chair. Judging by the sturdiness of the seat under his ass and the fine, smooth finish under his palms, this wasn’t a rickety dime store chair. It didn’t even creak as he shifted his weight from side to side. Hmm, so whoever was holding him had enough money to afford quality furnishings for their interrogations.

Since he couldn’t see shit through the hood, he slowed his breathing and tried to gather as much intel as he could.

Wherever he was, it was hot. A slight breeze from his right tickled the hair on his bare arms. The flooring under his shoes was solid, without the slightest give. Concrete probably. And the scent of gasoline and motor oil tickled his nose. An exhaust fan roared nearby, but the room was cavernous, lacking the noise reduction sensation from insulated walls. A warehouse, for certain, or something similar.

And he wasn’t alone.

Time to get the party started.

“Okay, you motherfuckers. You know I’m awake and I know one of you has a deviated septum. So let’s just get down to it, shall we?”

The click-clack of a pair of heels reverberating off the floor was an interesting surprise.

“Remove his hood,” a woman ordered.

The fabric was ripped over his head, and he blinked in the bright light to focus his vision. Once the spots dissipated he locked on to the beautiful female dressed in the sexy-librarian pencil skirt and high heels. She had a semi-circle of assholes standing behind her. Eight of them. The same men who’d drugged him.

At least he assumed they were some of the same men who had shanghaied him earlier. Gone were the wet suits, replaced with black fatigues, but the masks were still in place, and to his amusement one of the men sported a black and blue bruise on the bit of flesh visible through the eyeholes.

“Hello, Steele,” the woman said with a no nonsense smile. “My name is Poppy.”

“Poppy?” He raked his gaze up her long legs, slim waist and small breasts encased in a tight while blouse. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a tight bun at the nape of her neck that drew attention to her flawless pale skin and beautiful green eyes. She looked like a classy dame, but then again, appearances could be deceiving. “Sounds like a stripper’s name.”

“There’s no need for the attitude, Mr. Steele. In fact, you should be thankful that my men found you before the Russians did. Seems they were hours away from capturing you.”

“So I’m supposed to be grateful that you had your goons drug my ass and kidnap me? What was wrong with a simple phone call?

Her smile curved upward. “You would have listened?”

“If I knew it was you on the line and you were naked,” He shrugged. “Maybe.”

“I apologize for the extreme secrecy. We had to act fast to insure you arrived here safely and without detection.”

“And where is here, exactly?”

“Welcome to the headquarters of Elite Metal,” she said with her arms spread wide.

“Elite what?”

“Elite Metal. Your new team.”

Okay. Maybe he had jumped into the ocean after all.“ Whatever it is you’re smoking, I don’t want any.”

“Allow me to explain or at least start at the beginning. Operation Phoenix.”

Physically he strove to keep his expression uninterested, but on the inside he doubled over as if she’d kicked him in the nuts. What would this woman know about that mission?

Unless…

“You’re the operative that sold us out. Aren’t you?” he growled and struggled to his feet, chair and all.

Several men jumped into action, grabbing him by the shoulders and slamming him back to the floor.

“No, I am not. But I know Operation Phoenix was compromised, and your Recon teams were ambushed in Russia just shy of two years ago. Nine Marines were killed, including one entire team. Due to the nature of the mission, and the extraordinary loss of life, the government forced all surviving members into early retirement, provided you with new identities and made you give up everything to avoid both the legal and illegal factions of the Russian government. Have I missed anything?”

“Only the reason why you brought me here.”

“You’re an excellent Marine. Lethal, fearless and my boss knows you’ll sell your soul to try to make right what went down. That you’ll fight the demons of hell themselves to get what you want.”