One Month Later
Chelsea
The pounding music coming from on stage throbs in my ears despite the hideously expensive tech protecting my hearing. My chest will be vibrating for days. My clit is jealous.
“Do I see you dancing over there, Yeet?” Cassanova teases through the radio.
My expression doesn’t change with my threat. “How would you like a drumstick up your ass?”
“Oh, come on. Thrash metal not your beat?”
I ignore the taunting and keep focused on the stage steps across from the band’s dressing room where I’m stationed. God, I miss gunfire. My team hasn’t left the country in six weeks. We’ve had zero military support deployments in that time. All of our work lately is domestic_boring shit. I swear, if I ever have to guard another celebrity, I’ll claw my eyes out.
It’s nearly midnight when the last riff fades, and the crowd yells its final applause. I’m more than ready to go home and strip out of these beer-splashed clothes and wash the skunky smell of weed out of my hair. I’m not that lucky, though. We can’t leave until the band is escorted safely to their tour bus. And that won’t be until they’ve finished some light snacks, a few more cases of beer, oh, and the orgy.
The band eventually appears on the stage steps, where a few groupies wait to service them. Like before the concert, the band guys don’t care if the girls are underage or not. Our contract says it’s not my business, but thankfully the manager is on hand to keep things legal though still morally objectionable.
The first two metal heads to reach the dressing room door escort the horde inside. I do not know or care what place they hold in the band, only that they get on their bus safely at the end of the night. Hopefully, that’ll be sooner than later, but I won’t hold my breath.
When the last two hop off the stairs, one rushes inside the dressing room, following the giggles. The last one crosses the hall slowly, approaching the manager and me. Correction, the douchebag in leather pants is completely ignoring the manager.
“You’re a tasty bit, aren’t you?” the guy says in his smarmy British accent.
The tattoos, I don’t mind, but the slick, black hair, pale skin, and ultra slim build do nothing for me. “Are you talking to me?” I ask.
Through my earpiece, I hear, “Oh shit.”
The shirtless performer places a hand on the wall next to my head_his first mistake. I get a whiff of his sweat-soaked body and retreat two inches until my back meets the block wall. The manager steps forward to run interference, but I don’t need his help. “Hey, Bon Jovi, I think you’re confusing me with the night’s entertainment, which I’m not. Now step back.”
“Ooh. I like tough bitches,” he breathes in my face.
Now, for his second mistake. The asshole reaches for my breast. Point two seconds later, he’s on his knees with his wrist bent and pinned between his shoulder blades. “Don’t you know not to touch without an invitation?”
“I’ll have your job for this. You’ll never work in entertainment again,” the guy seethes.
I bend to his ear and whisper, “You can’t threaten me with a good time, asshole.”
Bash’s slightly amused voice sounds on my right, not through the radio. “There a problem here?”
“Call your boyfriend, huh? Not so tough after all.”
The rocker smirks until I pull upward on his arm, making the pig squeal. The manager cringes but doesn’t intervene. He’s more interested in trying to get the man he calls Rush to shut his mouth.
Bash stoops in front of him and sneers. “Not her boyfriend. I’m here to save you from her. She’s a hell of a lot scarier than I am.”
Bash stands and snickers at the murder he must see in my eyes. “Let him go.”
I release Rush’s hand and give him a little friendly shove, accidentally sending his face into the block wall. Oops. Rush jumps up from the floor, holding a bloody nose. For the briefest moment, he looks like he wants to say something about it, but a quick scan of all the nearby faces changes his mind.
With a huff, Rush skirts around me, enters the dressing room, and slams the door. Bash and I both turn toward the manager, expecting to catch hell for me putting my hands on one of his stars.
He scrubs a hand over his face, looking resigned. “God, I hate this job sometimes. You’re not going to press charges, are you?”
I choke on the oxygen I just inhaled, not sure I heard him right. “Me press charges?”
“Yeah. I know Rush is a dick, and I wouldn’t blame you if you did. It would make my life even more hell than it is now, though.”
Another glance at Bash. “Ah, no. I think my point was made. Honestly, I expected you to be breathing fire at me.”
The manager scoffs. “God, no. I’m actually adding a big fat bonus to your fee. Seeing Rush on his knees for once… You made my week.”
The so-called manager’s comment is unexpected. “Um. As the manager, aren’t you supposed to be on their side?”
“I’m less of a manager and more of a fixer sent by the label to keep these idiots out of trouble. Thankfully, the tour ends next week. I’m looking forward to a good night’s sleep.”
“How about I help you out with that tonight? When will the venue kick these guys out?” Bash asks.
The middle-aged, accountant-looking man sighs. “Two. Three o’clock, maybe.”
I wink at Bash, catching what he’s thinking. “How does five minutes sound?”
The fixer grins. “It sounds like your bonus just got a lot bigger.”
The shortest route to bed last night was the Knot Corporation dorms. We’d ridden to the concert hall in two Knot SUVs, and when we arrived back on the compound around one-thirty, I picked walking to the hotel_what we call the dorm building_over driving home. Like most contractors, I keep a bag on site for such occasions. I showered, dressed, and fell into bed, all on autopilot.
The only downside to that plan was waking up with a god-awful rat’s nest on my head. My natural waves don’t do well when left to their own devices. My only option now is to rewet them and put them in a braid.
I’ve never liked that option. Growing up, I put a lot of effort into my hair, always taking the time to tame its wacky, wavy frizz with a flat iron. The long, sleek tresses looked better and helped to thin out my rounded cheeks. My cheeks aren’t so round now, but I still fret and fuss over having decent hair.
I hit the gym early, spending extra time on cardio like usual. This body is strong and capable, but it’ll never be perfect. That doesn’t stop me from working to get it as close as possible. My muscle lets people know I work out, but my hips and middle tell them I won’t pass up a cookie.
After the gym circuit, I enter the training room with the rest of the PMCs. It’s a full house today, with all of us assigned to random domestic security gigs. Despite the number of bodies in the room, the place is unusually quiet. Piper, our conditioning and combat coach’s dog, is even on hand to observe the group’s strange behavior.
Austin “Spatch” Madden takes us through Houthi training methods. It seems the Houthis are trying to take over where ISIS left off, and we’ll face off with them eventually. That is if we PMCs are ever given another military contract.
We pair up and work on attacks and counters, switching partners every few minutes until our chests heave and sweat covers our bodies. At least I’ll get to shower again and deal with my crazy hair.
Our CEO and former SEAL, Dillan Knot, walks onto the training floor just as Spatch dismisses us. His mood is as dark as his skin, so we’re all ears, waiting for the boom to be lowered.
“You’ll hear about this in the news soon enough, but I didn’t want this shit to get around the compound and freak you out. Heat from Congress after the disastrous Iron Strike mission has slowed military contracting jobs. As a result, many private military firms have had to shift their focus to stateside security jobs. Since many of those jobs do not require our level of expertise, they come with lighter pay. One US firm decided to advertise its skills internationally and took on a job securing an oil field…for the Saudis. The press got wind of it, and Congressman Harding is using the occasion to further smear our profession. Not only are we greedy, warmongering mercenaries, but if the pay is good enough, we’re traitors to the very government that trained us.”
Everyone in this room knows Dillan Knot would never stoop low enough to serve enemy governments or even questionable ones, but the public won’t know that.
“I want all team leaders in the war room in an hour.”
Great. This sounds like more thrash metal to me…or worse. I’m not the only one to think so, either. Someone in the group grumbles loud enough for Knot to hear. “Sounds like it’s time to apply for the police academy.”
This comment stops Knot in the doorway. He turns around and scans the group. If anyone expected him to lash out, they were wrong. Our boss sighs and rubs his bald head, but his bearing remains steadfast. “This isn’t the first time some bureaucrat has gotten a bug up his ass about military contractors, and it won’t be the last. All of you have run across someone in uniform who didn’t like the idea that you’re better equipped than they are, or maybe their son or daughter. You also know these same bureaucrats are why the military sometimes works on the cheap. Knot Corporation is operating on a full budget. None of you are getting cut. If you want to quit, quit, but don’t do it because you’re worried about job security. This will blow over once the next social media trend makes its rounds through Congress, and we’ll all get back to the work we’ve trained for.”
The warrior in a suit leaves the room, taking some of the heaviness with him. I make eye-contact with Dani, the former secret service officer, and she nods, confirming what Knot said. I guess of all of us she would know, having spent much of her career at the US Capitol.
An hour later, the leaders of the Norfolk office field teams are clean, fed, and seated in the war room in the center of headquarters’ main building. Knot walks in and leans against the briefing table at the front of the room. A long silence passes before he speaks.
“I didn’t give you the whole story earlier. What I’m about to tell you is classified, and not everyone in your teams has proper clearance. There has been another incident involving a private military firm. A team deployed to Kandahar was wrapping up a mission when some local walked into the middle of camp and blew himself up. The bomber was reportedly the contracted team’s interpreter.”
The room erupts in swears, whispers, and grumbles of disbelief. Knot tosses up his hands, trying to quiet the room. Before he can speak again, his phone rings. He pulls it from an inner jacket pocket, and his eyes widen.
Knot gestures for us to be silent and answers the call. “Knot.”
Our boss pushes off the table and stiffens at what he’s hearing. “Shit. I’m all yours.”
Knot ends the call, only to make another. “Bev, clear my afternoon. Something’s come up.”
After speaking to his assistant, Knot calls our head of site security. “Frank, Roman Cargill is pulling up in the next two minutes. Let him in the gate and bring him to the war room.”
Cargill. Why do I know that name? I nudge Aaron “Grim” Hosfeld, who’s seated on my right. “Who?” I whisper.
Aaron shrugs, but Sadie, Knot’s second in command, leans forward, whispering around him. “Roman Cargill is the nation’s rebel. He’s from the second most wealthy family in the country and walked away to join the military. An IED resulted in a medical discharge, but he refused to go back to the family business. The family cut him off, and he bankrolled his own company. Cargill is, or was, the CEO of Iron Strike Security.”
That was the PMC group that went under after the ambush, the mission the congressman uses as his pulpit to preach from.
A short, tense wait later, a handsome man in a tailored suit storms through the war room door, led by our head of campus security. Everything about him, from how he’s dressed to how he carries himself, speaks of his top-one-percent upbringing_everything except for his tired yet sharp eyes.
Knot steps forward to shake his hand before introducing the group as a whole. “Roman, these are my team leaders. We were meeting when you called, but given what you told me, I thought it best for them to hang around.”
Cargill nods to us. “I know what you’ve heard on the news, but my people did not fuck up. We’re not_well, were not as big as Knot Corp., so I was handling mission support on that run myself. Despite what you’ve heard, my team did not give up mission details. They were never given any.”
I lean back in my seat, deciding whether I believe this guy. The other team leaders seem to share the same skepticism. Cargill accurately reads the room and directs his comments to us contractors. “I get how this looks. We never should have accepted a contract without detailed parameters, backup plans, or escape routes. We’re a young company. Jobs are few and far between. I’m assuming that’s why we were chosen.”
“Chosen?” Knot asks with drawn brows. “What do you mean?”
Cargill’s blue eyes tighten in anger. “My men were set up.”
The room breaks out in murmurs. Knot holds up a hand to shut us down, but not before someone from another team questions Cargill accusingly. “What do you mean, set up? Your men got out without so much as a scratch.”
Cargill points to the man, not backing down. “Exactly. The Army took the beating, and we took the blame.”
Now, the whole room goes quiet and stays that way until Knot breaks the silence. “I assume you’ve got some evidence, or you wouldn’t be wasting my time?”
“Yes and no,” Cargill answers. “I’ve got an encrypted radio given to my team leader because the Army team refused to let us tie into their comms. I have audio recordings of every interaction between my men and theirs. I also have GPS tracking information, body cam footage, and eyewitness statements from all my men telling me they didn’t fuck this up.”
“No, what you have is a lot of illegal information that would have you brought up on federal charges if it ever came to light,” Aaron accuses.
Cargill stares down the former Marine. “Maybe, but I’m glad I have it all the same.”
“So, what do you want from us?” Knot asks him.
“I want you to find out who set us up and why.”
Knot studies the man for a long breath. “What you’re asking is dangerous and will take a lot of manpower. And last time I checked, you’re broke.”
My ass clenches at my boss’s response. I wouldn’t have expected him to be so cold.
Knot’s comment doesn’t seem to bother Cargill. He only laughs. “You’re not worried, and you’d do it anyway because you’re afraid I’m telling the truth and of what that might mean. Still, you’ll be paid. My father will tolerate many things, but having our name drug through the mud isn’t one of them. As disappointed as he is in my career choice, he doesn’t believe the bad press and will fund this effort to clear Iron Strike and the Cargill name.”
Knot raises his fist to his chin in thought. “I see. I need time to meet with my legal team and intelligence staff. Give me until tomorrow at one. You can return then and share everything you’ve got with my team.”
The battered CEO of Iron Strike sags in relief. “Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Cargill starts to walk out, but Knot stops him. “Hey.”
The man halts at the command, and Knot warns. “If you were set up, someone could be watching you. They’ll know you came here. Watch your six.”
Cargill tips his head and walks away, and Knot drops into a nearby chair and sighs.
Sadie “Fate” Phelps leans forward, her auburn ponytail falling over her shoulder. “What do you think?”
“Cargill knows what he’s doing,” Knot answers. “I don’t know what we can find outside his illegal evidence, but I know the man. There’s no way he would let this happen on his watch.”
Bash opens his mouth for the first time in the meeting. “Say Iron Strike was set up. What would that mean?”
Knot reaches up and loosens his tie. “Well, in light of today’s news, I’d say someone appears to be working with Harding to take down our industry.”
“But you said the suicide bombing was classified. A freshman congressman wouldn’t have clearance,” I point out.
“Classified after the fact,” Knot responds. “It seems someone in the Pentagon is trying to stop the bleeding.”