Read Online Tickle His Fancy: Trident Security Book 6 (Trident Security Series) by Samantha A. Cole - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Samantha A. Cole
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Dungeon opened and out
walked his intended target wearing her slutty clubwear. Her hair was messier
than when she went in, and her face was flushed. It was clear she’d played—and
not with her Dom. Well, you bitch, you’re going to be playing a lot more
over the next few days.
Starting his vehicle, he waited for her to climb into her
little sports car and then followed her home.
* * *
Holding on tight to the “oh-shit” strap behind his head,
Brody grinned at Marco, who was laughing, as another green-looking Omega team
member puked his breakfast into a barf bag. This time, it was Morrison, who was
retired Army and a former LAPD SWAT sniper. The chopper they were all in was
spinning and tilting as if it was caught in a tornado. Brody had known damn
well what the pilot, Tempest Van Buren—call sign Babs for “bad-ass bitch”—was
going to do once they were in the air, so he’d held off eating his morning
treat from Fancy’s bakery. But it was waiting for him in his office.
It had been four days since he’d found Fancy working late
that night, and this morning she had finally caved when he’d asked her to
tonight’s Tampa Rays vs. Cleveland Indians baseball game. She’d been a lot more
talkative over the past few days, and once he’d heard she was an Indians fan,
he knew he’d have to call in a few favors to get good seats. She didn’t know it
yet, but they were going to be sitting right behind home plate. That was one of
the best things working for Trident—the perks and contacts.
Abbott was the next to puke on a fast incline followed by a
nasty drop in the stealth helicopter, and Marco glanced at his watch then
nodded. Brody spoke into his headset. “Babs, take it down. Time to take these pansies
on their run.”
Several groans came over the air as Van Buren acknowledged
him then cranked her disco music on high. The beat of the Bee Gees singing
“Stayin’ Alive” thumped through the bird as it tilted back toward the Trident
helipad, and everyone leaned to the side from the Earth’s gravity. From
overhead, the compound appeared to be what it had been before the Sawyer
brothers bought it—a bunch of warehouses, formerly owned by drug dealers.
Trident had added the heliport and a track with an obstacle course to the
north. To the south, there was a shooting gallery designed to look like a small
town’s main street, and a five-story training building where many of the walls
could be moved to vary the setup. The entire compound was surrounded by a
security fence and on the other side of that were several hundred acres of
woods.
The first warehouse was where The Covenant was located. No
signs were advertising the private BDSM club, and it was hard to gain
membership. An interior fence line separated the club from the rest of the buildings
that housed the Trident offices, bunk rooms, maintenance garage, gym, storage,
and a panic room. The last warehouse had been converted into four large
apartments, one for each of the Sawyer brothers—Ian, Devon, and Nick—and their
significant others, and Ian’s goddaughter, Jenn.
Babs set the helicopter down with practiced ease, and the
Omega team scrambled to get the hell off, just in case she decided to take
flight again. They didn’t need to worry, though, because the female pilot was
already shutting down the engine. Heads low, everyone cleared the rotors before
standing upright again. They all looked nauseous, but Brody and Marco were not
going easy on them today. As he shouldered his fifty-pound pack which matched
theirs, Brody barked, “Let’s go you pansies! Packs on and fall in. We’re going
on a nice, long run—sixteen klicks— and then you’ll get the break you’re going
to be begging for.”
“What the fuck’s a ‘klick’?”
Brody forgot Foster had always been in law enforcement,
without a military background, and wouldn’t know what a klick was. “Klick is
military for kilometer. Sixteen klicks is just under ten miles.”
A few
walked his intended target wearing her slutty clubwear. Her hair was messier
than when she went in, and her face was flushed. It was clear she’d played—and
not with her Dom. Well, you bitch, you’re going to be playing a lot more
over the next few days.
Starting his vehicle, he waited for her to climb into her
little sports car and then followed her home.
* * *
Holding on tight to the “oh-shit” strap behind his head,
Brody grinned at Marco, who was laughing, as another green-looking Omega team
member puked his breakfast into a barf bag. This time, it was Morrison, who was
retired Army and a former LAPD SWAT sniper. The chopper they were all in was
spinning and tilting as if it was caught in a tornado. Brody had known damn
well what the pilot, Tempest Van Buren—call sign Babs for “bad-ass bitch”—was
going to do once they were in the air, so he’d held off eating his morning
treat from Fancy’s bakery. But it was waiting for him in his office.
It had been four days since he’d found Fancy working late
that night, and this morning she had finally caved when he’d asked her to
tonight’s Tampa Rays vs. Cleveland Indians baseball game. She’d been a lot more
talkative over the past few days, and once he’d heard she was an Indians fan,
he knew he’d have to call in a few favors to get good seats. She didn’t know it
yet, but they were going to be sitting right behind home plate. That was one of
the best things working for Trident—the perks and contacts.
Abbott was the next to puke on a fast incline followed by a
nasty drop in the stealth helicopter, and Marco glanced at his watch then
nodded. Brody spoke into his headset. “Babs, take it down. Time to take these pansies
on their run.”
Several groans came over the air as Van Buren acknowledged
him then cranked her disco music on high. The beat of the Bee Gees singing
“Stayin’ Alive” thumped through the bird as it tilted back toward the Trident
helipad, and everyone leaned to the side from the Earth’s gravity. From
overhead, the compound appeared to be what it had been before the Sawyer
brothers bought it—a bunch of warehouses, formerly owned by drug dealers.
Trident had added the heliport and a track with an obstacle course to the
north. To the south, there was a shooting gallery designed to look like a small
town’s main street, and a five-story training building where many of the walls
could be moved to vary the setup. The entire compound was surrounded by a
security fence and on the other side of that were several hundred acres of
woods.
The first warehouse was where The Covenant was located. No
signs were advertising the private BDSM club, and it was hard to gain
membership. An interior fence line separated the club from the rest of the buildings
that housed the Trident offices, bunk rooms, maintenance garage, gym, storage,
and a panic room. The last warehouse had been converted into four large
apartments, one for each of the Sawyer brothers—Ian, Devon, and Nick—and their
significant others, and Ian’s goddaughter, Jenn.
Babs set the helicopter down with practiced ease, and the
Omega team scrambled to get the hell off, just in case she decided to take
flight again. They didn’t need to worry, though, because the female pilot was
already shutting down the engine. Heads low, everyone cleared the rotors before
standing upright again. They all looked nauseous, but Brody and Marco were not
going easy on them today. As he shouldered his fifty-pound pack which matched
theirs, Brody barked, “Let’s go you pansies! Packs on and fall in. We’re going
on a nice, long run—sixteen klicks— and then you’ll get the break you’re going
to be begging for.”
“What the fuck’s a ‘klick’?”
Brody forgot Foster had always been in law enforcement,
without a military background, and wouldn’t know what a klick was. “Klick is
military for kilometer. Sixteen klicks is just under ten miles.”
A few
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