Page 16 of A Dead Man's Pulse
“Darn it!”
Logan turned his attention to Trident’s office manager as Colleen slammed the phone down on its cradle. Currently, they were the only two people in the outer reception area.
“Something wrong?” he asked when she stood from her desk in a huff.
“Yeah. Jake’s over in the club with Roxy and has his cell turned off. Roxy does too. They must be downstairs in the pit because they’re not picking up the landline, and Tap Corrigan at TS West needs to talk to him ASAP—as if I didn’t have enough to do today.” She waved her hand over the files and correspondence stacked in neat but high piles on her desk.
It was unlike the woman to be stressed out—she ran the office with model efficiency. “I’ll run over and get him for you,” he offered since he didn’t have anything pressing to take care of at the moment.
“Really? Oh, that would be awesome, Logan.” Her desk phone rang, and she thanked him profusely before sitting again and picking up the handset. “Trident Security, how can I help you?”
Pushing the door to the parking lot open, Logan didn’t notice any vehicles that hadn’t been there when he arrived earlier, so that meant Officer Swift had already hightailed it out of there. On the far south side of the lot, Kat Michaelson, Boomer’s wife, was working with the new hires for Trident’s Personal Protection Division and the existing compound guards to train five K9s. Her aggressive and passive K9 training services were under contract with the Florida State Police and Tampa PD, and she was also hired to train dogs for professional and private use. Since the compound’s BDSM club, The Covenant, had become fodder for the paparazzi recently, thanks to a bitch with a vendetta, changes to the security measures had been made. The eastern fence line had been extended out a quarter of a mile, and a new guardhouse and entry gate had been added. The wooded area between the compound and the main road helped keep prying eyes or cameras away from the club’s entrance.
Two of the dogs would be on duty with the guards, while Beau, Trident’s original K9, a lab/pit mix, would protect the inner compound, which was fenced off from the club’s building and parking lot. Beau was currently lying at Kat’s feet, so she’d probably been using him for demonstration purposes. The parking lots had cool surface treatments over concrete, which reflected sunlight instead of absorbing it, keeping it comfortable for the dogs’ paws in the hot summer.
Logan slowed his pace as he observed Kat putting the humans and their four-legged counterparts through their paces. Four out of the five dogs had been named Bravo, Delta, Sierra, and Mike. Only Ian Sawyer, a retired Navy SEAL and lifestyle Dominant, would use the military alphabet to spell out BDSM for the canines’ names. The fifth dog had started out being called Glock, but the goofy Belgian Malinois had quickly gone through a moniker change. He was now officially known as FUBAR—fucked up beyond all recognition.
From what Boomer had mentioned earlier, FUBAR would probably be a training fail. Still, Kat would give the dog with the ridiculously extra-large ears a few more days to hopefully turn around. If he didn’t, they’d find him a good home. If that happened, Logan would love to keep the dog, or any other one, having grown up with several, but he never knew when an assignment would keep him away. At least when he was here, he’d sometimes play fetch with Beau.
Passing through the pedestrian gate in the fence, he strode toward the warehouse that was home to The Covenant. The main entrance was up a flight of stairs on the second floor. It still amazed him that the metal-sided building was completely different inside. Reaching the top step, he found the place locked, as it usually was during off hours. A quick scan of his handprint on the device beside the door unlocked it for him. The system was used throughout the compound, including the residences on the far side.
Entering the Victorian-themed lobby, he crossed the plush burgundy carpet to the ornate wooden double doors with iron pulls. They looked like they came from a vintage castle somewhere. A lot of thought and money had gone into decorating this place.
Grabbing the left one, he opened the door and walked through.
The upper level was shaped like a horseshoe, overlooking the play floor below, which had been dubbed “the pit.” A beautiful mahogany bar was to Logan’s left, at the bottom of the “U,” while sitting areas lined the balcony on both sides. At the far end was a small store, which sold fet-wear and adult toys, the office and supply room, and a hallway that lead to the new “garden.” Logan had seen it once, and it was pretty cool, carpeted with soft, fake grass and filled with palm trees, tropical plants, and flowers. Of course, between all that were stations with spanking benches, St. Andrew’s crosses, and other BDSM equipment. Overhead was a clear, retractable roof to let the light from the moon and stars come in at night. To keep out the bugs and any cameras attached to drones, helicopters, or satellites when the roof was open, there was a thin netting that those underneath could see through. However, from above, it reflected light off it, preventing anyone from seeing in.
Hearing murmured voices, Logan didn’t see anyone and was about to head to the grand staircase that led to the pit, but a crack split the air, freezing him in place. Suddenly, he wasn’t in Tampa anymore—hell, he wasn’t in the United States anymore—he was back in that hellhole in Afghanistan. His eyes glazed over as his legs began to shake and his stomach clenched.
“Clutch,” he whispered seconds before another crack echoed around him. When his best friend’s nickname passed his lips a second time, it came out as a blood-curdling scream.
Jake “Reverend” Donovan descended the grand staircase as a bullwhip cracked from the center of the pit. Dr. Roxanne London, aka Mistress Roxy, was practicing her technique on the elevated stage. Instead of a submissive being restrained to the large, leather-covered St. Andrew’s cross, there was an 11” x 14” piece of paper that was the Whip Master’s current target. He’d been in the Trident office when she’d called to let Ian know she would be in the club since neither Mitch nor any employees were around. Ian had then asked Jake to come over and check on the red-headed Domme. Apparently, she came to “practice” when she was having a bad day, refusing to take it out on her submissive wife, Kayla, or anyone else.
Plopping into a chair in the seating area to the right of the stage, Jake watched her in silence, knowing she was aware of his presence. She was a beautiful, tall woman, who drew lust-filled stares from men and women wherever she went, and if he weren’t gay, he’d probably be lusting after her too.
When Jake had fallen in love with Ian and Devon’s younger brother, they’d offered him a position establishing the Trident Security West Coast Team while Nick was finishing his last eighteen months on SEAL Team Four in San Diego. It’d worked out perfectly for everyone. Now that Nick only had eight weeks left before his retirement from the Navy was official, Jake had been packing up their condo in stages so that they could move after a much-deserved vacation to Hawaii.
After a meeting in Washington D.C. with the director and assistant director of the FBI, Jake had made a pit stop in Tampa for a few days before heading west again. While he was there, he’d run around getting the paperwork needed to transfer his and Nick’s driver’s licenses, vehicle registration, insurance, bank accounts, etc., back to Florida. At least they already had a furnished place to stay.
Ian and Devon had two other large apartments built behind theirs in the residential warehouse. One was Nick and Jake’s, while the other belonged to Jenn, who the Alpha Team considered to be their niece, having served with her father on SEAL Team Four. She’d moved to Tampa from Virginia after her parents had been murdered a few years ago.
Dressed in jeans, white sneakers, and a green tank top, Roxy paused in her repeated strikes to the paper, which didn’t have a slash on it due to her precise marksmanship. Picking up a bottle of water that had been sitting on the floor next to a white blouse she must have removed and her oversized, brown purse, she opened it and drank half of the clear liquid. A sheen of perspiration on her face, neck, and arms did nothing to compromise her beauty. If she hadn’t been a pediatrician, she could have been a very successful model.
“Having a bad day?” Jake asked, remaining in his seat, his arms crossed over his chest, and his long, jean-clad legs stretched out before him.
Closing her eyes for a brief moment, she nodded her head. “Very. Lost a patient this morning. Eight years old. She never once cried during an appointment in all the years she was my patient, not even when getting a shot.”
“What happened?’
“Cerebral hemorrhage. No warning. One minute she was alive, sitting in her classroom at school. The next, she was dead.” Roxy’s hazel eyes watered, but she held back her tears. “The ER contacted me when she was rushed in, but there was nothing anyone could do.”
Taking a deep breath, she let it out and then placed the water bottle back on the floor before picking up the bullwhip again. “So, I’m spending my lunch hour assaulting an innocent piece of paper.”
“The bratty eleven by fourteen probably deserves it.”
A small smile appeared on Roxy’s face. “Thanks, Jake, I needed that.”
“Anytime.”
