AFRICAN AMERICAN URBAN FICTION: BWWM ROMANCE: Billionaire Baby Daddy (Billionaire Secret Baby Pregnancy Romance) (Multicultural & Interracial Romance Short Stories) (20 page)

Chapter Seven: TNT

I suppose that having nerves of steel came naturally to me. I had never been afraid of anything. Well, that’s not true actually, I’d been afraid of a sixth grader when I was in the fourth grade. Billy Bartholomew, who was probably angry for no other reason than his name, had found it to be his lot in life to take my lunch money on a regular basis. At first, I’d tried to avoid him, I did some crazy things to keep from getting caught by him, but he always seemed to track me down anyway. The pressure and the fear kept eating at me until it finally came to a breaking point. Something inside me snapped and I stood up to him.

I was pretty sure that he was going to kill me, but I’d had about enough of his shit and I didn’t really give a damn anymore. It hadn’t taken much to take him down. In fact, I had realized that whenever I went postal, I felt sort of a surge of super-power, like my turbocharger had kicked in and given me an extra boost. Billy had never known what hit him. Nobody fucked with me after that.

I smiled at the memory as I watched Denny’s place from concealment and assessed what I was about to walk into. I’d made a visit to Denny, who was our meth distributor, before, and I’d left a rather poignant message. Several broken bones and some kidney problems, which had had him pissing blood for a week, hadn’t been enough to bring him around to the Hell Dogs’ way of thinking about what rightfully belonged to him and what belonged to us. The problem with showing up again was that I was pretty sure that he knew I was coming and that he would be waiting for me, likely with reinforcements.

When defusing a bomb, you took it slow. There was a step-by-step method of securing the area around you, assessing the situation and the device, putting together a plan and then carefully and deliberately executing that plan. Basically, it was a game of chess with an opponent who had set up the board with your king in check, and you had to try to figure out how to get out of it. The drawback was that instead of losing your king, a mistake would get your face blown off.

Since Billy Bartholomew, I had learned to watch my own back. I had learned to be cool and, for the most part, to defuse things with good humor and a friendly manner. Denny had taken things past friendly a very long time ago. It was time to put him out of business, and it could be done the easy way or the hard way. I was pretty sure that he was going to choose the hard way.

I’d seen guys coming and going for several hours and had started to pick up a pattern. Denny had put together a security force that rotated on a regular basis so that everyone was fresh. It looked to me like he had nine guys total and three fresh guys on duty at all times. Though three guys had just left and were probably off for six hours or so, I had no doubts that they weren’t far away and could be brought in pretty quickly. Things were going to be tricky unless I did them just right.

The best time to hit a security detail was toward the end of their shift. It was human nature to start looking at one’s watch and becoming a little bit sloppy just before your replacement showed up. I’d use that complacency to my advantage, but I’d have to get in and get out before the new crew arrived. I’d also have to be quiet. Very quiet.

I reached in my jacket pocket, pulled out the silencer and screwed it onto the barrel of my M45A1 Colt. It had been the choice of Marine Special Ops pukes for several years and I’d gotten my hands on one via a buddy who was pretty slick at shuffling inventory. I’d heard that the new thing among Navy SEALs was the 9mm Glock 19, but I’d been happy with the .45’s extra bit of knockdown power and I was a jarhead, not a frogman.

I’d scoped out my entry point and waited for darkness to help cover my approach. The shift would change just after dark, so I knew that I couldn’t wait much longer. I crept out of my hiding spot on cat feet and made my way around to the back door. There was guard there, and I would have to time things just right if I was going to take him out without a sound. The sharp, softened puff of a silenced .45 was still louder than I wanted that first takedown to be, so I tucked the Colt in my waistband and reached for my knife.

I moved quietly into position, waited for that moment when he turned, and made my move. I didn’t particularly care for being a killer, but I had pushed those thoughts out of my mind. Any hesitation in the way that I grabbed and took out my target would result in failure and my own death. I took the guy out, hearing only the soft grunt of surprise as he felt me grab him and in the same instant felt the blade pierce through his skin.

Laying him out quietly, I tucked the knife back in its scabbard and crouched in front of the door. I listened a moment and then moved forward. I could hear the noise of the television and knew that it wasn’t the guards, but my target. I considered double-tapping his head and having the whole thing over with, but I had to know that the guy’s security forces weren’t going to return the favor. Besides, I wanted him to have one more chance to see me, maybe confess his sins and be forgiven.

I found the second guard working the hallway inside the house. He would, if he was any good, have a point in his rounds when he could put his eyes on each of his compadres in turn. As soon as he noticed that the guy at the backdoor didn’t pass by, he would no doubt sound an alert. I had to get to him before he did that. No sooner had I finished the thought than he stopped and stared toward a window in the kitchen. He was about to speak when the first .45 caliber round hit him.

They were wearing whisper mics and I knew what that meant: Guard three would have heard that round over his headset. I had to move quickly, because he would not only be alert, but would have also called in reinforcements. I had to get to the target and I might not be able to spend any quality time with him. I followed the sound of the television and located Denny in his skivvies watching the stupidest show on television:
Two Broke Girls
. It suited the size of his brain.

“Hi, Denny,” I said, leveling the pistol at him and slipping a chair under the doorknob to slow down the guard who would be coming any second.

His eyes widened and he swallowed the lump in his throat.

“Sorry we don’t have time to talk.” As I spoke, I noticed his hand creeping down toward his side. “I wouldn’t…” I put two rounds between his eyes before he had lifted the weapon above his thigh. In that same moment, I heard boots coming down the hall and hitting the door. It held, but a second hit would break it open. I went for the only exit in the room and didn’t bother with raising the bottom half of the window before plunging through it.

A bullet struck the remainder of the upper frame, just as I dropped below the jamb. I hit the ground, rolled and sprinted for the back corner of the house. Another round made splinters in the wood trim on the corner. I didn’t slow down and I didn’t look back.

Chapter Eight: Peach

It was the surprise of my life to see who walked into the hotel suite where Bulldog and I were staying for our little bit of R&R. Initially, since the thought of figuring out a way to take everything away from him had first entered my mind, I considered declining his invitation to a long weekend in Vegas. After some thought, however, I decided that the best thing to do was to stay close to him and watch for an opportunity. I’d nearly wet myself when the gambler I’d seen in Reno walked through the door.

I was pleased with the flash of recognition that I saw in his eyes when he first saw me, but I was also impressed with how quickly he was able to cover it up.

“TNT,” Bulldog said, introducing me as he closed the door behind our guest. “This is Peach. She has another name, but that’s the one they gave her in the Corps. She does a lot of courier work for me. I’m surprised you haven’t bumped into her in Reno.”

“Leila,” I said, extending my hand. I figured it was better to use a real name for that introduction, though I wasn’t sure why.

“Trevor,” he replied, taking my hand and bowing slightly. “I’ve seen her once. I know it was only once, because I would never forget a face like hers.”

I looked up in time to see a sinister cloud drift across Bulldog’s eyes.
Interesting,
I thought. I knew that Bulldog was possessive, but what I’d seen in that moment was something different. It was a mixture of jealousy, envy and superiority. I wondered how it would play out.

“What ya drinkin’?” Bulldog asked, covering up whatever it was that he really felt for the man. He’d told me that he was an old buddy from the Corps, but hadn’t gone into much detail.

“I’m assuming that you have some damned good scotch, unless I miss my guess,” Trevor grinned. Though he certainly was a well-bundled package of explosives, I couldn’t bring myself to call him TNT.

“You’re a good guesser,” Bulldog countered and then took a dig at him. “Is that how you choose between the blue and the red wire?”

I wrinkled my brow as I observed the conversation and wasn’t sure what was behind Bulldog’s comment. Trevor filled me in.

“I was an explosives expert in the Corps, that’s why they call me TNT.” He made a funny expression with his lips and then continued. “And the fact that my name is Trevor Thomas doesn’t hurt either.”

“Marine Corps nicknames,” I laughed. “Gotta love the creativity, huh?”

“Yours seems to fit,” he grinned. “You’re quite a peach and I think I detect the remnants of a Southern belle?”

“Jesus, TNT, turn down the charm a little,” Bulldog cut in. It was a joke, but that flash I’d seen before was there again, just for an instant. Bulldog handed Trevor his double shot of anCnoc Cutter on ice. It was a single malt from the highlands that had passed legal age on the inside of a barrel.

Trevor took a sip and then stared at the amber liquid as he let the drink wash over his tongue. “You never disappoint,” he smiled.

Bulldog turned his attention toward me. “I met up with TNT here in Baghdad. He removed an IED from an area that we had been assigned to patrol. This guy is one coolheaded motherfucker.”

“That or an ignorant one,” Trevor laughed. “IED is the jarhead parlance for an improvised explosive device.”

“Yeah,” I responded, enjoying the opportunity to shock him. I was dressed in a curve-hugging red dress that stopped at mid-thigh, had on matching stilettos, had my hair, face and nails done up and was looking like I was about to walk the runway at an Armani fashion show. “I used to be a jarhead.”

“No fucking way!” He looked at Bulldog. “She’s jerkin’ my chain, right?”

“Not a bit.” Bulldog was pleased with having the element of surprise in that situation. He had a smug look like he was on top for the moment.

“No shit! Is she a Hell Dog too?”

“I am,” I answered for myself.

“Damn! Pardon my saying so, but you don’t look like a former jarhead or the kind of bitch who usually sits on the back of Harley.”

“I don’t sit on the back of a Harley,” I responded, enjoying the moment as much as Bulldog was. “I ride my own.”

“She has a Fat Boy sitting out in the lot that she can handle better than most guys I know,” Bulldog put in.

“A Fat Boy? Jesus!” He took a long sip of the scotch while his face worked out the anomaly sitting in front of him. “This doesn’t happen often, as Bulldog can tell you, but I am completely speechless.”

“Often? Hell! ‘Never’ is the better word for it,” Bulldog laughed.

“You dressed in leather and astride that Fat Boy is something that I’ll have to see before I go.”

I shrugged. “Just a girl on a bike.”

“Just a…” he started to repeat my words and then took another long sip.

I was enjoying the attention that my small list of surprises was providing me with, but I was even more interested in how Bulldog was reacting to Trevor’s interaction with me. It was obvious that he was envious of Trevor. It became even more obvious when they started to talk shop. During that time, however, I started to notice the tiny little bit of tension that Trevor had toward Bulldog as well. I decided to just sit back and watch the interaction between the two.

“Fuckin’ mess in Salt Lake,” Bulldog said.

Trevor’s eyes shifted to me and then back to Bulldog. “She’s alright for this?”

“Peach? Shit! She knows enough to bring down the whole fuckin’ operation!” Bulldog replied. “If she was going to rat me out, she would have done it a long time ago.”

Without realizing it, Bulldog had just given me that little push I needed in order to start thinking seriously about taking things over. It was an exaggeration, of course, but even in exaggerations, like in jokes, there is always a little bit of truth. The little bit of truth that I drew out of that statement was that Bulldog trusted me.
I’ll use that against him.
There was a little tingle of conscience whispering in my ear along with the thought, but I pushed it aside. I’d already set my sights on something that I wanted, and I wasn’t going to let a little tingle get in my way.

Bulldog’s response irritated Trevor. He was probably the tightlipped type and didn’t like private conversations being shared with anyone. He covered his concern up quickly. He was an expert at disguising his thoughts. I could tell that he had practiced it often. Is that what putting your life on the line to disarm a bomb made you do?

“I didn’t have a choice,” he said in a softer tone.

As he told the story of taking out Denny, the meth distributor, whose name I had never heard, he seemed to have some regrets about having to do what he had done. I also quickly discovered that he was one badass dude, and his story made the moisture begin to build up between my thighs. Not that it hadn’t already started the moment he entered the room. Before he even finished his story, I was already trying to figure out how I was going to get him onto my team.

“I thought he’d confess his sins and repent, but with things happening so fast, I had to just neutralize him and get the hell out of there.”

As the conversation continued, I read how each of them reacted and responded. It wasn’t a great deal unlike what they were doing downstairs at the poker tables, reading each other’s tells and creating a plan to take each other down. I was beginning to create a plan of my own before the weekend was up.