Frost thought everyone was itching for a fight and did so every minute of every day. His one-dimensional thinking would eventually be his undoing, probably sooner rather than later. But in truth, it was simply Frost being Frost—projecting his true nature onto everyone he knew.
However, in this one case, Fletcher agreed. Carr was former Army and he’d run across her kind before. Proud. Focused. Duty-driven. Of course, that was back before The Event, when every country was prepping for war. Now the few who had survived needed to adjust to their new roles. And rules.
It’s never easy being a warrior without a war. Sometimes, you have to start one just to create normalcy in your life. Or equilibrium. That’s who Frost was—and Carr—warriors who’d rather bleed someone than shake their hand.
Just then, a triple knock came at the door.
Sergeant Barkley reacted, climbing to his feet, his eyes locked on the entrance like a hawk eyeing prey. The drool began again after the dog’s ears angled back and his back arched.
Fletcher knew to take a step to the side and clear a path to the door, just in case the animal charged the entrance. It’s never wise to stand in front of a fur-covered cheese grater that has a single mission on its mind.
Slayer walked in, his pace slow and measured. He swung his eyes to the dog standing at attention, whose gaze was locked onto his. Barkley interrupted his growl long enough to lick his lips, then returned to his low-pitched intimidation tactic.
For once, Fletcher wasn’t the focus of the mongrel. He wasn’t afraid of any man, even Frost. But a bark-less, snarling, drool machine—that was another matter altogether.
Nobody ever knew what the mutt was thinking. Then again, the same was true for Frost. Another beast that few could read.
Animals like the two of them reigned by terror but Fletcher knew those tactics would catch up to them. The question was, would Fletcher get caught up in their self-destruction or not?
“Slayer reporting as ordered, sir.”
Frost ran a hand over Barkley’s head, pausing to scratch the pooch’s neck. The dog relaxed a bit, shifting its feet before planting its hind end on the floor.
“I understand we had a run in with one of Edison’s,” Frost said.
Slayer nodded. “Actually, twice sir. Once in the No-Go Zone, not far from the old skateboard park, and the other in sector two.”
“I’m well aware of the first encounter,” Frost said, shooting a look at Fletcher before returning his attention to Slayer. “What I’m interested in is the second. On our side of the No-Go Zone. What the hell happened?”
“We followed the target to an old cannery, where we found a blood trail leading inside. We breached the perimeter and swept the building, but our efforts turned up nothing.”
“So . . . what you’re telling me is,” Frost said, supercharging his voice, “you lost her!”
“She’s a clever girl, sir. All we found was this,” Slayer said, holding out an Infinity Chain. “Belonged to the same girl we ran into before. Summer.”
Frost took the chain in his hand. “What about the blood trail?”
“She must have dressed the wound. It vanished once we got inside.”
“There had to be some sign of her. Somewhere.”
“We checked everywhere. Twice. All we found was a section of roof that had caved in.”
“Could she have been buried under it?”
“I doubt it. Everything was in the basement after the floor collapsed. Nothing but pipes and a ton of debris down there.”
“Did you send a team down?”
Slayer shook his head. “We didn’t have our gear, sir. Besides, nobody could have survived that. Not with half the roof on top of them plus all that equipment.”
“There’d be a body at least.”
“Didn’t think it was worth the time, boss. If she’s dead, then she’s dead. What does it matter?”
Frost’s reply was instantaneous: he flew out of his chair with his Ka-Bar knife drawn from its sheath. The blade entered Slayer’s body before he could react, penetrating deep into his abdomen.
Slayer gasped as Frost yanked the knife upward, gutting the man from his navel to his chest. The man’s insides spilled outward as blood shot out in spurts, spraying the floor with red.
Frost tore his knife from Slayer’s body and stepped back as the man toppled over and hit the floor. Frost wiped the blade on his camo-colored pant leg, then stowed it back in the sheath. His tone turned resolute. “Respect. Rules. Results. Failure is never an option.”
Frost sat down in the barber chair that Doc Lipton had restored, his face turning stiff like some barbaric ruler taking his perch atop a throne. He waved a hand signal at the dog.
Sergeant Barkley shot forward, tearing his teeth into the fresh meat on the floor. The canine growled as he twisted his head from side to side, tearing off a hunk of thigh meat.
Frost brought his focus to Fletcher, his tone harsh and direct. “Who’s second-in-command of Slayer’s team?”
“Horton, sir.”
“Find him. I wanna have a chat. Time for some changes around here.”
Krista Carr slipped on her tactical vest, then stuffed the pockets with spare magazines loaded with 7.62 rounds. The vest was a little snug around her winter camos, the same nearly all-white outfits her teams wore on most search and recovery missions.
She loosened the straps, adjusting where the rig landed on her hips. There was no doubt about it. She’d put on a few pounds in recent weeks. More PT was needed. She couldn’t afford to get soft around the hips, thighs, or anywhere else for that matter.
Softness equated to weakness and that was something she couldn’t afford. Not when leading a security team of all men. Their eyes were constantly on her, judging her for both her command readiness and her figure as a woman.
She’d tried to downplay her sex, but she knew deep down the men would never see her as anything but a woman. A butch woman playing soldier. A woman with assets they craved nonetheless.
No more stress eating, she declared in her mind. Time for some steadfast willpower. And more running. Yet cutting back on calories wouldn’t be easy, not with the sudden influx of meat in the silo’s freezer.
The last Trading Post encounter with Frost had been a fruitful one for Nirvana. They’d traded battery tech for a few hundred pounds of beef—the type of meat that wasn’t of the rabbit or goat variety, both of which took up residence in one of the lower levels of the silo.
It’s not that she didn’t like the smaller game. It tasted fine. At least they had meat on occasion, though it was rare. More of a delicacy, if she had to categorize it.
Her problem with their in-house meat supply was the lack of variety. Rabbits and goats all tasted the same to her. She didn’t know why, but they did.
Krista had no idea where Frost was obtaining his beef, but it was a godsend, bringing some red juiciness to her lips. The flavor was unique and anything but gamey, each portion the same shape and thickness, roughly the size of a deck of cards.
Whatever the sweaty asshole across the No-Go Zone was doing, she wanted him to keep it up. There was nothing more satisfying than biting down on a juicy, delicious Frost burger after a long day of dealing with the crap that filled her duty roster.
Variety is the spice of life, she quipped to herself, appreciating the old saying.
“We can handle this, boss. You don’t need to ride along,” said her second-in-command, Nathan Wicks, a mountain of a soldier. He was former Navy and probably pushing the maximum height and weight limit for your average swabbie.
Of course, he was anything but average. He could break most men in half, hitting the weight room every day to feed his 6’6” frame with more muscle. He was already pushing the limits of the scale, but his quest for more body mass was unrelenting.