Contents TITLE COPYRIGHT 1: A FANTASY FULFILLED 2: TROUBLEMAKER 3: A GIRL WITH A PLAN 4: CHANGE OF PLANS 5: FIREFIGHT 6: FUCKIN' SNACKS 7: PAYBACK SNEAK PEEK 1: DAMN THAT MAN BONUS: VALENTINE'S DAY TEASER MADAME X ALSO BY
HARRIS An Alpha One Security novella By
Copyright © 2016 by Jasinda Wilder HARRIS: AN ALPHA ONE SECURITY NOVELLA All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author ’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Cover art by Sarah Hansen of Okay Creations. Cover art copyright © 2016 Sarah Hansen.
A FANTASY FULFILLED
It was way too cold outside for what I was about to do, but fuck it. This was going to be fun. After months of snooping around I’d finally found Nick’s secret hideout where he kept all his guns and ammo. Ever since he’d first mentioned his fantasy of me naked in a bandolier with his M4 assault rifle strapped across my not-insubstantial breasts, I’d had it in mind to surprise him. But until now I hadn’t had the chance. Nicholas Harris was fastidious about anything to do with his company, Alpha One Security, and keeping his armory well stocked, well protected, and well hidden was part of that. He’d had a bunker built under our compound in the mountains of Colorado, and while I knew it existed, he’d never actually shown me the location itself or how to get into it. Not because it was a secret, however, or because Harris didn’t trust me, but mainly because I had no real reason to ever go in, since I had my own Beretta, my own stash of ammo and clips, and my own safe for everything. I had gone into Nick’s office to get a book off his shelves when, quite by chance, my fingers touched something unusual when I pulled out a thick book way up near the top of the built-in bookshelf. I smiled to myself. I knew in an instant that I had inadvertently stumbled upon the thing I had been looking for for months—the entrance to Nick’s underground bunker. I turned the handle of a thick metal door. The door opened slowly and heavily, admitting me into a small, narrow chamber blocked by yet another door. This one had an electronic screen and a camera mounted on the side. I put my palm on the screen thing and the green light flashed, scanning my hand. A while ago I remember Nick bringing me a tablet computer and asking me to place my palm on it and then speak my name after an electronic prompt. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time, knowing it was for some kind of security measure or another, and I had never thought about it since. Now it all made sense. After scanning my palm, a robotic female voice demanded that I say my full name. I did, and low and behold the door swung open to reveal a long, steep staircase leading down to the underground bunker. The room was silent but well lit, and the walls were covered with rack after rack of weapons. Some of the guns were locked behind glass cases; others were neatly clipped into specially-made racks. Everything was pristine, not a speck of dust or dirt anywhere. Harris had…well, more guns than the US Army it seemed to me, and certainly more than many tin-pot dictators. Racks of M4s, M-249s, every kind of assault rifle and submachine gun Heckler and Koch made, not to mention shelves and glass cases full of every kind and size of handgun ever made. There were rocket launchers and grenade launchers, even a flamethrower in one corner. If it shot a projectile, Harris had at least six of them. When Nick told me he’d built an armory into our home, I had never imagined anything like this. AK-47s, little assault rifles he called “bullpups”, sniper rifles longer than I am tall, smaller hunting style rifles, revolvers, and crates full of boxes of ammo for everything. And all this was hidden behind a bookcase in his office. After staring in numb, dumb shock at the contents of the bunker for a full minute, I smiled to myself again—It was obvious that he had an M4 and a bandolier of shells which would be suitable for my purposes. I went to one of the racks of M4s and chose one. It was empty, no clip, no shell in the chamber. Nick had spent months teaching me everything he knew about weapons so I could safely and
accurately shoot just about everything in this room with the notable exception of the grenade and rocket launchers, the flame thrower, and the SAW. I was a damn good shot, too. No eagle-eye, but good. I was about to leave the bunker when I noticed a lone M4 hanging on the wall above the rack of identical weapons, all by itself in a place of honor. It was older, this M4. Scratched, dented, the black paint scraped off in places. Where the other weapons had serial numbers, this one had the serial number plate replaced by a plate engraved with Nick’s initials: NH. This must be his personal rifle from his Army days, then. His favorite. His M4. So I placed the one in my hands back on the rack and gently, carefully, took down Nick’s rifle. I made sure it was unloaded and then I slung the bandoliers over my shoulder—and you know something? Bandoliers are heavy. Having got what I came for I left the bunker quickly and quietly, closing and locking everything behind me. Nick was going to be in for one hell of a surprise, but I was pretty sure he wouldn’t be too upset when he realized what I had done…and why, most importantly. Like I said, the armory wasn’t exactly a secret from me, I’d just never had reason to go looking for it or want in until now. Back in the house I peeked out the kitchen window to make sure Nick was still in the barn, working on his latest project: restoring a World War One biplane. He was there, of course, because it was Sunday, and Sundays, when he was home from a mission, were sacred to him. He spent his free time on his small but impressive collection of vintage aircraft. Some rich guys collected cars, Nick collected aircraft. He had several vintage World War One biplanes and a World War Two Supermarine Spitfire, a Vietnam-era Huey, a jet from the Korea/Vietnam era he called a MiG, an F-4 Phantom, and several private planes, both twin and single engine, and a small private passenger jet. All of this meant the compound had its own airfield, with a beautifully paved runway long enough for him to be able to take off and land the jets. The compound was our home, of course, but it was also the base of operations for Alpha One Security. Now that Nick’s most important clients, Kyrie and Roth Valentine, were snugged down in their private Caribbean island fortress with Sasha and Alexei heading up their security operations, Nick was free to hire out his services to other clients. And considering his resources and expertise Nick was in demand, a lot, and rich celebrities paid his fees gladly, and without a second thought. Much of his work consisted of single events or brief trips, but there were at least two billionaires out there who had round-the-clock security provided by Alpha One Security—which we all referred to as A1S. In a relatively short period of time, A1S had become a pretty mammoth operation, actually. It employed dozens of security contractors plus resource staff, with operations bases in LA and New York, as well as the main base here in the wilds of Colorado. The staff here consisted of Nick and Thresh, myself, and four other highly trained security experts: Puck Lawson, Duke Silver, Lear Winter, and Anselm See—his last name was pronounced Zay. Yes, those are their real names. I know it sounds unlikely, but they’re all real; I’ve seen their passports—except Thresh, who’s just stubborn about revealing his real name. And each of them is as infinitely badass as their names suggested. More on them later, though. For now, let’s get back to the fun stuff. Namely, my quest to fulfill Nick’s fantasy. I stripped naked, leaving my clothes in a pile on the floor in the kitchen, and then draped the bandoliers of shells over my shoulders. And holy fuck, are bullets cold against your skin. And heavy. But if all went according to plan, I wouldn’t have them on for very long. I hefted the M4, opened the back door, and stepped outside. And fuck me running, it was way too cold for this. April in the mountains: not even forty-five, with snow still on the ground in some places. I pulled up my metaphorical big-girl panties and ignored the cold. I gripped the stock of the rifle with one hand and rested the barrel on one shoulder in what I hoped was a casual, sexy, badass pose. Then I walked over to the barn with as much sultry sway to my hips as I could manage without popping a joint.
I approached the barn, which was huge. It had been constructed to look like a classic barn, bright red with white accents, but it was a full hangar capable of housing multiple aircraft. The main set of doors were open, revealing the cavernous interior with a loft up near the top and an open space beneath. Workbenches lined the perimeter of the outside walls, tools hanging on the walls and resting on the surfaces. As well, there were several red Craftsman tool chests beneath the workbenches. It seemed that every available surface was covered with parts of one description or another—on a long metal table near the plane he was working on, bigger ones on the floor, some in the corners or stacked along the walls. Nick was shirtless, wearing a pair of tight, faded blue jeans and a pair of old, scuffed, battered tan combat boots, and a black A1S ball cap. Fuck, he was gorgeous. Ripped, lean and hard. Toned muscle, shredded abs, a wicked V-cut that I absolutely loved to lick, thick biceps, corded arms. He’d let his beard grow a little lately, because I loved him in a beard. It made him loo...