Harris (Alpha One Security #1)By: Jasinda Wilder
An Alpha One Security novella
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.