Dungeon Games (Masters and Mercenaries #6.5)(2)

The vision of the girl, forever silenced, would haunt him if he didn’t speak up. Unfortunately, he hadn’t become a cop to save his ass. He’d become a soldier first and then a cop because the need to protect was his highest imperative. He sighed and followed his instincts. He couldn’t be less than who he was, wouldn’t allow himself to hide when it meant someone’s justice might go undone. “Yes. They form a pattern used by practitioners of Japanese rope bondage. Do you have close-ups of the ligature marks?”

Normally he would call them rope marks—a loving reminder of a good time between a sub and Dom, but this wasn’t BDSM. BDSM was consensual. Always. He’d heard the term consensual BDSM. Whoever came up with it was a f*ck wit. Non-consensual BDSM was assault, battery, rape. It was a crime and should be treated as such.

Harris stepped up, a folder in his hand. “Absolutely. The minute I realized what was happening, I paid close attention to the patterns.” He shrugged a little. “I have a girlfriend who read all that Fifty Shades stuff. Can’t stand it myself, but damn it gets the ladies hawt, if you know what I mean. I’ve gotten more trim from that damn book. I could kiss EL James. Or hey, I could do her, too.”

Harris was annoying as f*ck. Derek simply stared at the idiot until he passed him the folder.

“You thought about applying for the Rangers, Brighton?” Watts asked, a smile on his face. “Because you have the intimidating look down.”

He flipped the folder open and was assaulted by a look book of horrors. Harris might be an ass, but he understood how to document a crime. He’d taken his time, making a panorama of the victim’s torture. Every knot was documented and then removed to show how the rope had burned into the victim’s skin, forming patterns.

“He knows what he’s doing.” Derek had practiced Shibari for years and studied with a Master. This guy knew what he was doing with ropes and knots, but he was brutal. “He understands the lifestyle, but I would say he’s not a true believer. He plays at it. He’s good with knots, but he’s a Master in the narrowest sense of the word.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Hill asked, his brows in a confused V.

Derek tried not to get his back up. He had to be patient with people who didn’t understand the lifestyle. “It means a true Master does what’s right for his submissive. This man is a monster who understands the discipline but ignores the philosophy.”

Harris grinned. “Told you I was right to bring him in.”

Hill rolled his eyes.

The door opened and a bright light blocked the silhouette of a man coming through the doorway. A large man. And then another. Two big-ass dudes were entering what had previously been a nearly empty conference room.

“Is this the right place?” The first shadow asked, though with that accent of his, it came out more like Is dis ta right place?

Liam O’Donnell. He would know that accent anywhere. Well, at least he wasn’t the only one who’d been outed as a perv, though O’Donnell worked in the private sector.

Hill made a gesture and the lights suddenly came up. Derek could see the second man. Sean Taggart. Tall, blond, built like a linebacker. It was odd that the six foot three inch former Green Beret’s nickname was Little Tag, but then his older brother dwarfed him. Ian Taggart had been Derek’s commanding officer when he’d been in the Green Berets as well. He knew Big Tag better but was well acquainted with the younger Taggart. Before he’d gotten married and become a chef, Little Tag had worked with his brother at McKay-Taggart, an elite security firm that handled work for corporations, private citizens and—if rumors were true—often did work for the CIA.

Yeah, there was a reason Derek had joined the Dallas Police Department. He’d had enough of the Agency to last a lifetime. He had the scars and the nightmares to prove it. Just thinking about the CIA made a place in his gut ache—the same place where the Taliban had shoved their knives.

“You’re in the right place, Mr. O’Donnell, Mr. Taggart.” Hill offered them seats, his eyes going back to the door. “Are you alone? I extended the invitation to the rest of your team.”

Sean Taggart huffed a little. “Yes, it was such a lovely invite. You know invitations don’t usually come with armed escorts. Alex and Eve are on their way in. They were just a bit behind us.”

Hill’s serious stare told Derek he didn’t appreciate the sarcasm. If he was going to work with McKay-Taggart, he’d better get used to it. Sarcasm was their first language.

O’Donnell sank down into the seat next to him, a frown on his face. “Is this your doing, Brighton? You know I just had a kid. I had to leave Avery and Aidan behind with the Paxon sisters because apparently you can’t do your job properly.”

“Give the guy a break,” Little Tag interjected. “You don’t understand how law enforcement works in Texas. When the Rangers call, you answer.”

“I thought the bloody Rangers were a bad baseball team,” O’Donnell grumbled.

And that was all he needed from the Irishman. “Bite my balls, *. Don’t talk about either Rangers that way.” He wouldn’t have anybody insult his team on his home turf. God only knew what the Irishman considered real sports. Probably soccer. “I’m not behind this. I got the same invitation, though the Ranger just came to my desk and hauled me in here.”