Battery Operated Boyfriend: The Q Collection, book seven
“Turn right in three, two, one, now.”
Moving as quickly as I dare, I follow the instructions being fed through my earpiece, trusting my IT and comms specialist, Tech, to direct me to the target safely and without incident.
Our orders came down a few days ago.
We’re to audit one of our government contractors, which is just a fancy way of saying we need to sneak in, check they’re doing everything by the book and not creating unsanctioned weapons of mass destruction, and report back to HQ with our findings.
And man, I hope we find something.
Our preliminary search turned up nothing but redacted files. Not completely unheard of but not exactly above board either. But when Tech dug a little deeper, he found references to a Doctor G. Johnson, and something called Project Pork Sword.
For fuck’s sake. My eyes had rolled so hard when I’d read that I think I saw the back of my brain. But that’s what happens when you let virgins name things.
Christ only knows what Project— Nope. I’m not calling it that.
Christ only knows what the project is. The fact some idiot named it after his dick tells me everything I need to know about the idiot, and absolutely nothing about the project.
We need to know what these arseholes are up to. We need to know if those redacted files are something to worry about, or just the work of an overzealous intern.
We need to get this shit done so I can go home and feed my cat.
“Follow this hallway to the end then turn left. Follow that hallway to the end and you should see your target. Bio Lab Three.”
“The dead zone,” I murmur, tugging my cap lower to avoid eye-contact with a woman coming towards me, pushing a cleaning cart.
“Exactly. Once you enter the dead zone you’ll be on your own. It’s completely shielded from all surveillance, so no comms in or out. No cameras either. You’ll be going in completely blind.”
The hallways are virtually empty now, but they won’t be for long. Shift change is about to happen, and if our intel is correct, I should be able to slip inside the dead zone with little to no interference during the changeover. Blend into the crowd.
That’s the main reason I’m in here instead of one of my men. I’m exceedingly average. Not at my job, I’m a decorated soldier for fuck’s sake. But to look at, certainly. Average height, average build, borderline ugly face, but not so much as to make me stand out. My only identifying mark is one barbed-wire tattoo wrapped around my bicep, the remnant of a night out when I was young and stupid and too drunk to realise my mates had poured me into the tattooist’s chair until the pain started, and that’s hidden—along with a small arsenal—under my stolen guard’s uniform.
Anyone watching me wouldn’t know anything was amiss. Except for my boots. Because the only thing about me that isn’t average is my shoe size, and the guard I rendered unconscious so I could steal his clothes had dainty feet. Not that I’m overly worried about anyone seeing my combat boots. People rarely think to look at other people’s feet.
Waiting until the woman has passed me by before whispering, “Acknowledged,” I turn down the hallway that leads to my target. A brief siren sounds overhead, signalling the shift change, and the hallway quickly fills with people spilling out of one lab and heading to wherever the fuck they need to get to, their heads down and their steps hurried. As long as they don’t prevent me from doing my job, I don’t give a fuck where they go.
Keeping my gaze fixed ahead of me, I paste on my best resting dick face and move through the crowded hallway. People quickly move out of my way, their gazes averted as if scared of what will happen should they look directly at me. Handy, since I’m trying to avoid being noticed, but I also find it worrisome they fear the people who are supposed to be protecting them. That’s not normal.
Gritting my teeth against a spike of sudden anger, I remind myself it’s also not my problem. Not right now. I make a mental note to add it to my report.
Stay on mission.
Nearing my destination, I check my surroundings again. No one is paying me any attention, so I tap my comms twice to give the signal.
Tech’s quiet murmur fills my earpiece. “When the cameras go offline, you’ll have ten seconds to get through the door before they re-engage. Good luck, major.” He counts me down, then says, “Go. Now.”
The access keypad in front of me uses bio-identification. Luckily, my team is skilled in acquiring such identification and manufacturing exactly what I need to complete my mission, like a fake handprint. Ten seconds isn’t much time, just enough to key in the security code and press my palm to the scanner. In a few seconds I’ll either be on the other side of this door, or in a fuck-load of trouble.
A soft beep followed by a quiet snick as the door unlocks causes me to send up a silent prayer of thanks to the powers that be. And Tech. Mostly Tech. “Going dark.”
I slip inside the room.
Enter the unknown.
A quiet crackle of static sounds through my earpiece and then all is silence. I’m on my own from here on out.
Now the real work begins.
Gather intelligence. Collect samples. And if the opportunity presents itself, pump Doctor Johnson for as much information as possible.
Turning to face the room, I’m surprised to find it empty. Where are the scientists? Where are the lab techs? This is supposed to be a hub of activity, the heart of BioAID’s secret weapons division. So where did everybody go?
My eyes narrow. There’s something wrong with this situation.
Reaching into the back of my uniform, I palm my service pistol and begin my sweep of the room.
This place is a ghost town.
Maybe our intelligence is incorrect, or incomplete?
Maybe I’m in the wrong lab?
Where is everyone?
The lab has all the usual hallmarks found in places like this, bright white walls, harsh fluorescent lighting and stainless-steel benches everywhere I look. But the machines are eerily quiet, some covered in plastic sheeting.
Many of the work areas are empty, but some are filled with tools and what looks like electrical diagnostic equipment. One bench is lined with prosthetic arms, another with hands and feet. And on one bench, under a thin sheet of plastic there appears to be what looks like… I wanna say sex toys…?
Edging closer, I see that, yep, it’s a table full of cocks. And I’m not talking about your standard, every day, run of the mill dildos here either.
I mean cocks.
Long, thick, porno-sized dicks.
And unlike the arms, hands and feet—I swallow hard to choke down the bile rising in my throat—the dicks look real.
What in the ever-loving fuck is going on here?
I’d be lying if I say my balls haven’t shrunk to the size of raisins at the grizzly sight, but as much as I don’t really want to look at a bunch of dismembered members, it’s my job to investigate everything, to look at things from every angle. Take samples as evidence.
A shudder runs up my spine as I gingerly lift the thin sheet of plastic and try not to recoil at the sight of several severed cocks. After slipping my pistol back in its holster, I reach into one of my pockets to retrieve and pull on a pair of latex gloves, then pick up the dick most likely to fit in my pocket. One small enough that I can smuggle it out of here. I can’t help the way my lips pull back in disgust—it’s a severed penis for fuck’s sake—but then I notice something curious.
Much heavier than I thought a human cock would be. Especially for its size.
Turning it over in my hand, I take a closer look and realise the flesh, as real as it looks and feels, isn’t. This isn’t a real dick. My relief is palpable and escapes me on a shuddering breath.
To test my theory, I tap it against the edge of the metal table. Laugh at the thudding sound it makes. “Prosthetic dicks? How would they even work?”
Okay. Consider my curiosity piqued. But prosthetic body parts weren’t exactly what I thought I’d find in here. And they’re certainly not worth all that redacted paper. Slipping the misappropriated appendage in my pocket, I palm my weapon again and move towards the door set in the far wall.
A sudden noise comes from beyond the door. Something that sounds a lot like crashing, like someone fighting, struggling. A woman arguing, cursing.
My guardian instincts go on high alert. No one hurts a woman on my watch.
Testing the door handle, I find it’s unlocked and slip through to the other room as quickly and quietly as possible.
What I find is even more bizarre than the lab I just left.
And infinitely more fuckable.
Fuck me. I think I’m in love.