Shadow Ops: Danger's Heat (Kindle Worlds Novella) (A Shadow Ops Novella Book 2)

by LS Silverii

  “Half mile out, let’s move,” Billy ordered.

  Billy was team leader on this mission. That meant clockwork precision, watching each others’ 6, and no bitching. Their raid targeted a vessel identified through HQ’s Intel Section and the Port of Moline. The cutter-sized ship had arrived without authorization, but there was no information about cargo or passengers.

  The abandoned section of the port where the vessel was stashed had been left generally in disrepair. The hull had been wedged in between half-submerged derelicts and hulking ships dying a rust-covered death.

  Hollywood limped to keep pace with his five teammates. Each time he pounded on the good leg, his shoulder throbbed. They were all in as big a hurry to get out of the tsunami. Time to suck it up.

  “Quarter mile out. Eyes up, fan out into elements,” Billy snapped. The rain flooded his speech with each microphone click. Lightning crashes illuminated their movements, so they tried to coordinate advances between thunder claps.

  “Team 1, cover down,” Billy’s command sent Chase and KC ahead to provide cover at the gangway that led from a patched rock and asphalt hard top to the port side.

  “Team 2, take point.”

  That order signaled Cobra, and his fellow SEAL, Falcon, to lead Billy and Hollywood up the rickety walkway and onto the vessel. Team 1 would fall in behind Hollywood as they passed their position.

  The storm served to concealed their stumble and clatter. Hollywood’s injuries caused him to fail at maintaining balance across a hatch. Other than that mishap, all three elements cleared the one hundred and twenty-three foot vessel in under three minutes—bow to stern.

  “Shit, missed ’em again.” Chase’s agitation reflected everyone’s disappointment.

  “Let’s get ready for processing. There’s got to be a clue about what’s next.” Billy left his tactical gear on, even after the target was cleared of threats—including his ballistic helmet. It was a Delta Force thing. He walked onto the deck and waved for Rose and Voodoo to come aboard.

  Dim lights in the mess hall allowed everyone to decompress as much as they could. Strain loomed heavy in the small space. Coming away empty handed was more difficult than fighting a battle with meth heads or terrorists. At least you knew where you stood in the process of reloading.

  Hollywood plopped down onto a metal bench, tugging at his soaked bulletproof vest, submachine gun set between his knees. His face drained cold. The aluminum tabletop reflected the blanched stare of someone on edge.

  Exhales to release the circulatory system’s chemical flood of adrenaline helped him finally stop the cold shivers. His gaze rounded the room until he found Voodoo. He’d been so wrapped up in the breakneck speed of the op that he’d not fully thought of her. She leaned against the bulkhead to make space for the tactical team operators still winded from the raid. Their eyes met, his heart warmed. Hollywood felt chills race across his skin until it almost burned.

  “I miss you,” he mouthed without checking for the others.

  Still a hint of doubt remained about the cell phone app, but his heart wanted to trust her completely. She sneered and shot him the middle finger beneath the palm of her other hand. His eyes dropped and he planted his forehead against both forearm. She should’ve been his warmth on this otherwise cold, shitty night. He understood her vehemence, but still, he couldn’t break his gaze—he missed her, their closeness.

  “They had to transfer to ground courier, there’s no place to ship swap and running out of river. And, despite the rain and your approach boot prints, I saw footprints in our headlights that were heading away from the boat. I doubt shoe print casting is possible, but best bet is this op’s gone to a ground game. Moline isn’t their target, but it’s secluded enough to launch next phase. Whatever that is.” Like an encaged panther, Rose paced. Hollywood picked up his chin to feign attention, but his eyes dashed back to Voodoo.

  “What about my friend tracker app,” Voodoo asked.

  “She’s deactivated it—this location was the last transmit,” Rose replied while she handed Voodoo her cell back.

  “Split up and scour this thing. Too much time spent aboard to not leave a clue. Hollywood, set this room up as the command center,” Billy said as he left to search.

  “You mean set up an infirmary?” Hollywood didn’t lift his head to speak.

  Her hair swept across the back of his bent neck. Voodoo’s soft, full lips pressed against Hollywood’s salty skin. Her open mouth hovered there with a slight suction, and flit of her tongue until he rolled his forehead side-to-side on the table and moaned.

  “I love you Dwight, but I’m still pissed you doubted me. I am on your side.”

  “I know,” his voice was low and muffled against the table. “But you’ve got to trust me too, Krystal.”

  The bad weather affected this boat more than it had the ship in Memphis. Shallow waters in the channel made the severe wave action more intense. Hollywood’s already unsettled gut knotted into a strangulation hold. Burying his warm face in sweat-covered palms only made it worse. His elbows were tucked against drawn up, quivering knees. Sickness overcame him. Hollywood stumbled through the narrow passageway.

  Feet tangled as he gripped the moist dog handle to yank open a hatch. Finally, he spotted the head. Torso bent at the waist, he stumbled with palm smashed against his mouth. Sweat exploded across his head and upper lip. Mouth ajar, what little he’d eaten over the last two days surrendered itself to the river.

  “Hollywood, you okay?” KC asked.

  “Fine,” he spit through coughed up blood and bile.

  “Rally back in mess hall—nothing here.” She exhaled to show frustration. Hollywood didn’t exactly share her same concerns at the moment. His mouth refilled with blood—he suspected the fall from fast roping might’ve caused internal bleeding.

  Shit, I’ve gotta get to a hospital.

  He hugged the stainless steel commode while the last mouthful chucked between chapped lips. His breath came hard and labored. Hollywood mustered the strength to push away and stand or crawl back to the mess hall.

  He swiped sticky blood-stained sweat from across his eyes, and blinked. He didn’t have the ability to straighten his back. Both hands pressed against the stainless steel while he rested. It was cold to the touch and soothed his forearms and palms. He blinked again before debating to yell for help. And there it was. His thoughts vortexed. He knew where Bonny was headed.

  Maybe she is that stupid?

  CHAPTER 8

  “Get me out of here.” Hollywood demanded—unsure where ‘here’ was. Loopy was the only way to describe the way his skull felt. It was as if his head turned one way while his brain twisted the other. He poked his tongue around his cheeks and inhaled a long breath. Then he noticed tape strapped over a needle shoved in the top of his hand. Stinging throbs made him exhale that long draw of antiseptic air.

  A figure was concealed in shadow, hovering in the corner of the shallow room. Black denims and dark loafers absorbed the low light but Hollywood was able to tell by the small feet and narrow anklebones that his watcher was a female.

  Holy shit! Bonny?

  “How long have I been in here?” he rocked his head back and forth on the pillow, trying to see more, trying to lose the pain.

  “About three hours,” the voice bungled inside his head.

  “Where am I?”

  “Where you need to be.” Yep, whatever poison was pumped into his veins had him by the balls.

  The monitor sported a green line that blipped with his pulse against the grey screen. Hollywood flexed to sit up. Skyrockets flecked behind his eyelids and the spinning made him sick to his gut again. This time, there was nothing to surrender but intestines.

  Hands strained to help his fade back against the twisted bed sheet. A cool whiff of conditioned air kissed his skin, and Hollywood realized he was in an open-back hospital gown—but why?

  He jammed his eyelids shut until crevasses etched into his temples and brow. The scent,
body smells blended with antiseptic, sent his mind begrudgingly back to the Waziristan Haveli complex in Abbottabad, Pakistan—May 2, 2011. DevGru’s role in Operation Neptune Spear was to capture/ kill the devil. His memory retained every detail about the action that led up to pulling the trigger on his HK 416 rifle.

  Human screams and animals’ sounds remained vibrant. The helicopter crash on approach, and firefights to gain initial entry into the compound still haunted him. Hollywood often relived the feel, and weight of his weapon’s frame. Even the metal clatter it made as his body rammed through obstacles to reach his objective.

  Besides the carousel of images that led up to him placing three 5.56mm rounds into the head of the most notorious murderer in world history, it was the smell. His empty belly lurched. His watcher leaned forward into the modest light.

  “Baby, you okay?”

  “Krystal, thank God it’s you.”

  “Who’d you think I was, Bonny?” Her dark complexion hid her face in the corner shadows. She emerged and knelt next to his hospital bed. Voodoo clutched his hand, lips parted slightly. She smiled with watery eyes.

  “I’ll be okay.” Unsure why he’d been admitted, his breath temporarily bottled up in his throat.

  “The doctor said you were extremely dehydrated and the trauma from your torn rotator cuff contributed to your body just revolting against you.”

  “So fluids and I’m out of here?”

  “Yep.”

  Her quick agreement surprised Hollywood. He’d expected an argument to stay and rest. His limbs tingled—something was up.

  “You did it, hero.” She soft-clapped her hands as if to lead a cheer.

  “Ah, the four-leaf clover.” Hollywood held up his hand and pretended to hold the four-leaf clover he’d found in the ship’s bathroom. The single clue that helped break the mystery.

  “You’re brilliant, baby. STR’s been piecing everything together, and we’ll leave as soon as you sign out.” She nudged over the paper-thin hospital bed cover and kissed him. He smiled—then she really kissed him. Her fingers rummaged against the grain of his matted hair and scratched the shaggy beard that had grown thick in no time. All the while, she drove her lips harder and tongue deeper against his.

  The flimsy gown failed to restrain his erection as it lifted the sheet. Voodoo snaked her right hand beneath the covers and gown. Warm fingers wrapped around his girth and they both grinned with closed-eyes moans.

  “This ain’t right,” she whispered from the corner of her mouth—her eyes glued to the door for intruders.

  “It’s better than these fluids.” Hollywood jerked short pulls against the hospital tape and removed the IV set up. He pressed the adhesive back to clot the spots of blood, but he never interrupted Voodoo.

  She started slow, paying more attention to checking the door for staff. Her eyes took on a glassy look as she increased the pressure over his cock. She squeezed until his fingers brushed through her naturally wavy hair. Hollywood rocked his hips toward her and encouraged more by guiding her head toward his dick.

  “No, bad boy.”

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  She stroked his swollen rod faster until he saw the head of it gorge with blood and shade purple. It wouldn’t be long. He groaned as he tugged at the thin cover to lay it over his bent left leg. It made a tent to conceal her head. Again he tugged at her short hair, but harder. She relented with a giggling surrender and took his cock into her mouth then her throat.

  His head rocked back, his eyelids batted. His pulse reader activated a distress signal and immediately set off an alarm at the nurse’s station. Neither knew.

  His body convulsed at the waist. Hips pounded back and forth as Voodoo gripped his testicles with both hands to pump his cock for every taste of seed he delivered. She released his dick and fell back onto her ass. His left knee collapsed into the side rail. His drained penis flopped onto his inner thigh as he melted deep into the mattress strip.

  Three nurses, one orderly and the ER doctor stood silent in the doorway. One gripped the crash cart for stability—another deactivated the code blue alert. Hollywood figured they’d seen it all before.

  He gave a weak smile. “What can I say? You give excellent attention to patient care.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Voodoo steered the rental into the empty parking lot to meet with the rest of STR. They’d been holed up at a resource Rose had established through her CIA network. The complex was clean, but nothing to stick around for. Besides, they’d been busy deciphering Bonny’s next step. Hollywood’s hospital discharge was a boost to everyone’s dashed spirits.

  “Look who’s back from the dead.” Billy hugged Hollywood close—the way warriors who’ve shared trauma do.

  “I feel much better. The doc said to eat these pain meds until I can get the shoulder checked proper. Enough about me, what we got?”

  “Your lucky find of that four-leaf clover was the game changer,” Billy said.

  Hollywood associated the four-leaf clover with the famous Chicago tradition of celebrating St. Paddy’s day with a giant parade and by coloring the Chicago River green.

  Billy continued, “Knowing they’re on the road to Chicago, we checked the tire tracks and width the best we could—considering the rain. Tires set apart wide, big truck or moving hauler. Looked up the vendors in Moline and asked for one-way fares. Safe assumption they’re not returning it. Bingo, Hart’s Hauler off of 27th Street leased the biggest one they have—twenty-six footer on a one-way fare. Guess who signed for it—Cranston Stoner.”

  Hollywood laughed. “How stupid is Cranston Stone? Does he think that’ll cover his tracks? It’s like chasing the Apple Dumpling Gang.”

  “Except Don Knotts didn’t have a WMD loaded for Chicago.”

  “Their payload has to be enormous. They demanded the truck with over sixteen hundred cubic feet of loading space. I figure they got one hundred and sixty-five miles to Chicago. Fuel capacity is fifty-seven gallons at ten miles per gallon, so no need to refuel. Cruising over fifty miles per hour to avoid attention from the coppers, it should take three and a half hours.” Rose ran the numbers.

  Billy threw cold water all over the plan. “All that’s great, except the rental receipt was signed at sixteen hundred hours yesterday. They got an eighteen hour head start.” “Black Hawks on their way—we got time to regroup. Can’t blow into Chicago without a plan. I don’t even know who to reach out to. Thanks to the Preacher having every agent’s identity, this damn operational embargo has left my resources thin.” Rose’s concern was evident. She’d created a career of nurturing relationships for times like these—and now she had nothing.

  Voodoo chortled, “I get it. Blow into Chicago. The Windy City—get it?” She looked around for support. No one paid attention. STR enjoyed their moments of hazing each other, but when it came time to operate—there was no joking. Hollywood whispered to Voodoo and reassured her it was a good joke but now was not the time. She winced.

  There was a pall over the entire unit—Hollywood sensed it even through the slight fog of prescription pain meds. Fatigue haunted them, and this last empty raid had drained their well. It was like a drug addict—the rush got harder to come by after each missed opportunity. But promises of operational success would refuel them. Had it not been for Hollywood spotting that four-leaf clover, STR would’ve been overdosed on the unknown and dead in the water.

  Hollywood caught a bad vibe when Rose admitted to the lack of resources. Chicago could be a rough place to play if you didn’t know the rules or the players. An administrative shake up at the Chicago PD had created an air of mistrust over who to communicate with for special operations service support.

  Billy jammed his cell in his jeans’ pocket. “As I expected, the Field Office has no one to spare unless we get an exact location for the Hauler.” The former Delta Force operative’s expression remained stoic but Hollywood caught the flash of anger in his eyes. He realized with surprise that in all the years he’d kno
wn Billy Price, this was maybe the second time he’d seen him in blue jeans.

  “How dare they blow this off like some bullshit threat?” Hollywood said.

  “Looks like we’ll hit the ground running—alone as usual. I wish there was someone, even a beat cop to work a landing pad.” Rose paced, though this time it was more of a plod.

  Hollywood watched the others’ actions while waiting transport pick up. Voodoo bit her cuticles. She then tapped her teeth with an unpainted fingernail and gave a slight hum.

  “What’s on your mind?” Hollywood asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Looks like something’s bothering you.”

  “Nope. Nothing.” Green eyes avoided contact.

  Hollywood read people for a living. Voodoo was an open book. “Okay, last chance. I hope it’s not something about this operation.”

  “I’m not sure what I should do,” Her voice trailed like a whiny child. She went back to gnawing on her cuticles.

  Hollywood sensed her conflict—he just wasn’t sure what caused it. Was she really to be trusted?

  “I’m not sure how this’ll sound but you do what you want with it—or nothing at all,” Voodoo said matter-of-factly.

  Hollywood hadn’t seen that attitude since the first day they’d crossed paths at SWAT training in New Orleans. “Whatever it is, all that matters is intercepting Bonny. This is about saving lives—not saving face.”

  “Ever heard of the Savage Souls?” Her mouth next to his ear would have aroused him again, had it not been for the name she’d just uttered.

  “Of course. I didn’t start this job yesterday.” Hollywood cut her a hard look.

  “They kinda run Chicago if that helps,” Voodoo said.

  “I don’t need a lesson in outlaw motorcycle club history. I know what those dirty bastards do. Running Chicago isn’t the way I’d describe it.” Hollywood’s heart rate climbed. His fists clenched so hard his fingers ached from the built up lactic acid.