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

by LS Silverii

  “Okay, never mind. I knew it was a bad idea.” She spun away from him. The stomp of her steps alerted the others who were trying to rest before what would become nonstop days until this latest threat was resolved.

  Hollywood glared after her. Anger boiled at her casual mention of the country’s most monstrous motorcycle gang. The Chicago-based club had developed a fast reputation for inhumane violence—against others and their own. They lived by a code—and murdered for breaking it. They’d mastered the methamphetamine production/distribution networks, and diversified their portfolios with human trafficking and prostitution to boot.

  He went after her. “Don’t drop their name and then walk off like a spoiled prom queen.”

  “Well, are you going to listen or take an attitude? The attitude, I don’t need.” Her glare wouldn’t have melted ice. She widened her stance, poised to retaliate.

  “Sorry.” His hand sprung away from her upper arm. “Let’s try this again.”

  “I know the president of the Savage Souls Motorcycle Club. You know his brother. They may fucking hate cops, but those patriotic bastards love America. It sounds crazy now that I’ve said it out loud, but no one knows bad shit going down in Chicago like they do.”

  “Justice,” Hollywood whispered. He blew out a breath in surprise. He leaned against the edge of a desk strewn with the latest edition of the Moline Dispatch. Newspapers shuffled under his weight.

  “Lawless is Justice Boudreaux’s brother?”

  “Same momma and poppa. Kinda ironic, the way their names crossed career paths.” Voodoo chuckled.

  “This could mean our reputations. Shit it could mean our lives. Are you sure about this, Krystal?” He peered into her eyes.

  “Justice, like most of them, fought for our country, same as all of you. Life choices meant the differences. This ain’t about making arrests—it’s about fighting for our nation. We’re all Americans, Hollywood—just different patches on our uniforms.”

  “Rose, can I have a minute? You and Billy,” he called out.

  Here goes nothing.

  CHAPTER 10

  Chase piloted the SUV according to directions. He’d made several sweeps around the location to detect counter-surveillance, but found nothing. It seemed clear. The open parking lot in Chicago’s Southside contained no vehicles, almost looking surreal. Only a decrepit warehouse sat abandoned, with windows busted and electrical wiring stripped. The front cargo area was pulled open and the rear door was propped back by a pile of bricks. Billy warned them to stay alert as they slipped out of the SUV and took positions of cover across the warehouse—his warning was unnecessary.

  “Well, ain’t this some shit?” The mountain of a man swept the petite Voodoo up into his full-sleeve tattooed arms.

  “Justice, I can’t believe it’s you. Where’d the time go?”

  Hollywood felt his skin crawl the longer the outlaw held Voodoo. He surveyed the brute, sizing him up in the event things turned to crap. Towering around six-feet-six, the biker had biceps like Mr. Olympia and a body like a professional wrestler.

  Damn, I’d have to shoot his big ass.

  “How’s my big bro?” his soft voice garbled as if he’d invested a lifetime consuming broken glass and scotch. Hollywood ticked off another observation. Men who spoke above a whisper were the ones to watch out for, and he’d barely made out what Justice had said.

  “Recovering just fine. Should be back on duty in no time. Why don’t you call him—he’d love to hear your voice.” Voodoo’s slender fingers trembled as she struggled to reach high enough to touch his jaw—the big bear tilted his face and a slight smile breached his rough exterior.

  “Naw baby, we agreed to disagree. Maybe on the other side.” His eyes distanced for a moment dropping into memories.

  “Your call, but he does miss you.”

  “Enough bullshitting, who’re these fuckers?” He kept his distance and eyed each of STR’s team. Hollywood bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, but realized how utterly exhausted and ragtag they must’ve looked to him.

  “These are my friends. We need your help,” Voodoo said, almost begging. Hollywood wasn’t comfortable with her tone.

  “Cops?”

  “Kinda,” she shrugged with both palms lifted.

  “Kinda don’t cut it. Pigs ain’t kinda cool—they’re pigs. These pigs?” Justice’s voice ground into sinister disdain. Each time he spit the word pig, his shadowed face contorted. Although the empty warehouse was open at each end, light was at a minimum. He seemed to loom with the sun behind him—a purposeful tableau.

  Hollywood didn’t detect any others in the area, so he gambled that the spectacle Justice made was more to establish dominance than concern over STR’s jurisdiction. Still, through eyes bloodshot and blistered by fatigue, he kept a narrow lookout for others. He knew the Savage Souls MC all too well and still couldn’t shake regret that he had to compromise his integrity by asking these criminals for help.

  “They—I mean, we—are trying to stop some crazy fuckers trying to kill people in Chicago.”

  “Dah’lin, this city got lots of crazy fuckers trying to kill people, why’s this any worse?” Justice’s enormous hands tucked under a mane of tousled light brown hair and pulled it out of his face to expose a near carbon copy of Lawless.

  “Maybe so, but you in or out?” Hollywood spoke up out of frustration.

  “You ain’t no cop. SEAL?” Justice said with a thick, ringed finger pointed at Hollywood, who reared up rigid, his mind shifting into combat mode.

  He didn’t want to go hands on, but he wasn’t going to be disrespected either. “Why’d you say that?”

  “Because I used to eat pussies like you for breakfast.” Justice roared with a back-bending laugh. Square-toed Harley Davidson boots creaked under his bulk to balance him.

  Hollywood’s heart raced as he stepped forward from the group of STR operatives. No way this asshole was going to insult his beloved SEALs.

  “I doubt biker scum ever did anything other than what a SEAL told him to do.”

  “Before I saw the light, squid. But I’d still mop the floor with your ass today.” Justice waggled his fingers in a c’mon gesture as he brandished a shit-eating grin. His fingers sported huge silver rings that featured skulls or crosses. Hollywood made a mental note to avoid the punches.

  “Before?” His chin jutted toward the biker.

  “I was SAD’s SOG,” He said with a leer.

  Hollywood eased his posture with that bombshell.

  “CIA?” His face twisted in doubt.

  “I never heard of you.” Rose spoke up—mostly to cool the egos on parade.

  “And whoever you are, I never heard of you. Who the fuck are you, some government agencies’ house mouse?”

  Hollywood’s initial reaction was to attack for the insult. The outlaw underworld used the term house mouse to describe females they swapped for sex. The biker world viewed women as property, or old ladies.

  “NCS?” Rose asked, as she seemed to ignore his insulting comment.

  “Fucking A, momma—the National Clandestine Service. Was on my way to being like you Billy Price, but their Special Activities Division knew Delta shit was for bitches. Probably why they accepted you,” He squared his jaw and spoke directly to Billy.

  The Delta Force veteran brushed off the comment with a flip of his finger.

  Hollywood looked around the warehouse. Surely this was a set up. No way in hell was the president of the Savage Souls outlaw motorcycle club a former CIA Special Operations agent.

  “Are you shitting us? Who the fuck are you, dude?” Hollywood approached but kept his body bladed to fight.

  “Fuck him, he isn’t worth it,” uncharacteristically Billy’s words came petty and taunting.

  “Just like it read—weak.” Justice said. His hands spread open his black rawhide motorcycle vest to reveal a chiseled torso. The old leather creased against a matrix of demonic-looking patches sewn into it. Hollywood scanned
the calling cards of Justice’s biker life, typical of outlaws who wore patches and pins like uniformed cops and military wear badges and rank insignia.

  “Read what?” Billy filed through the others to confront him. He was about ten years past his physical prime, but at forty, Billy was still the biggest badass Hollywood knew. He sensed Justice respected it also.

  “Your dossier. Fuck, every asshole with a criminal record has had access to the Preacher’s database.” Justice rubbed his thumb and fingers together. “Money gets access to everything.”

  “Okay, enough macho bullshit,” Voodoo said. “I don’t know y’all’s military mumbo jumbo, but I do know Justice left the bayou years ago to join the service. Hell, we all swore the same oath, just wear different patches now.” Both shoulders drew back—she’d never stood taller. “It’s not about police work or whatever the hell you do, Justice. It’s about saving America, and unless y’all got a better plan, then my fucked up roommate Bonny is going to do some serious damage on St. Paddy’s Day.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The brownstone looked like any other West Side single-story building. Chase Westin steered the SUV along Division Street until he found a spot to squeeze into between a row of rat bikes. Hollywood kept his eyes peeled from the shotgun seat while Rose gave instructions to her team. Hollywood blinked into the rearview, watching Voodoo’s expression as Chase pulled forward and eased back until the extended ride snuggled between two Harley Davidson Fat Boys.

  “Voodoo, you sure about this?” he questioned her again, interrupting Rose’s briefing.

  She snorted with a shake of her head, but kept silent.

  Hollywood’s hands were moist and cold, but he felt sweat popping from the flood of heat that rose up his neck. The last time he entered a biker clubhouse, he’d taken a knife in the thigh before he strangled the douche bag to death with his bare hands.

  “Welcome ladies,” said Justice as he soared his hog over into the space reserved for the chapter president.

  Hollywood’s elbow tapped the top of his holster as a reassurance that his Glock 9mm was secured. He patted the inside of his right calf to adjust the concealed KA-BAR knife he carried. It was his favorite multipurpose tool, given to him as a birthday present by Chase. He knew how much Force Recon Marines loved their KA-BARs, and Hollywood always took pride in maintaining his. He touched the snub-nose revolver on his left calf for good measure, too, before exiting the Suburban.

  “Nice place you got here, baby,” Voodoo’s singsong tone agitated Hollywood, but he trusted her. He assumed—well actually hoped—her flirtatious nature was another tactic to keep Justice mellow and focused on the agreement.

  Hollywood’s legs hardened and steps became labored as his boot soles scuffed across the debris-cluttered street and onto the chipped sidewalk. Obvious that Chicago’s public works departments had avoided this strip of real estate. He was careful not to touch anything. He surveyed the building’s design as he approached. There were no windows, a steel swing gate reinforced the front door, and a rectangular metal sign had been bolted into the brick. It alerted the world that this property belonged to the Savage Souls Motorcycle Club, Inc.

  The dinged-up metal banner was white with dark red trim. The demonic emblem and club name also displayed a diamond shape with 1%er inside of it. This announced the club’s fringe existence and commitment to the counter-culture of society’s expectation for acceptable behavior. Hollywood realized Outlaw Motorcycle Clubs, OMC took pride in shocking the sensibilities of honest citizens. He also saw the letters FSS-SSF, which stood for Forever Savage Souls – Savage Souls Forever. Finally, the last message on the club’s calling card was the letters FTW. He wasn’t surprised by the Fuck The World message.

  “Carrying?” Justice asked.

  “Stupid question,” Hollywood said. His elbow tapped the holstered 9mm pistol again.

  “Stupid not to, but you’re good with your hands, ain’t ya?” Justice’s eyes injected frozen slivers into Hollywood’s spine.

  He stopped in the threshold to glare at Justice, and allowed his eyes to adjust to the low interior light. The drone of heavy metal music echoed from within.

  “Yeah, I am.”

  * * *

  Hollywood noticed KC clinging to Chase’s side. Both tense, their eyes covered every inch of the confined space. Hands never relaxed away from their weapons.

  A warped pool table was situated in the middle of the room. A faux stained-glass light fixture swung on chains that clanked beneath oscillating ceiling fans that only served to kick up the funk that clung to the walls. Hollywood assumed the sheet of plywood leaning against the west wall was probably used as a desktop during the club’s “bible study” time.

  Rose moved into the light as if to challenge Justice’s dominance. Billy lingered closer to the door, and Hollywood ended up in an odd position between two greasy bikers who leaned against the bar. Voodoo continued her contrary behavior and sat on a stool next to Justice.

  Eight other club members entered through two separate side doors to join Justice and the two bikers next to Hollywood. Both doors had been concealed behind Savage Soul flags and a Nazi swastika banner. A low ceiling compressed the tension, but didn’t subdue it. Most of the men weren’t as colossal as Justice, but they looked as determined to punish outsiders for invading their turf.

  Shit, this ain’t going to end well at all.

  Hollywood glared hoping to catch Voodoo’s attention. It was either time to de-escalate the situation, or discover she’d walked them into a trap. His hand slipped beneath his shirt to grip his weapon. Hollywood’s escorts moved in until their smelly leather-vested torsos were physically touching him. He peeked at Billy, who now had several SS members next to him.

  Though the lighting was dim in the furthermost corner across from him, Hollywood could see two more bikers had angled their fat frames toward Chase and KC. The others aligned themselves in scattered positions blocking exits and bathroom doors.

  “So we gonna party or what?” Justice asked.

  “What kinda party you throwing?” Rose’s words snapped through Metallica’s Enter Sandman’s blare.

  “Well…” he grimaced while scratching his matted beard, “…since there are you ladies in the house, how about we dance?” He reached for Rose’s right arm.

  “Dance with this,” she said, twisting her shoulders away from his reach.

  Justice’s momentum carried him one step too far. Before he could adjust, Rose had unsheathed her KA-BAR, pushed her left foot off the top of the pool table, and slung around to land on the giant’s back—her knife pressed into the thickened skin at his throat.

  “Crazy bitch, you gonna pay for this,” he rasped as she filleted his skin enough to bleed. The other ten bikers stood frozen.

  “All we asked for was your help—not your bullshit. We got work to do, so stand down soldier.”

  Once again, Rose was in complete command of the situation. Hollywood laughed to himself once he realized her positioning by the pool table was purposeful. She’d anticipated the need for a launch platform.

  “All right.” Justice gagged. “Just checking your metal to make sure you the real deal. We don’t dick with porky pigs. Fucking moves like that make me wonder what you’re like in bed.”

  Rose slipped the blade one more inch as payback for that disrespectful remark. His growl signaled he knew it.

  “Time is wasting. I’m going to ask you again, Justice, you in or out?” Hollywood stepped away from his two shadows.

  “Anything for this country,” he said, coughing once Rose released him.

  “I want your word that you’ll pull no more crap like this. Thousands of lives are at stake—American lives.”

  “These ten men are all Vets. Only ones I’d trust not to kill you given the chance. At least not until after we stop this shit.” Justice didn’t glance away from Rose.

  “Understood.”

  “They all convicted felons and carrying weapons. Mostly stole
n or illegally modified. You got a problem with that?” He challenged her by standing close with his hands mashed into his hips.

  “We’re not ATF. As long as they’re willing and able to shoot the shit out of terrorists, I’m okay with it,” she said.

  Hollywood saw their hardened-stone looks turn into shouts with high-fives.

  Shit, Rose just unleashed the Leviathan.

  CHAPTER 12

  Justice’s dank office was cluttered with old pictures covered in dust, empty whiskey bottles and a broken shadow box that held a Medal of Honor. Rose was saddened at the thoughts of what had driven the most highly decorated warrior in the military into this hellhole.

  “Rose, now that the showboating’s done, let’s get down to business. What exactly are we fucking with?” Justice’s somber demeanor shifted her perception of him. His massive frame settled across from her, heavily inked forearms rippling against the small military surplus metal field desk. His eyes, sleepy and deep brown, narrowed their focus until her eyes locked into them.

  “We’re not sure, but suspect a bio-chem variant of fentanyl. The Preacher’s disciples tried dispersing it in a few locations around the D.C. area over the last few months, but we’ve been able to stop them in time. Even managed to take out the Preacher in the process.” Her stare remained strong but not uncourteous—this had become a meeting of professionals.

  “I heard—good work. Then what happened?”

  “His death was like throwing dust into a storm—his blood family, disciples and off-shoot networks went wild trying to unleash his master plan. Most hadn’t the intellect or resources, but one in particular has been successful so far.”

  “The Rougarou,” he whispered.

  “Yes, whatever the hell a Rougarou is, it’s remained one step ahead.”

  “The Rougarou of my childhood was mythical, seems like this one is real. You believe in legend?” Justice’s tone shifted and he appeared to be flirting with her.