by LS Silverii
“Did you say coffee and beignets?” His voice perked up.
“Yes, I guess I did.”
“Great idea, I’ll hit Café Du Monde until briefing time. Not like I got a place to stay.”
“You could pawn that hundred thousand dollar car and buy a place.”
“A hundred and fifteen.” He punched in the new directions and navigated toward Decatur Street.
“Anyway, seems bayou country’s scheduled for more than Mardi Gras this March. The Preacher’s disciples are still hell-bent on carrying his torch for world domination through its destruction.” Hollywood heard the rapid rattle of typing in her background. Rose was not alone.
“Tell Billy I said hello.” Hollywood laughed. His voice up-ticked.
“Tell him yourself in surround sound.” Rose’s throaty laugh said she was most happy next to Billy Price, STR’s resident Delta Force and Capitol Hill lion tamer.
“Hollywood, seems the FBI picked up chatter across the wire about your local chapter of animals recruiting sniper/spotter teams.” Billy’s voice from across the room wasn’t as clear, but his message was crystal.
“Who’s their target, Billy?” He stabbed at the dashboard controls. “Hold on, I’m on Chartres and I’m pretty sure I’m heading down a wrong way. Ever drive the French Quarter?”
“Watch them alligators, pretty boy.” Billy teased, “They make great boots.”
“Sorry ’bout that,” Hollywood said as he got himself back on track. “If they’re advertising for outside contract work then they must have multiple targets. Amateurs gonna make it a hatchet job. No self-respecting shooter would answer a casting call—it’s uncivilized.” He stamped the center console.
“Place not open yet?” Rose asked.
“How’d you know?”
“You’d be crazy to slap a hundred grand car unless your caffeine fix had gone dry. Look again, their website shows it’s open twenty-four hours a day.” Rose was spot-on as usual.
“Hollywood, anyone mention Carvaka yet?” Billy had moved closer to the microphone as his usual soft-spoken voice became dominant.
“Indian or Hindu, but never heard of it. Is that our main baddie?”
“Half right as usual.” Billy chuckled. “It’s a secret society based on the ideology of hedonism. You know, where they believe no afterlife exists, so you should do any damn thing you please. Even murder.”
The morning was quiet, as Hollywood walked casually along Decatur Street. He settled into an empty table at Café DuMonde across from iconic Jackson Square and St. Louis Cathedral. He lifted a free finger and smiled at the waiter. “Yes, one coffee black and six beignets please.”
“You know I’m going to kick your ass for teasing us with beignets,” Billy joked.
“I’m following, but how does that jive with a Mardi Gras assassination and the Preacher’s plan for destruction? No pleasure in that.” He slid the phone between his jawline and shoulder. “Guys, I’m operating on eleven hundred miles driven, one thousand rounds of ammo fired, three glasses of scotch chugged and two sexy-ass bayou babes. I’m trying to focus, but you gotta tie it together for me.” His score sheet was more brash accomplishment than complaint.
“Back to the same old Hollywood. Your screwed up encounter with Dr. Celeste Rayburn at the Georgia CDC didn’t teach you a thing about taking your job seriously. You almost cost us a mass contamination disaster because you were more concerned scoring with the doctor than with the facts.” Rose spat, her tone laced with condemnation and judgment. Hollywood knew she didn’t approve, but was never one to outright criticize others. Emotions raw, he allowed her words to spew past a simmer.
“No Rose, I’m not going to make the same mistake, but it’s been a long two days and your details lack clarity. Just tell me what you expect, and then I’ll go plant a bullet through the old Hollywood’s thick skull. Will that make you feel superior? Matter of fact, call me Dwight—Hollywood is dead to you.” Thick white powdered sugar spewed across his expensive shirt as his hand flailed.
His mind skipped back to how his mother had doted over him as a child. The family’s fortune required a certain appearance—it wouldn’t include powdered sugar. Old habits were hard to break—part of why he’d absconded for the military.
“Now hold on a second Hollyw…Dwight. That’s no way to speak to Rose—she’s only doing her job. Making damn sure you’re focused on saving lives is more important than looking for a place to stick your dick for the day.” Billy covered the microphone in defense of his precious Rose Prospero.
“I’d order you to get some sleep and call me after you’ve had a chance to balance your emotions, but unfortunately we don’t have time for naps in the shadow ops world.” Rose condemned his state of fatigue, while she’d probably pulled another consecutive week of all-nighters. The woman was a robot.
“Yeah, thanks. Another coffee—black please.” Hollywood’s voice trailed as he turned his attention to the waiter. “Sorry Rose, I’m honestly working to get my edge back. Not my fault some fucking glory hound 6’er decided to punk us out for a paycheck.” He slapped a hand across his bent knee—the snub nose revolver strapped around his left ankle quivered at the vibration.
“I understand, Dwight. Think you know a guy, but…” Billy tried to console.
“…people can be assholes.” Rose completed his sentence for him. They’d done that for years, but the seamless supervisory team seemed singular minded of late. Hollywood presumed the intensity of chasing down the Preacher’s endless empire and assets had forged an inseparable bond between them.
“I do understand, and I’m sorry one selfish bastard stained the historic work your team sacrificed so much for.” Rose knew where the cracks were.
“This afternoon a Task Force member by the name of Krystal Laveau is scheduled to meet two locals called T-Boy and Tater about the sniper’s job. Audition of sorts.” Billy said.
“Voodoo?” Hollywood whispered. His heart ripped at its chains—no way would he allow her to get mixed up in this cesspool.
“Who’s that? Another target?” Billy pressed.
“No, Krystal Laveau—they call her Voodoo.” He reached for the coffee cup, surprised to find it empty. His shoulders stiffened. “She can’t get involved with these people—it’s too dangerous.” He bit his lip at the overexposed advocacy he felt for Laveau.
“You know her?” Rose’s directed question seethed—as though she knew he was guilty.
“We can’t allow local cops to get involved at this level. We’ve been trained to combat these vile fuckers. These good folks just want to go home at the end of the day. I’m pulling the red card on this until you contrive another way to undermine their plan.” He paced to release tension that stiffened his back and hips.
“That’s not an option given the immediate threat.” Rose said.
“Everything’s an option. Don’t play me.” Hollywood’s posture reeled up from anger as cords twanged in his neck. The waiter stopped in his approach and backed away with open palms.
“They swore to an oath, just like we did. Nothing makes us better than them. She’s got to be the one,” Rose rationalized.
Hollywood’s gut wrenched. He dropped the paper basket with two beignets into the garbage can—he knew what was coming.
“Tell me why can’t you deploy a local team attached to STR? There are DEA and ATF field offices here.” He scraped scarred knuckles across his teeth as her green eyes and milk chocolate skin ran through his memory.
“Thanks to the still uncovered leak in the system, the Preacher’s disciples have every federal agents profile at their fingertips. The DOJ and Treasury Department have suspended U/C ops until the training of new secret operatives can be completed,” Rose explained.
“So what’s that got to do with Voodoo?” He rubbed sandbagged eyelids. The earliest of sun’s light had begun to take its eternal toll. He sucked in soupy gulps of humidity-burdened air to clear his head.
“She’s bait. A fresh
fish.” Billy spoke quickly.
“At least mobilize STR and get down here to help me cover this.” He tugged at his clothes, which now seemed to bind him, and picked at the deep-fried crumbs, finally throwing his hands up in surrender.
“Sorry, no-can-do. In the big scheme of things, this crew of local cops is…” Billy walked Hollywood to the ethical cliff.
“…expendable.” Rose pushed him over it.
“She’s correct—expendable.”
CHAPTER 6
Voodoo rocketed across the rock-topped levee toward the Task Force headquarters just outside of Chalmette. Glimmers of sun bounced off of the Mississippi River. Dust spewed from beneath four-wheel drive Wrangler tires, while sunshine baked her dark hair and face. She stole glances at the mirror as she eyed the next slide of gravel and oyster shells that led to the warehouse.
“Not today,” she said, looking at her reflection. “That damn hunk gonna be in the house and I look like shit.” Voodoo rarely fussed to fix herself up for duty. Sure, a dab of deodorant and fingers through her hair, but no need for makeup among the group of Task Force agents. She’d been raised to hunt and fish—no waiting on Mr. Right to take care of her, she was a true bayou brat.
She shoved the stick shift forward. Her body lurched as the transmission ground back a gear for the descent. Voodoo smacked moist lips, her mouth opening to expose a set of perfect pearly whites.
The thought of her grandmother, who’d labored three jobs to pay for braces, brought a smile to her face. Her mawmaw had passed away before Voodoo could afford to repay, or thank, her. Then thought of Hollywood shooting his cum all over her teeth caused her tongue to slide across them like ice coated by oil. She shut off her thoughts, unwilling for the cop and Mawmaw to share space in her head. But a rumble echoed in her throat. She throbbed at the thought of him, and it wasn’t easing up.
The Jeep skidded across the oyster and gravel Task Force parking lot. One last flash in the rearview mirror and she was set to face Hollywood.
“Good morning, Krystal. Glad you could join us.” The Task Force Commander didn’t look glad. Actually he was rarely glad. She’d never known anyone so intense about their work—or play. He’d give you the shirt off his back, but he’d rather rip it off someone else’s first. Captain Lawless Boudreaux was one bad ass Cajun. The warehouse was his house and the only rules were that he made the rules.
“Law, late night prepping for today’s deal. Had a scope to sight in.” She felt a flush rise. He grunted.
She moved easily through the bare space of the converted furniture warehouse. As the only female, she expected, and received preferential treatment—and taunting. Hollywood was seated behind the regular Task Force agents. He looked calm and cool, but mostly delicious. She grinned as her path was created toward him. Hollywood’s smile ducked into his palm. They exchanged lingering glances. Their eyes stopped playing coy and the intensity caused her to lose herself in thoughts of their time together.
Heat rose across Voodoo’s cheeks again. She slid behind Agent Chu and chuckled deep inside. Feigned coughs pitched her shoulders to conceal the lightheaded silliness. She snorted quick shots of air. Her forearm pressed across the seductive blouse she liked to wear during her undercover assignments. It exposed just enough of her tight tummy to send libidos soaring. Her clit throbbed. She hadn’t touched it since the shower, but energy pulsated through it.
Why can’t I stop thinking about him?
“Big day on deck. I need your best.” Lawless towered over the group, but it was his ability, not his size that earned their respect. He’d worked his way through the ranks after a tough start as a corrections officer at Angola State Penitentiary. A cop’s cop, Lawless led the Task Force like they were his family—the only family he’d speak of.
Long, tangled hair swung as he nodded. Everyone shuffled around the cypress tabletop. The rough, unstained rectangle lay across several sets of tattered sawhorses. and had seen it all. Kilos of cocaine, marijuana bales, cash, weapons and tears—mostly tears upon this rectangle.
Thick fingers tracked the distance from the bridge of his nose, along his brow and back over his scalp to rein in the locks of unkempt brown mane. His jaw twitched with each gnash of chewing gum—muscles flexed in sync. He resembled a marble statue. She’d enjoyed being fuck buddies with this Greek god since her Task Force assignment, but couldn’t get Hollywood out of her head.
Lawless’ sincere brown eyes gazed into the faces of each agent before he proceeded with the briefing—it was a silent gut check. Everyone nodded—even Hollywood. Voodoo smiled. She’d fallen for the look every time, but Lawless wouldn’t deploy his team unless every single agent was confident in their mission.
“Chu’s confidential informant told him about these guys trying to hire a team of hit men. Or hit women—forgive me Krystal.” Lawless’ attempt to keep it light fell flat. “They’ve been auditioning teams all week, but the CI doesn’t know who their target is or when the shot is to take place. They gotta be semi-legit because they’re paying five hundred bucks per team to audition,” Lawless said, reciting from his briefing sheet.
“Why’s Voodoo going in on this?” state police agent, Peter Oro, asked.
Voodoo sprung off the stool, her chest pressed forward in a posture to challenge. “Why, Pete? Don’t think I can pull it off?”
“I’m sure you can. But are you a sniper?” He simulated an eye to scope.
“Pete, they’re specifically recruiting for a female and male unit. My guess is they’ll need to maneuver in a public setting. Couples are less suspicious. So Voodoo’s got the green light.” Lawless eased the confrontational tone between Voodoo and the trooper. Hollywood grimaced as he thumbed messages into his smartphone.
“Who’s on scope?” Hollywood asked the obvious.
“Any sharpshooters volunteering?” Lawless asked.
“Me.” Hollywood said.
“You a shooter?” Pete’s face never turned to him, but his eyes slid sideways to wait for a reply. He sucked a toothpick, the smacking sound irritating.
“Enough,” Hollywood countered, holding himself in check.
Lawless smirked at the response and nodded. Muscles bunched in his hard-as-nails jaw. “Chu, anything else before we start the logistics of covering this rifle range u/c operation?”
Gabrielle, the NOPD detective, placed his finger inside his collar and tugged as his voice quavered. He’d earned his stripes, but Mardi Gras turned out the crazies. His plate was full and getting heaped on from his home office.
“My rat said they had to have teams on the hook by this evening. T-Boy and Tater said something about recruiting duos that fit in and they’d have to get fancied up.” Chu scratched his head to recall any other detail that might’ve been overlooked. His unkempt hair parted with each finger stroke, and then oddly returned to its place.
“The Krewe of Rex has their tableau tonight,” Pete added.
Rex, the king of Mardi Gras began the parade tradition in 1872. Along with the secretive crew of Comus it is one of the oldest and most deeply rooted traditions of the South. The tableau, known as the “Imperial Reception” back in 1873, continued until this day.
“Good call, Pete. It used to be held at the Municipal Auditorium until Katrina kicked the shit out of the place. It’s now at the Marriot Hotel on Canal Street.” Gabrielle said. The others lifted their hands in a how do you know kind of gesture.
“I sure in hell ain’t got money enough to attend. I’m beating the street on an off-duty detail there. Gotta make sure when they roll the red carpet across Canal Street Rex doesn’t get his blue-blooded ass run over going to meet the monarch of Comus.” He snarled and shrugged in surrender—then laughed, “Fuck it. It’s cash money.”
“That makes sense because the informant wasn’t sure what Rex was, but knew this group was pissed at him.” Chu fumbled pages of his investigator’s notebook to fact check.
“What group?” Hollywood asked leaning forward. He debated how
much of Billy’s intel to share with this team without violating orders.
“An Indian sounding something,” Chu offered. “The snitch is a meth head. He can’t recall shit.”
“Carvaka?”
Voodoo gave an odd glare that crinkled her brow.
“Never mentioned that. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.” Chu confessed.
“They’re a whack group,” Lawless said. “Started off with this Indian mysticism bullshit of love and pleasure. Mostly pleasure—by that I mean sex. I ran across them working the penitentiary—they’re fucking dangerous. Don’t kill for hate—kill because they just feel like killing. Says it makes them happy.” Everyone listened, especially Voodoo.
“If assassinating someone makes them happy, then why contract it out?” Pete asked.
“They’re looking to cause chaos. Destruction is their pursuit of peace.” Hollywood peeled away from the wall he’d helped hold up. The massive empty cargo space—now briefing room—echoed with the sound of the hard plastic rifle carrying case he stumbled into.
“He’s right, they want to destroy society as we know it and rebuild based on hedonistic principles of self-satisfaction. Not public service.” More like a professor than a sheepdog, Lawless had learned hard lessons about radical groups and their ideologies. Biggest lesson—never underestimate the power of another’s passion.
“I may have an inside track on them. Let me check with my sources and I’ll brief once intel is declassified for dissemination.” Hollywood gritted his teeth knowing how that had sounded, then stepped back to watch the group.
His offer seemed to have uncorked suspicion from some Agents. He’d just appeared on the Task Force the day before and was now spouting outside sources and spy shit most of them had never heard of. More than a few eyebrows began to lift.