by LS Silverii
Hollywood prepared for the gunshot.
“Last chance, mister. Fess up and we might make it hurt less.” The blotches of cheap ink needled across T-Boy’s exposed arms twitched under the strain of the pistol aimed at Hollywood’s head.
“You’re making a mistake. I’m just a soldier looking to pay bills and avoid the VA. Either one of you in the service—we’re brothers. You know how hard it is. I’m not a fed.” He smashed his eyes shut at the press of the barrel against his temple.
“Last chance.”
“Fuck off, you got the wrong man.” He sat straight off his knees, pushed his taped palms together in prayer and said, “Please let the girl live.”
“Dwight Harriman.” Tater gasped. “I remember the news stories and reports in the paper. You’re freaking Dwight David Harriman.” He clapped his hands together and stomped around in the small clearing. “T-Boy, you know who this is?”
“Dwight David Harriman is what you said.” T-Boy rubbed his calloused palm over his nicked up shaved scalp. “Who’s he?”
“This is the man that shot Osama bin Laden.”
“What?” T-Boy’s eyes exploded from their sockets. His face drained pale.
“As I live and breathe, this is the greatest American hero. Oh my, God, Mr. Harriman, it’s an honor to meet you. Please, we’re so sorry. The job’s yours.” Overwhelmed, Tater danced until he bumped the computer.
T-Boy sprung up to grab Tater by the collar of his BDU. “Damn it fool, Rougarou gonna skin you alive if you break this damn computer.”
“Cut my hands free, now,” Hollywood snarled. Half pissed at his blown identity, and half glad his identity wasn’t on the Preacher’s list, he was fully anxious to save Voodoo.
“You really shoot that bin Laden?” T-Boy looked with a slanted skepticism.
“Right between the eyes.” Hollywood pointed his right index finger and simulated a pistol.
“Rougarou going to be pleased I discovered him,” Tater boasted. His weak-handed salute to Hollywood was an insult to anyone who’d ever attempted to salute another for honor or respect.
“Take me to the girl.” He commanded.
CHAPTER 10
“Voodoo, baby did they hurt you?” Hollywood ran to her. Rougarou’s people stood in awe and saluted the hero. Except for Cranston Stone.
“I’m okay. I was drug through my backyard like a trawl net and photographed to see if I was a fucking snitch.” Her eyes were wild with adrenaline—not fear. Hollywood’s wrath abated. He knew she was all right.
“This is da man in the flesh, and I found him.” Tater pointed Hollywood out like a flea market discovery. “Dwight David Harriman, the greatest American hero that ever lived.” Tater’s enthusiasm was more about promoting his status in the network.
“How I know you him?” Stone asked, tobacco juice trailing along his crusted lips.
“How do you know I’m not?” Having been touted as a mythical warrior, Hollywood figured he might as well play the role of an Achilles.
“I saw the movie, Cranston, and I asked T-Boy to look him up on the computer.
“He’s in the federal agent database?” Stone screamed.
“On the googler. His damn picture’s everywhere. Until he went into hiding that is.” Tater defended his prize.
“Till that traitor JW Colt sold out SEAL Team 6 by writing that movie,” flirted the scrawny woman that escorted Voodoo.
“Why the hell would a man who’s in a movie need to do shit like this for money?” Stone challenged. His fingers squeezed an old flip cell phone.
“Cause JW Colt beat the rest of them SEALs to it and cashed in with his own movie. This dude had to disappear because them terrorists had a bounty on him.” She was convincing for damn sure, except for one error.
“Thanks honey, but let me clear up one thing. None of us would’ve ever considered becoming a traitor and releasing classified information about the mission. That shit is sworn to our grave. It’s not about money. It’s about honor.” Hollywood’s fierce defense of himself and his SEAL Team 6 brothers wasn’t an act—he bled red, white, and blue.
“Well, you still have to shoot to prove you can do the mission we paying you for.” Stone reminded. “Since we not hundred percent you is the hero, I got a great idea.” His sneer was sinister.
“Cranston, is it? I’ve proven myself enough in this life, and I’ll be fucked if after your people nearly drowned me in the swamps that I have to further prove myself to you. I’m an American hero. I proved myself when I killed bin Laden. If that ain’t enough, then fuck this mission and fuck you.” Hollywood’s voice commanded everyone’s attention, even Cranston. The old man, perched atop an old farm tractor, clapped his grizzled palms together.
“Rules is rules, son. We had all the others shoot one of them corpses that tried to sneak into the mission. They tried from five hundred yards. No need wasting a great hero’s talent on that short spell. We gonna tie up your lady friend and put a target next to her pretty head. You shoot that and you can be anybody you claim to be. You miss, and you ain’t nothing but a murdering piss-poor shot.” He cackled, hands covering his skinny belly and exposed ribs.
“No.” Voodoo ran into Hollywood’s arms. He welcomed her touch, but thought her behavior was odd.
Maybe she’s playing out her undercover role?
“Baby, I can shoot five hundred yards with my eyes closed.” He forced a smile.
“Listen,” she whispered in his ear. “Where the fuck is our back up? I don’t even see the surveillance plane. I know the body wire was working. What the hell happened?” She kissed him to cement the undercover role. Hollywood’s hand fell from her hips. Damn, he admired her grace under pressure.
“Shit, I shut the system off so we could talk. Then they caught us off guard. It’ll be okay.” He couldn’t face her, so he clung to her in hopes she’d forgive him. Their captors were just out of earshot, so he had to be careful.
“Okay? You serious? When’s the last time you made a shot at five hundred yards, hero?” She pushed him away, but this wasn’t acting.
“Krystal, can I tell you what I wanted to say earlier?” His mouth dry, he jabbed his tongue over his lips but found no moisture. He glanced to see their captors busying the rifle range for his shoot. He sensed a deviant energy about them.
“Don’t break cover—you’re acting like a damned teenage girl before Sadie Hawkins. And for Christ sake don’t mention my name, I’m from back here.” She gave Hollywood a determined look as a couple of the men approached.
“Let’s move, bitch, or should I say, Ms. Target Practice?” Tater seemed to now share Stone’s skepticism.
* * *
“Harriman, it’s an honor to have a real hero with us,” Stone said without sincerity.
“Thank you.”
“It’ll be a pleasure watching you demonstrate your sniper craft to us regular Americans who’d rather stay domestic to fight political tyranny than tramp across the globe murdering pretend dictators.”
“It doesn’t matter the place, as long as you’re willing to fight for what you believe in.” Hollywood looked at each of the Carvaka members. They nodded in agreement.
The rag-tag band numbered seven that he could see. Old bullet casings and whiskey bottles in the grass told Hollywood this was where they practiced shooting. Firewood and food wrappers made it look like they spent more time talking than training.
“I figured a distinguished shooter like yourself would laugh at five hundred yards. Being that you murdered bin Laden from what, about ten feet?”
“I’d love to see you try.”
“I don’t have to, son. This is all about you. You make the shot, you get the job. Simple as that. We can’t get anywhere close to take out our target—cops on high alert. They’ve focused every resource on catching and killing us. Even down to the dogcatchers. Yessirree, we’re public enemy number one.” Cranston pounded his meatless chest then turned to scoop more chew from the brown pouch.
“Target is secured,” an anonymous voice scratched across a walkie talkie.
“Let’s do this.” Stone clapped his hands. He hopped down from an old, rusted flatbed trailer. Most of the crap looked like scrap heap.
“Sounds easy enough.” Hollywood started for the hard plastic rifle case.
“Hold steady, hero.” Stone’s voice had an I’m about to fuck you over tone.
“What now? I’m gonna be blindfolded?”
“No, but we found an extra few yards. Five hundred more, to be exact. Take a peek—she’s even smaller.”
“That’s over half a mile, Cranston. What the fuck am I shooting with? A revolver?”
“I wish. While this is entertaining, we got an afternoon deadline. We need a shooter, so you’ll use the actual rifle.”
T-Boy kicked the rifle case across the uneven dirt. His eyes widened with anticipation as Hollywood cracked open the box.
“Not bad,” he said. He held the Remington 700 in both hands and visually inspected the barrel, bolt, and stock. “No bi-pod?”
“Nope, looks like you gotta steady her on your own knee.” Stone snaked his way through the overgrown grass and onto a wooden bench.
The base model was reinforced for rugged field use. He brushed dust away from the aircraft-grade aluminum bedding block. Hollywood computed the math in his head. This shot would be tough—maybe his most difficult.
“Where’s the scope?” Hollywood knelt next to the plastic case. He pulled up the foam inserts and searched.
“Open sights only—never know when your optics might go out,” T-Boy said, apologetically. Over his shoulder, Cranston Stone bellowed from the wooden stool. Hollywood vowed to kill that man.
“Can I at least know the wind?” Hollywood began to feel the crush. Not only was his life at risk, but he was literally taking Voodoo’s life into his own hands. One mistake and she was dead.
“Ten miles per, south by southwest,” Cranston said. “I think.” He grinned with tobacco leaves jutting between empty spaces where teeth had once been.
“Think, Hollywood,” he whispered to make himself focus. Twenty-six inch barrel, nine pound .308 caliber rifle with a twelve-inch standard twist. Over a half a mile—zero point five-hundred and sixty-eight thousandths of a mile to be exact. Freaking wind at 10 miles per. Drift’s gonna be one hundred and seven inches while the damn drop’s gonna play out at three-hundred and sixteen inches. You can do this—you got no choice, he thought.
“You finished praying, boy? You gonna need it.” Stone threw an empty casing at him.
Hollywood ignored him. He squinted downrange to spot the dot that had become Voodoo. He forced his heartbeat to settle—no way would he make the shot with a chest that heaved with dread. He ripped the bolt action to field inspect the weapon and slammed it shut to prevent more debris from gumming up the trigger action.
“How about a practice round?”
“Cold bore.”
Doubt crept inside him. “The paid job doesn’t require this. Why now?”
“Because I don’t trust you.”
Hollywood looked back from his prone position. “I get a cartridge?”
“One. Turn that barrel off range and these boys will fill you with more holes than Bonnie and Clyde.”
Hollywood dropped his face into the dirt—less than twelve hours earlier he’d been naked in Bonny and Voodoo’s condo. He spit a piece of grass between his smile. Exhaled, and thought about how glad he was for the time connecting with her. It had been more than a fuck—he knew that now.
A thin metal object struck him on the back of his cap and bounced into the soft earth. The bullet’s casing faced up, so he was able to retrieve the single round of ammo and wipe it off on his pants. He patted his left eye to distill the floaters that danced over his pupil. He’d not slept in the last three days and other than a possible torn retina, he was flat exhausted.
“What’s taking so long?” cracked the voice over the cheap walkie talkie.
“I think he’s scared,” someone replied.
“Tell him to come on. I got this wire wrapped tight around her neck. Shit, she might survive the shot but die from strangulation.”
The transmission was garbled but Hollywood heard it. He glared at the other guard. “She better be alive after I nail this shot.”
He zoned out on their silly noise distractions, looked the distance of ten football fields end-to-end and saw her. She was limp, but moving on occasion—probably to threaten the guards. Baby, just stand still, I’m coming, he willed her.
Suddenly, silence befell everyone. They were as curious about his shot placement as he was. He’d been great in the past, but could he be great again?
Hollywood’s breathing pounded a thumping sound in his ears. The wind licked the left side of his body. Saw grass tickled his shins where his socks and pants parted, and the brilliant sun shone warm across the expanse of one thousand yards.
Hollywood cycled through his routine—sight picture, breathing, and trigger control. He wisped in a breath of stale air—held it deep within his lungs. Curled his right index finger and removed slack from the trigger, then he eased back with a steady pull. Released his breath.
“Holy shit!” the voice screamed over the walkie talkie.
Hollywood stared down range—her head lay fallen forward.
Stone jerked the walkie talkie away from one of the guards. “How bad?”
“Not bad—bull’s eye. That fucking hero is the real deal.” Laughter in the guard’s voice echoed through the camp as news spread. Cranston Stone rammed his steel toed work boot into his bench seat. The grease that covered his boot left a mark on the seat.
Hollywood planted his face flat against the solid patch of ground. A single tear dangled from his right eyelash. He allowed it to fall. Adrenaline affected everyone differently. Some STR operators laughed, some cried. Some simply went back to work after big events. His were raw emotions.
CHAPTER 11
“Mighty fine shooting, son. Rougarou will be pleased to have you in his service.” Stone slapped Hollywood on the back with a hardy gesture. His attitude had drastically shifted which alarmed Hollywood.
“When do I meet Rougarou?”
“Shit boy, you outta your fucking head. Nobody meets Rougarou. It’s a myth. A ghost.” Stone’s gaze wandered into the distance.
“Then how do you know he’ll be pleased?” Hollywood challenged.
“Just do as you’re told once contacted.”
“When and where?” Hollywood’s gut flipped as he watched Krystal transported back from the target section of the range. His excitement shifted to angst once he saw her body bounce listless over the rear of the four-wheeler. Mounted like a deer after the hunt—she looked drugged.
“You’ll be contacted.” Veins poked through the tight skin in Stone’s throat. His toothless snarl caused them to jut out in opposition to whatever came from his mouth.
“How?” Hollywood said through clenched teeth. His fist mashed into his palm until the four-wheeler arrived.
“You and your whore check into the hotel and follow my instructions inside the room. We’ll contact you when the time is right. Just stay your ass put—hear me, hero?” He jabbed Hollywood in the upper left deltoid, and then smeared spit from his chewing tobacco across Hollywood’s t-shirt. Hollywood hated the stench of chewing tobacco. Most of the squids he’d trained with either chawed on it, or took up chewing that shit just to fit in—bunch of lambs.
“I paid good money for this shirt.” Hollywood spun his right palm down and angled the wrist in a V-shape to protect his trigger finger. He jerked his arm up with brute force and drove the hard, boney part of his wrist beneath Cranston Stone’s frail chin. It was a favorite martial arts move of his, mostly because of the name—Monkey Fist.
Hollywood grinned as
Stone’s jawbones clamped together and the few rotten teeth gnashed. The dirt bag’s dark eyes rolled back in his skull. He wobbled before crashing onto terra firma.
“That’s for doubting me.” Hollywood scowled at the others. Some fumbled with holstered weapons, while others tried to conceal sheepish grins beneath scarred knuckles. They scrambled to throw Stone’s limp body into the back of the flatbed trailer. Tater flipped him a half salute and a wink. Hollywood nodded in approval.
Voodoo’s body landed with a thud on the ground next to Stone’s. T-Boy stood over her with fists balled to strike. Hollywood lurched a step toward him. T-Boy cowered with arms across his face, “No.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Hollywood knelt next to Voodoo—he brushed the hair from her pale face. He assumed they’d not roughed her face up, since part of the mission was mingling in public. Her wrists were a different story. He’d never felt so connected to another.
“Just for that shit, hero, find your own way back. Just have your ass in that hotel room by tonight.” T-Boy stuttered in Hollywood’s direction but avoided eye contact with the Navy SEAL. T-Boy might’ve been ignorant, but not suicidal.
Hollywood found a near empty canteen amid the dust and muck they spewed from the tires of their off-road vehicles. Alone, he carried her into the sparse shade that wasn’t inundated with brackish bayou backwaters.
“Krystal, you okay? Speak to me.” He held her across his lap—hand shaking as it stroked her bloodied scalp. Crimson dried inside the tufts that dangled behind her ear. She stirred.
“Krystal, please, baby. Be okay.” He kissed her forehead.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to fall out of character?” Her eyes flitted against random streams of sunlight that breached the leafy awning. She grimaced to straighten her back over his knees. “What happened?”
“We kicked their wretched ass and they fled. Of course, you fainted so I fought them all.” He smiled. Actually he laughed until his belly ached. It’d been way too long since he’d felt free—surrendered.