Shadow Ops: Danger's Desire (Kindle Worlds Novella) (A Shadow Ops Novella Book 1)

by LS Silverii

  “The teams are being kept secret just in case one goes rogue, or rats out. Everyone checks into the Sheraton at various assigned times. I’m guessing your time is nineteen hundred hours.”

  “Why’s that?” He asked.

  “Cause your team’s code name is thousand yard. I assume you ripped off the long shot to secure a place on the team. There’s a five fifty and team two hundred.” Billy didn’t need confirmation that he was correct.

  “Hi, Team.”

  “Hi, Rose.”

  “Hollywood, you and Voodoo will be given instructions once you ask for your key. They have a tuxedo and gown waiting. From what I understand, people attending these tableaus wear masks too. Should be fun. Your goal is to mingle and identify who the king of carnival is—Rex.” Billy continued.

  “Seriously? This shit is about figuring out who a parade grand marshal is?” Voodoo spouted.

  “No darling, the Carvaka want Rex eliminated. It’s an assassination at the world’s biggest party. The Preacher’s goal was to create chaos exacted through fear, a typical terrorist tactic. You make people afraid in their everyday lives, fearful to participate in their customs and culture, and you break their will. They seek solutions other than the ones who’ve failed to shield them. The Preacher thought he’d rise from the ashes of social catastrophe to lead the people disillusioned by government.” Rose recited from many repeats.

  “You spoke of the Preacher in past tense. What happened to him?” Voodoo asked.

  “I killed him.” Rose stated coldly. There was no need to reply.

  “Who’s Rougarou? Those idiots at the audition said his name with such reverence. He’s gotta hold juice,” Hollywood said.

  “That’s a new one, hold on and let me hammer it into the system.” Keyboard bashing was another one of Billy’s specialties. “Oh, this might be an issue.”

  “Hollywood, let us call you back.” Rose’s voice quivered as he heard her rustling in her chair. Her breaths sounded caught in her chest as she whispered to Billy.

  “Rose, don’t you dare disconnect this line.” Hollywood no longer spoke like the playboy, good-willed gofer. He’d reclaimed the man he once was—back before he allowed JW Colt to run his family scampering into WitSec protection. There’d be time for retaliation—today wasn’t that time.

  “We deserve to know what we’re walking into,” he demanded.

  “Rougarou’s got a blue star next to his name.”

  Hollywood’s wind rapidly left his sails. “I’ve never actually seen one of those before.”

  “What the fuck’s going on?” Voodoo implored.

  “Never to speak of,” Billy warned. “I’d have to assume you’d realize it if you find yourself in his presence. Just be careful.”

  “I want to know. You got Hollywood’s face drained white as snow, and this hero don’t wilt. Tell me about the blue star.” Voodoo was adamant. Hollywood rolled away and shook his head. He pressed his index finger to his lips as his eyes pleaded to drop it.

  “Well, since that’s settled… Billy, once in my monkey suit, what’ll we do?”

  “Other than tell Ms. Laveau how gorgeous she is in her gown?” Billy tried to smooth talk, or at least spin the topic one-hundred and eighty degrees. “Mingle and get to know the hotel’s layout. Teams will be assigned one of three potential kill locations. Thanks to your shot they can’t stop bragging about over the wiretaps, you get the long eyes. Not sure which building, but you’ll be offsite. Another team will try hitting Rex as he exits in the morning for the parade, and the other team is somewhere just off ground level along the parade route.”

  “Great, so when does STR swoop in to take out the other teams?” Hollywood asked.

  “Sorry, big guy, you know the answer to that.” Billy said apologetically. He let the call sit silent. Voodoo’s forehead furrowed, but Hollywood had nothing to say.

  “Rose, you know how I feel about this. You going to place lots of lives in danger once this shit breaks loose. And for what? Plastic Mardi Gras beads?”

  “Don’t you think I’m sick about it? But my hands are tied under Senatorial threat of imprisonment for treason.”

  “Hollywood, we’ve reached out to an operative I’m sure you’ve met, and Voodoo is familiar with. He’s done contract work with us, and is a high-value asset—Lawless Boudreaux.”

  Billy’s words were a dagger.

  “Go on.”

  “We’ve contacted him and his partner. A U.S. National by the name of Kymani. This guy commands the Violent Crimes Task Force SWAT unit,” Rose said.

  “We know them very well. Both fucking kick ass cops—good call.” Voodoo’s intensity surpassed her experience in these matters.

  “Well then, they’ll be direct ground and tactical support. With the exception of the NOPD’s Detective Johnny Morrison who’s stuck at a parade traffic point waving cars around a barricade, the entire unit is at our—I mean your—disposal. They’re acting on federal STR authority and rules of engagement,” Rose assured them.

  “You sure there’s nothing else going on down here? I know a bullet through Colt’s t-zone sucks, but the Preacher usually has more than one ball in the air. Straight up identify and kill is rather simple. Actually, if the act of killing Rex is the goal, why does it matter who he is?” Hollywood had asked the question no one considered. The line went silent—purposefully silent.

  “Hollywood?”

  “Yes, Rose?”

  “Honestly, I have no idea. Great question. Let’s start mashing through intel and we’ll get back to you both”

  “Will do, we’re about to head to the Sheraton.” Hollywood’s sense of gotcha didn’t show, but it was there—his smirk illustrated it.

  “It doesn’t appear the tableau is going to experience any violence,” Billy added, “but stay alert. You know how unpredictable these terror cells are. And if you identify the other two kill teams, you know what to do.”

  “You saying?”

  “Yes, Hollywood.”

  CHAPTER 15

  “Hello, and welcome to Rex, the King of Mardi Gras’ tableau.” The attendant curtsied as she handed Hollywood’s etched invitation back to him. The wait staff and the New Orleans String Quartet were the only ones in the grand ballroom unmasked.

  Hollywood studied his escort beneath the dancing lights. “Krystal, you look amazing in that gown. They did an incredible job anticipating your size—sheer brilliance.” Hollywood raised his champagne flute to honor her. The music reached a natural crescendo with the lift of his glass.

  “I know this shawl looks too maw-maw, but I had to cover up these tattoos. Dead giveaway.” She tugged at the solid wrap draped over her shoulders.

  The simple silk gown draped across her body. Shimmering gold and ivory exchanged places as she moved through the light, “You look elegant.”

  His grey silk mask was easier to drink through than Voodoo’s full-face, teal-colored felt mask encrusted with rhinestones and a peacock’s vibrant feather.

  Hollywood had known periods of growing up in an upscale home—brief and often with violent endings but, regardless, he marveled at the magnificent surroundings as two thousand guests mingled beneath a skylight and twenty-foot walls of windows. Italian crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, catching his attention and serving as a reminder that he wasn’t the boy of privilege his stepparents once manipulated him into believing.

  Hollywood and Voodoo tried to hold hands as they meandered against the crowd’s flow. They had agreed the other kill teams probably weren’t married or familiar with each other beyond working for the fifty thousand dollar payday. Until they identified someone suspect, they’d try to make conversation with everyone.

  An hour passed and they’d received nothing except a text message from Cranston Stone ordering Hollywood to check his hotel room for location instructions before bed.

  “Is that Bonny?” He peeked beneath his mask.

  “I’m not sure. You’ve glared at her harder than I ever h
ave.” She nudged him in the ribs—his tuxedo jacket crumpled against his shoulder holster.

  “Ever noticed that tattoo on her ankle?”

  “Damn, lover boy, how hard you been gawking at my roomie?” Krystal wasn’t amused—her Creole attitude flared. His concern soared.

  “It matches Fats’ pinky ring design. A wolf and sickle.” Hollywood tried to change the topic and her mood.

  “It’s time for her to find another place to bunk. All she does is gossip and repeat what Fats tells her. He must talk plenty while she’s sexing that whale up.” Voodoo’s fingers imitated texting.

  Hollywood snugged his grip over her sleeveless bicep. “He’s my friend.”

  “Maybe so, but he gives me the creeps with the shit he tells Bonny and makes her perform.” She lifted her flute. “Cheers. You asked.”

  Hollywood moved within earshot of the couple—behind a cluster of antique furniture and some well-placed palms. He knew neither would suspect his being there, so he felt emboldened to spy on Fats. His mind raced, picking up broken streams of garbled conversations, trying to fit pieces together. Useless after a bit, he eased through the crowd to reconnect with a giddy Voodoo.

  “What ya know, sexy man?” She drew him close to swing with the orchestra.

  “Not much.” Hollywood whispered—his lips close to her ear as they waltzed. “He talked about a ship coming into the Port of New Orleans tomorrow and what a pain in the ass it’ll be with the Rex parade rolling at the same time. She bitched because she’d have to miss the parade and wait on the West Bank to catch a ride somewhere. Didn’t really make sense in between her complaining about waking up early.”

  Voodoo was anxious to share her news. The entire evening had been exciting inside the opulence of the Grand Ballroom. She looked so beautiful in the gown—even though it was the Carvaka’s disciples that’d picked it out. Hollywood wanted to kiss her, and enjoy more of her—much more.

  He snarled.

  “What, baby?” she asked.

  “I want to kiss you but these stupid masks are cock blocking us,” he snarled again to lighten the tension.

  “Settle down, I’ve someone I want you to meet. He’s a Navy SEAL too.” She pointed to three men chatting quietly in a far corner.

  “Really? How do you know?”

  “We were just saying hi, and he started talking about his missions in the sandbox. Since you told me what it meant I knew the lingo, then he said he was a SEAL.”

  Hollywood knew whoever had spoken to Voodoo wasn’t a SEAL. Rule one of wearing the trident—you don’t talk about being a SEAL. His pulse raced at the chance to expose a fraud. “Sure, let’s go meet him.”

  Voodoo flinched at Hollywood’s tight grip around her elbow. He apologized, but struggled to relax as they strolled across the mosaic tiled floor. He spotted the heavy-framed imposter. His crumpled tuxedo and overhanging gut looked nothing like a SEAL, much less an enlisted soldier.

  “Hi, Ralph, this is my friend Dave I told you about. He’s a SEAL like you.” Hollywood paused, realizing she, too, was skeptical because she didn’t introduce him as Hollywood—the nickname he’d earned in BUD/S training.

  “Yo, what’s up, Dave?” The guy looked around the room as if on high alert.

  “Hello, you know the code?” Hollywood asked.

  “Code, I’m classified—no code.”

  “Damn, that’s top level shit right there, Ralph.” Hollywood baited with a hint of sarcasm.

  “No bullshit, squid.” Hollywood’s blood began a slow boil with every insulting thing the guy named Ralph spouted. Why pretend to be a SEAL, unless he was half of a hit squad?

  “How’d you like BUD/S Training?” Hollywood led him to the first step down a long path.

  “Tough as shit, finished top of the class though—offered Top Gun.”

  “Who was your swim buddy?”

  “Can’t talk about that, he died in the war—painful shit you know.” Hollywood patted his triceps.

  “I understand, who was your platoon leader?”

  “Classified, dude. I’m high-level security—no mission details,” the overweight fraud said. He chugged a quarter bottle of champagne and slammed it back into the ice bucket. “What’s your name? Dave? Nice to meet you and stuff, but it ain’t kosher for two military killing machines to be so close in one space. How about we separate, you go back over there.”

  Hollywood’s vision had begun to blur with fury. He’d sacrificed so much for this country. Imposters like Ralph had the nerve to dishonor those who went before him. It made no sense to pretend unless he was with Carvaka or a shooter.

  “What’d you shoot at the course?”

  “Huh?”

  “In the marsh, how far you make the shot to get the ticket for tonight?” Hollywood had moved within inches of Ralph’s fat ass in the tight tux.

  “Thousand yards.”

  “Bullshit, try again.”

  “Two hundred?” He raised his arms up in concession.

  “Where’s your partner?”

  “She’s over there.” His attitude changed, but in Hollywood’s book, he was still an asshole.

  “In the teal gown, the skinny bitch with the ankle tattoo.”

  “Bonny?” Hollywood’s head spun—he had to refocus. “What’s your assignment location?” He pressed but realized he’d gone too far.

  “Don’t know who you are, but fuck off.” Ralph had regained his composure and spun out of Hollywood’s web. Hollywood pretended to surrender, but secretly debated killing him to eliminate one team of assassins. He’d keep an eye on him until a decision was made.

  “Okay, brother, same team, so no need to insult.” Hollywood reeled him back in.

  “Yeah, just need my space, you know?” The fat that filled the space from his chin to his throat waggled when his head jerked. The imposter looked to seek an exit—sweat beaded his forehead.

  “Understood, my brother. Ralph, thank you for your service to America.” Hollywood extended his hand.

  “Yeah, thanks a lot. Who knows, maybe you’ll get to see some action one day too.” Ralph refused to shake his hand and brushed into him as he tromped off.

  “Maybe sooner than you think.” Hollywood spoke into the underside of his own mask while his hand rested against the grip of his weapon. He surveyed the room for Voodoo, nodded, and she came to him. Her always present smile was a welcome relief from the conversation he’d just had with Ralph.

  Her gloved hand rested daintily upon his as they drifted onto the dance floor again. Every touch, or bump into her lit his smile and created a desire to hold her. It was as though her skin was energy and he needed the recharging.

  “Good catch on that one. I’m going to neutralize him before tonight’s done. You’ll never guess who his worst half is,” he said while Voodoo was drawn deep against his chest. Their thighs melded together during the slow dance—he kissed her neck.

  “Bonny?”

  “How’d you know?” Startled, Hollywood jerked back. He shouldn’t have been so surprised—or so obvious. Voodoo was an experienced undercover agent and a master when it came to deciphering the silent spaces between spoken words.

  “We spoke earlier. Dumb bitch didn’t know it was me, and like I said, she rattles at the trap.” She nuzzled her chin into the space between his tuxedo collar and beard.

  “She say anything else to be concerned about?”

  “Something about waiting on a boat. Probably what you overheard earlier, except it just doesn’t fit the narrative. I don’t know if it’s the name of the ship or the place it came from or a cruise line, but she said, Razgravia.” Voodoo stuttered over the details, but she focused to ensure the pronunciation of the name was accurate.

  “You sure she said Razgravia?”

  “Yep. She runs her mouth so much—I would’ve never suspected her to be a spy.”

  “Holy shit. We’re fucked.”

  CHAPTER 16

  The men’s room wasn’t as crowded as the long
line to the women’s, but Hollywood was still uncomfortable with the lack of space.

  “Excuse me, the door wasn’t locked,” the man apologized.

  “My mistake, just leaving.” Hollywood pressed against the wall to make room for the guy to slide through. His gut twitched—the voice was familiar. Hollywood needed a break to throw water on his face before calling Rose. Or needed to remove this damn mask, or get away from the one thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine other people. He needed to think for a moment.

  “Thanks, this monkey suit’s a bitch when you gotta piss.”

  “Understand.” Hollywood nodded in agreement. He averted his eyes, but the costume was a bit over the top. The man struggled to balance the satin sultan-like hat that crested his head. A gold crown was stitched around the ivory topping. He wore a simple white mask that dangled from the ornate headdress. It fluttered as he spoke.

  “Good thing for front zippers,” Hollywood offered, while his mind spun back to the past. That voice had been ingrained in his memory for years. But why? He slipped his hand between the coat and cummerbund. A pressed thumb against the security snap, and his holster unleashed his weapon if needed. Maybe it was a crook he’d busted years ago. Or a terrorist who’d injected himself into this plot.

  “Good point. I heard it was good to be the king, but right now I’d settle for one of those front zippers.” The man laughed with his back turned but Hollywood fought to conceal his reaction—this was the guy—the king of Mardi Gras—Rex.

  Not only was this a guy with a zipper problem, but he was the target of the Preacher’s assassination scheme. The irony amused Hollywood, that the man’s murderer stood mere inches away, joking about taking a piss.

  He re-snapped the holster, but tension elevated his sense of alertness. Danger never bothered him as much as the not knowing did. He worked in the intelligence community and their mission was to know facts. This entire operation—until now—had been by the seat of his pants.