by Louis Scott
Pike 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 Pike’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.” Pike paused, realizing she, too, was skeptical because she didn’t introduce him as Pike—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?” Pike asked.
“Code, I’m classified—no code.” The fake stuttered in his reply.
“Damn, that’s top level shit right there, Ralph.” Pike baited with a hint of sarcasm.
“No joke, squid.” Ralph quipped.
Pike’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?” Pike led him to the first step down a long path.
“Tough as crap, 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 loss you know.”
Pike shook his head, and patted Ralph’s 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?” Ralph’s tone became dismissive; “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, and you go back over there.”
Pike’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?” Pike had moved within inches of Ralph’s fat face in the tight tux.
“Thousand yards.” Ralph guessed.
“Bull, try again.” Pike leaned in.
“Two hundred?” Ralph raised his arms up in concession.
“Where’s your partner?”
“She’s over there.” His attitude changed, but in Pike's book, he was still a jerk.
“In the teal gown, the skinny witch with the ankle tattoo.”
“Bonny?” Pike’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 screw off.” Ralph had regained his composure and spun out of Pike’s web.
Pike 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.” Pike 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.” Pike 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.” Pike 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-alert attention 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?” She whispered.
“How’d you know?”
Startled, Pike 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 thing 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, Avaslavia.” Voodoo stuttered over the details, but she focused to ensure the pronunciation of the name was accurate.
“You sure she said, Avaslavia?”
“Yep. She runs her mouth so much—I would’ve never suspected her to be a spy.”
“Holy crap. We’re screwed.”
Chapter Sixteen
The Mardi Gras tableau continued through the night, and the crowd of invited guests never seemed to thin out at the Grand Ballroom. The men’s room wasn’t as crowded as the long line to the women’s, but Pike was still uncomfortable with the lack of space.
“Excuse me, the door wasn’t locked,” the man apologized.
“My mistake, just leaving.” Pike pressed against the wall to make room for the guy to slide through. His gut twitched—the voice was familiar. Pike needed a break to throw water on his face before calling Alex. Or needed to remove his 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 pain when you gotta pee.” The man said.
"Understood." Pike 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,” Pike 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 Pike 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 Serpent’s assassination scheme. The irony amused Pike, that the man he was c's contracted to murder stood mere inches away, joking about taking a whiz.
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.
Pike shook water from his fingers and peered through the mask at burnt orange colored circles that surrounded his eyes. The whites were crisscrossed with red, swollen blood vessels. His shoulders sagged and chest caved as lungs full of stale a
ir rushed from him—he was flat freaking tired.
Maybe I should tell Rex about the assassination plot and let him decide whether to continue with his reign over carnival.
“Well, the show must go on. Be cool bro.” King Rex kidded as he squeezed back through the cramped restroom. Pike’s twirling mind stopped dead cold. Flashes of heat radiated up his frame. The identity of Rex became clear. Red-hot clear—he recognized that voice but, that saying, “Be cool bro.” Pike hated the man and his stupid saying.
Pike pushed through the impatient lines outside the bathrooms. He brushed shoulders and knocked knees with apologies and back pats. A far corner of the Grand Ballroom allowed him a platform to begin a visual grid search for Voodoo. She’d be lost in the sea of revelers excited about the big revelation of King Rex’s true identity. Pike scouted for the peacock feather instead—he had to make a move, with or without her.
Pike slipped into the hallway once everyone mashed masquerading bodies into the main event. He pressed numbers into his cell phone until it lit up with the green signal showing he’d connected to FORCE’s secure line. Chin tucked into his shoulder, he scanned the empty stretch of ballroom like a tanks’ turret.
“Alex, we got an issue.” His voice was rushed—unlike the easygoing smooth operator.
“Jonas’s on his way so you can brief us both.”
“No time. I need you to listen without questions. King Rex’s assassination is just a diversion. The real mission is a boat coming in through the mouth of the Mississippi River. Don’t know its name or destination but it’ll be here tomorrow while Rex parades through the French Quarter. Trust me on this, y’all need to respond—it’s big.” He stopped to gulp huge air. Eyes darted rapidly up and down the corridor for Carvaka’s disciples.
“How do you know the assassination is secondary?” Alex challenged him.
“The King Rex target, is JW Colt.” Pike’s words were tainted with the vile hatred he carried for the disgraced Navy SEAL. He gnawed at the inside of his mouth.
“Why would anyone care if that traitor got sniped?” Jonas asked.
Pike heard the squish behind Jonas’s words and knew he’d plopped into one of the leather chairs that lined the modernly equipped conference room back at HQ.
“That’s the point, no one would, but it sure would cause a media buzz to see the fake war hero murdered on the big stage.” Pike hated the mention of Colt’s name, and wondered if trying to save him from execution was the right thing to do. Pike’s shiny shoes scuffed the wall as he kicked in agitation.
“Then why all the fuss?” Jonas spoke over Alex’s words. “Sorry, Alex.”
“Jonas, I told Alex there’s a ship coming into the river tomorrow under the cover of the Rex parade. Only thing I know is that it’s from Avaslavia.”
“What? You never mentioned Avaslavia. What’s it doing in New Orleans?” Alex rarely lost her cool, but the mention of the former Soviet bloc country set her very being ablaze. She’d suffered nineteen inhumane days of torture at the hands of its merciless dictator, Vladimir. What was done to her body, and her soul could never be undone or forgiven.
“I say we forget about his highness, JW Colt and focus on the ship. Maybe the assassin will miss him?” Jonas’s suggestion was drenched in sarcasm.
“That’s the problem—the bullet would probably hit someone innocent.” Pike said. “I’ve got a line on one half of a kill team. I’ll neutralize him by the end of the night. His female counterpart is also connected to my friend, NOPD Detective Alphonse Hebert. Seems Fats is involved somehow. The female’s possibly meeting the vessel, so I’ll allow her to walk until then.”
Pike managed this entire incident so far without hesitation or questioning his own ability. It was his first time to run solo and unsupported in the field. It sure beat desk duty. He smirked—eyes narrowed on the phony Navy SEAL stumbling drunk down the hall. Pike had regained his edge.
“Stay on top of this. You’ve done an amazing job for a guy who’s been a desk jockey for years.” Alex chuckled. “I’ll round up the band and head to Dixieland. It might mean our freedom, or possibly our lives. But it’s Mardi Gras after all.”
Chapter Seventeen
Pike kept a distance. Ralph’s intoxication prevented the counterfeit SEAL from realizing he’d picked up a tail. His head remained down while he fumbled to light a cigarette and walked into a wall. Pike’s eyes rolled, dummy.
The exit door creaked open, and Ralph fumbled his way into the fire escape staircase—perfect opportunity. Pike twisted his torso in an awkward tilt while he snugged his mask. It would disguise his true height on the surveillance cameras once the cops got involved over the discovery of Ralph’s corpse.
“Hey, squid, where you heading?” Pike barked.
Startled, the guy pitched and fell three steps onto a platform.
“Nowhere. Thought I told you to screw off.”
Pike paused above him, pulse accelerated, but his mind tempered his body’s preparation to engage. “Let’s make this quick. What are your orders for tomorrow?”
“Screw yourself.” Ralph burped.
“Tell me about the ship?”
“The ship? You drunker than me. I’m here to win fifty K.” His words slobbered from between thick, greasy lips.
“Win?”
“First team to take out Rex gets the fifty grand. You gonna get stiffed seaman because I’m grabbing him first. You other suckers are along the route. So go don’t bother.”
Fat-faced, Ralph blistered red with exertion. A life of hard drinking had done more than made him obnoxious. He staggered to his feet—trousers stretched tight around meaty thighs that never once covered a SEAL training course.
Pike’s blood began to boil. While he’d stood cool and calm in the face of confronting Osama bin Laden, he failed to rein it in when it came to jerks impersonating military personnel.
“Ralph, you should really apologize for pretending to be a serviceman. It’s such a dishonor to those who’ve lost their lives for people like you.”
“Back off.”
Ralph’s fat finger jabbed at Pike’s jacket but he swiveled his hips to avoid the contact. Unsatisfied and overconfident, Ralph reared back and let loose a crushing swing that lethargically covered the distance between the two.
Pike quickly slid his left foot to the rear and around to guide Ralph’s bulk toward the guardrail. Ralph’s momentum carried him over the barrier and onto the steps until he unceremoniously splattered at the bottom landing.
“That was easy.” Pike sighed, and return to the Grand Ballroom.
“Pike, where’ve you been?” Voodoo enveloped him within her tatted arms. He struggled to conceal the emotional flood fueled by his heightened adrenaline. She recognized the look. “Something happen to Ralph, the fraud?”
“Ralph the fraud removed himself from the assassination scenario—Bonny’s on her own.” Pike looked in her direction, where all five-foot-ten of Bonny’s lean, sexy physique clung onto JW Colt. His toes curled inside the fancy shoes while he cracked the knuckles on both hands. “Those two deserve each other,” he sneered.
“Baby, I’m so sorry you’ve got to face Colt. I had no idea he was Rex. No one in the city knew until the big reveal just now. I bet he couldn’t wait to take that mask off—too bad his masks are permanent. Talk about a fraud.” Voodoo said.
“No problem. Can you get in touch with Lawless and Kymani? We need outside help until FORCE arrives. Second thought, scratch Kymani. He and Fats are friends.”
“Down here, everybody’s connected,” Voodoo grimaced. “What counts is when it’s time to do the right thing, you can count on Kymani.” Voodoo’s eyes were wild with advocacy, her fingers on the dial. He nodded. She stepped into the hall to get the Task Force activated to tail Bonny.
Pike waited against a wall near the open bar while Voodoo made her notifications to Lawless. He did a double take, but it was King Rex himself, JW Colt in all of his glory heading his way. Pike shoved both
hands in his pant pockets to make sure neither one of them smashed the dishonorable king of carnival.
“Hey, bathroom buddy. Finally got my zipper open. Well, actually that bimbo with the ankle tattoo did. Killer body, huh?” JW Colt slapped him on the shoulder. Intoxication was his best hobby.
“You have no idea.” Pike grunted.
“Want my autograph?” JW Colt flashed an 8x10 glossy headshot.
“I’d be less liberal about handing out headshots. Mardi Gras can get as dangerous as Operation Neptune Spear.”
Colt’s mouth dropped open, and for once the jackal didn’t have anything to say.
It was Pike’s choice whether to alert Colt or not. Prior to discovering the information about the ship’s arrival, briefing him had been the best choice. Now, he’d better serve national security interests by sitting on his fabricated throne throwing manufactured trinkets. Besides, Pike still had a score to settle with him.
Colt grabbed Pike’s arm and tried to pull him toward him. His ridiculously beaded King Rex costume limited his mobility, but even if he were in a loincloth, Pike would have mopped the floor with him.
“What did you say?” Colt demanded.
“Just said, I’d love a headshot.” Pike taunted him.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
Pike saw Voodoo coming toward them and a slight waggle of his head alerted her to stay away. She pretended to take a phone call, but kept a close eye on the two men until Colt stormed away in an obvious huff.
Pike and Voodoo finally escaped the craziness and headed back to their hotel room. The tableau looked to continue right into the next day’s parade schedule. Once out of his tuxedo, Pike collapsed on the bed. He watched Voodoo as she carefully hung the gown, and smiled at her care in handling something that, although belonged to the Carvaka, was too beautiful to toss aside.
“We’re supposed to set up a our sniper’s observation and shoot sight atop the Hotel de L’Eau Vive on Tchoupitoulas just down from Gravier. Still no word on where the other sniper team is setting up.” Pike’s eyes were puffy and painful. More than three days without sleep had left him with fatigue that caused him to jerk at sounds or respond slow to actions. Regardless, he was trained to become his toughest when times were tough too.