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

A Shadow Ops Novella

LS Silverii

This first book in the trilogy is dedicated to my dear friend, who generously shares and supports others who also possess a passion for writing. CJ Lyons made this opportunity possible with a thoughtful invitation to join her Shadow Ops Kindle World. Her offer to come along was purely a selfless gift, and I’m once again thankful for our friendship.

I fully appreciate that one is only as good as the people who surround them. The writing community is amazing for surrounding each other with genuine support. These wonderful people generously support and mentor me without hesitation. I thank you for your time, talent and truth. CJ Lyons, Liliana Hart, Adrienne Giordano, Jean Jenkins, Lynn Chandler Willis, Jk Danielle Dauphinet, and Christie Pepper

“Flash bang deployed.”

“Moving.”

“Clear.”

“Negative, not clear. One target.”

“Shots fired.”

“Shit, y’all freeze.”

The flash of hot white overhead lights and the shrill blare of a whistle signaled the end of another training mission—and the team’s patience. Nine mismatched bodies slumped in a camouflaged collection of sweat-soaked BDUs and agency identifier patches. Submachine guns hung around their necks from nylon harnesses as SWAT operators lumbered beneath the weight of full tactical gear.

“What the hell’s wrong with y’all today? Gonna get somebody killed.” Kymani’s cheeks hollowed as he barked. A line of moisture rivered its way along gaunt temples until it had a decision to make—snake into his tiny pinned-back ear or chance crossing chapped maroon lips. Long fingers slapped the wetness until a dart of his narrow tongue licked it away.

“It’s the new guy. Stupid rookie moves with two left feet.” An operator called Voodoo jabbed a gloved finger toward the new member. The Kevlar helmet and fire-resistant hood muted the angry words.

“Who you calling a rookie?” Over six feet of off-the-shelf tactical gear pitched toward Voodoo. Two other SWAT team members stood between them.

“Shit, you look like a magazine model—ain’t much broke a sweat even. Who you with, some news channel?” Drawn back, Voodoo’s Sheriff’s Office’s shoulder patch reared up to hunch the heavy ballistic tactical vest.

“Cool your beans, bandy rooster. You don’t know who you’re messing with.” Hollywood brushed the others’ hands off. “I don’t have time to mess with this boy. When you’re tall enough to be on this ride let me know.” He chuckled nervously, scanning the others for an ally.

“All right, that’s enough. This shit’s serious. Mardi Gras’s right around the corner and unless you get your heads on straight, you’ll spend the season in a high-rise window begging for beads.” The commander sounded U.S. military, but Kymani looked like an Ethiopian warlord with muscles to spare.

“Ain’t carnival season a state holiday?” An older, gravel-voiced operator asked, as he struggled under the weight of his weapons and equipment.

“Only in Louisiana, but it ain’t a federal holiday. So if I gotta work, you local yokels gonna be there with us overworked feds,” said Agent Chu, a capable looking guy with a slight Asian accent. His left shoulder patch read Homeland Security. The
fleur de lis
symbol adorned each team members’ right shoulder patch, with South Louisiana Violent Crimes Task Force embroidered over it.

“How ’bout you pretty boy, gonna enjoy some Mardi Gras mambo?” Voodoo targeted Hollywood again.

“Why don’t you mind your own business? You the best your sheriff has to offer?” Hollywood’s tone stung of fed up. “We finished with this bullshit session? I got crap to do.” His question challenged Kymani.

Tired eyes encircled with red, sent out a yellowish gleam beneath the faded jungle-pattern boonie hat. The commander’s pitted nostrils flared, steaming quick snorts of air. The other eight operators averted their gaze and busied themselves adjusting snaps and Velcro straps on their gear kits. Hollywood stood his ground, but his turned-up palms signaled submission.

“Sorry, sir, but I’m not here to quibble over tactics and holidays. I was assigned to work with this Task Force, but if training is done for the day, I’ve got to find a place to bunk.” He fumbled with thick-gloved fingers to strap his helmet so it hung from a pouch lid on his tactical vest, then dabbed at the thick sweat across his forehead and yanked the Nomex hood off his head.

“Damn, you sure is pretty.” Voodoo whistled.

“Enough of your bullshit.” Hollywood evaded Kymani’s grip as he moved toward Voodoo, sliding past the older team member who was still reattaching his NOPD Velcro patch. Although much shorter, Voodoo swiped Hollywood’s fists away while sidestepping his advance. Hollywood slipped on the slick gravel parking lot. To his chagrin the others’ chuckles turned to taunts.

“Come on bitch, you wanna hit a girl? Let’s go.” Helmet and goggles skidded over the ground as Voodoo ripped the thick, hood from her head. A trained fighting stance dropped her center of gravity even lower than her five-foot-six inch frame.

Unlike his, her tactical boots were tattered and well worn. The rubber-soles balanced her stance, left foot forward matched by a clenched left fist to protect her chin. Limber, Voodoo’s body wafted like a lethal butterfly.

“Y-You’re her,” Hollywood stammered when he got a good look. His shoulders slumped. He fought to subdue an embarrassed smile as his veins coursed with eager adrenaline.

“No shit, Sherlock. We sure lucky you on our side. I feel safe and fuzzy with you here.” Voodoo’s tongue pushed slightly forward as her chest heaved. Shoulders rolled violently as if her BDUs had tried to attack her. Hair matted to her forehead and right cheek, Voodoo exhaled. Her body remained taut, right foot to the rear just in case he tried to advance.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Hollywood forgot the others surrounding them. He moved in, she stepped back.

“What? That you suck at SWAT tactics?” Voodoo’s voice wasn’t as boisterous, but still condescending.

Hollywood froze as he gazed into her electric green eyes. They’d met a few years ago during a regional SWAT operation targeting human traffickers. Voodoo had worked the undercover element that led to rescuing forty-three women. The debriefing and drinks that followed brought the two together. One kiss followed hours of talking. He’d never forgotten that kiss.

“Yeah, I remember you. That’s why I’m busting your balls, cover model. You hauled ass after that night.” Her lips vibrated in a motorboat sound. “Yet here you are again.”

Voodoo’s fearless attitude impressed the shit out of him, but her smile, even warped behind an adversarial green-eyed snarl was welcoming.

“Hollywood, I see you making friends like always.” New Orleans Police Detective Alphonse “Fats” Hebert crunched across the training complex’s firing range, the cement floor tracked up with gravel and mud. “Krystal Laveau, affectionately called Voodoo, got a knack for getting under your skin.” The polyester of his discounted-clothier suit swished as he walked, while his portly torso jiggled from the fat of too much fast food and late-night surveillance.

“We’ve actually met before.” Dwight D. Harriman, who actually preferred the nickname given him during his time in Navy intelligence, cringed at being called Hollywood here. His gaze met the others’ rolling eyes, except for Voodoo.

She laughed out loud, “Hollywood? Hell that explains it.” Her electric green eyes raked the blue-eyed, younger version of Brad Pitt. “I never even knew your name that night. Just some hot guy,” her words launched Fats into a bout of exaggerated laughter.

Hollywood shuffled to close the gap with Fats, and separate himself from Laveau. They hugged, but he couldn’t feign his displeasure at having his nickname exposed.

“Kymani, my man, how are ya?” Fats embraced the SWAT commander.

“Well, Hollywood, I’m glad you know someone very important down on the bayou. All good my brother Fats?” The commander’s ageless face, a shiny blue-black in the lights, beamed. His accent slipped into a Caribbean dialect. The two men embraced.

“Hollywood, don’t let Lil’ Bit get under your skin. Voodoo is good to stir the shit, but she won’t lick the spoon.” Fats wagged a thick forefinger her way. His diamond pinky ring bounced sunlight across Hollywood’s face.

“I’ll lick it when pretty baby gets his tactical shit together. I still think he’s a SWAT magazine model—never a real deal blue liner.” Voodoo flipped her left fingers to dismiss them while her right hand never moved from the trigger guard of her Colt 9mm compact submachine gun.

“You little shit. This man’s a freaking hero. You should show respect.” Fats said. A flush flashed bright across the veteran detective’s shaved head.

“Hero? The guy’s worse than a rookie. Go fuck yourself, fatso.” Voodoo reared her fist to blindside the NOPD detective. Hollywood leg-swept her as he gripped the drag/rescue strap hemmed to the rear of her SWAT vest. With one quick, downward jerk, her feet were flung from beneath her. The sub-machine gun reverberated as it smashed against the floor.

“You going to attack a fellow officer, do it with honor. Not while his back’s turned.” Hollywood stood over her as she bounced off the ground.

“Stupid little girl.” Fats turned, glowering.

“Fuck off fat ass, this ain’t the big sleazy.” Voodoo’s caramel complexion drained pale as she swung around to regain her footing. Her battle-beaten boots scrambled, but the heavy tactical gear tangled her legs.

“Respect I said. This man killed fucking bin…” His brown eyes bugged out, football-shaped orbs as they darted toward Hollywood. Fats’ mouth formed an odd circle, and then clamped shut without another word.

“Killed who?” Voodoo asked. She struggled on the loose gravel that coated the concrete.

“No one. Fats just popping off at the trap again. Sorry for taking you down like that. I’m also sorry I never tried getting in touch with you, but all I had was a bogus undercover name.” Hollywood regretted the aggressive maneuver he’d used on her. He tried to rationalize it as defending his old friend Fats, but logic didn’t lessen his embarrassment or quell the powerful draw he felt toward this cocky female SWAT cop. He’d been warned south Louisiana women were unique, as was the Cajun culture. He was getting a taste of it all on day one.

She looked helpless on the deck with fifty plus pounds of Velcro-wrapped SWAT equipment, ballistics and ammunition entwined around both knees. He smirked, though he admired her fierce determination, despite having been knocked off her feet. Hollywood’s stomach fluttered. He was hardly able to break his gaze—he was so taken with her.

When Hollywood extended his hand, finally Voodoo smiled. Even through their gloved hands he felt a jolt. The sensation deep in his groin caused his own grin to explode—as it had the first time they met.

“Hero, huh?” She nibbled on her bottom lip. Her green eyes cut back to him while she retrieved her helmet and goggles. Hollywood found it nearly impossible to break eye contact, but he quickly glimpsed her ass as she bent to retrieve the Kevlar helmet.

“Watch her, Hollywood. She’s full of southern hospitality with a thirst for violence,” Fats teased.

“Just because you can’t handle us bayou girls, don’t mean we bad. Ain’t no women like us Creole ladies anywhere in the world. Fats, you should know better.” Voodoo warned him, but her smoldering eyes never left Hollywood.

And it was a perfectly shaped ass to boot.

Hollywood punched in the map coordinates, but still found navigating the French Quarter more harrowing than escorting convoys along Baghdad Airport Road. The confirmed bachelor debated parking the turbo SUV curbside and making his way on foot. Sure, he was anxious to get to know a true southern belle, but he decided against leaving his chick-magnet vehicle exposed. Hollywood checked, and rechecked his hair and smile in the rearview mirror as he meandered along Bourbon Street toward Bienville until he found garage parking.

“Mister, this is a Cayenne.” The young lot attendant gasped as he sidestepped to open Hollywood’s door.

“Yep, and I’m trusting you to take care of her.” He made an obvious show of examining the young man’s nametag.

“You know this Porsche runs a hundred K?” The attendant locked focus on the interior.

“It actually cost closer to one fifteen. Can I trust you?” He handed him the fob.

“You know it.”

“What’s the mileage, James?” Hollywood already knew the answer.

“Two thousand eight hundred and thirty seven miles. Why?” A nervous hand adjusted the seat and rearview mirror. A screech of tires echoed in the background.

“I figure you’re going to test it by driving to the top of this five floor garage. Then you’re going to zip around the corners all the way back down. Then you’re going to park it right over there beneath that lighted surveillance camera. Up and down is no more than one mile. Two thousand eight hundred and thirty eight miles—nothing more.” Hollywood drew back his hounds-tooth sports coat for his wallet and tipped the boy twenty dollars.

The boy’s eyes zeroed in on the brown leather paddle holster that held the Sig Sauer P228.

“That the M11?” The boy swallowed several times.

“You military?” Hollywood smiled—M11 was the military classification of the civilian’s P228 designation.

“Sir, yes sir. Delayed entry. College ROTC and history major, sir.” The young man sat upright in the driver’s seat. A wary smile snuck out.

“Okay, maybe two miles then.” He slipped out another twenty.

Hollywood eased back onto the street and struggled to gain his bearings. He pocketed his cell phone map finder. No need telegraphing to the thugs he was a NOLA newbie. But too late.

“Yo mister, got a light?” One voice asked, but three shadows danced against the brick wall across the street. The silhouettes didn’t appear to have anything in their hands.

“No sir, sorry, I don’t smoke.” Calling him sir twisted Hollywood’s gut but he knew it was better to talk than fight. Besides, he hadn’t practiced hand-to-hand combat in years, and he’d been on desk duty for the last two.

“You might not smoke—bitch, but you got cash. Hand it over.” The voice grew louder, angry. This guy wasn’t the leader—he was talking loud to impress whoever was. Hollywood walked slowly toward the light at the corner, but the guy jerked at his coat.

“No need to get pushy. Just accost the next guy who comes through,” his tone remained even. He watched the other two shadows close in, but they couldn’t hear him. “Last chance son,” Hollywood added a slight hiss, “or I’ll haunt you forever.”.

The hand released his coat.

One less to deal with if they attacked.

“Hey stupid, you heard my boy, give it up.”

This was the leader.

“Give up what?” Hollywood spun aggressively. Both crooks dug in their heels. “Cowards making this boy do your dirty work. Get out of here now.” It was a long shot, but if he disoriented their perception of how a victim should respond, he might avoid a confrontation. Classic special warfare tactic—do the unexpected.

“Ain’t no damn boy.”

Hollywood hadn’t expected the timid one to lash out. A solid fist caught just below his jaw, his head shuddered to the left. His vision muddled for the moment, he stumbled back. If he fell, they’d kick his ass. He shook it off and drew into a fighting stance.

“Get him,” cried the last thug.

Hollywood’s mind and body had once thrived on 3 to 1 odds, but here he was hesitant to go hands on. Sure, he’d hurt one or two of them and they’d get in cheap shots, but he just didn’t have the desire to get his hands dirty. Besides, he’d come downtown for pussy, not pussies.

“Back off assholes, or I’ll blow you away.” His right hand stroked along the holster, caught the butt of the compact 9mm pistol. The flash of cold-blue steel ensured his survival. Two scurried away like alley rats, but the young one stood solid, his mouth agape, eyes overly wide. He held a long kitchen knife in his open right palm.

“I ain’t afraid, mister. Ain’t no boy neither.” His words stuttered.

Hollywood saw dark, dull eyes and a low brow. His tongue darted over his punch-split bottom lip in a rapid beat that matched the rhythm in which his shirtfront rose and fell.

“Ain’t afraid to die either.”

“I can see that, son, but I got the gun. Your blade loses this battle. Just go join your friends.” Hollywood stood his ground. He’d cause a public panic with weapon drawn but attention wasn’t what he needed at this point. He just wanted to fade.

“They not my friends. Either I prove I’m a man or fight them all over again. I ain’t afraid mister.” The thug looked over his shoulder, the knife bouncing in his quivering palm.

Hollywood pulled out a bill. “Here, take the money, but please don’t try this on anybody else. Promise?” Hollywood had learned the value of winning hearts and minds in the sandbox. It had caused him to swallow his pride and bite his tongue on occasion, but the results were better than battling an entire nation—or this kid.

“Really? Hundred bucks. Thank you mister.” The guy’s prematurely bald head glimmered in the trace of light as he squatted to retrieve the crumpled Ben Franklin. The young boy turned and ran with a gimp stride.

When the heavy plod of sneakered footsteps disappeared, Hollywood collapsed against the stucco wall. He holstered his weapon without looking down. His other life or death scenarios had taken place overseas, but here he’d been on domestic soil with three citizens at muzzle point—ready to kill if necessary. It had devolved to this point because he had his head up his ass and didn’t feel like getting down and dirty with a good old-fashioned brawl. Emotion flooded out of control for a ferocious moment before he regained composure.

Had he become so soft? So spoiled behind a bureaucratic desk gig?

An elbow tap against the top of his holster ensured the weapon was secure. He turned back into the darkened ally. Fats would understand if he passed on drinks tonight. He wouldn’t tell about the attack—Fats wouldn’t approve of charity work. The squared toe of his handcrafted Lucchese boots scuffled across the uneven combination of asphalt, brick, and raised cement sidewalk.

[Where you at?] Fats’ text message read.

He mashed a reply. [Heading home. Long day]

[Dude, gotta see her] Fats’ message tempted him. He knew Hollywood’s weakness.

[Okay, one and done] Hollywood used the cell phone map to get there.

What were the chances of getting mugged again in the same night?