Shadow Ops: Danger's Passion (Kindle Worlds Novella) (A Shadow Ops Novella Book 3) (5 page)

Justice James Boudreaux sat in the open field of an undisclosed airstrip just north of Chicago. Goggles dusty and filled with condensation, he systematically scanned the whole area. He’d been trained at the sharpest tip of the United States government’s black ops spear. If there were a threat within miles, he’d detect it and neutralize it.

His late model Harley Davidson Dyna Glide rattled between long, powerful thighs. Scuffed square-toed boots planted against the dirt, the bike easily balanced as an extension of his frame. He’d grown accustomed to the vibration—even as it caused the muscles packed across his chest to shake. A custom flat black paint job supported the Savage Soul’s emblem embossed across the tank. The skull and sniper’s crosshairs epitomized Justice’s ideology—he believed in being the baddest ass there ever was.

Heat from the twin cam engine poured between his legs. The red-hot heads and cylinders snapped to life as he cranked back against the leather-wrapped accelerator. He rested easily atop the stitched saddle, but he never relaxed. He trusted Rose Prospero—and only her.

The horizon was dotted with ten vertical figures. Their hogs, a collection of stolen and bought bikes, also thrummed under the early afternoon haze. Justice’s government paid-for smile flashed past his thick beard. Trained to avoid ambush—their positions were as he had instructed to detect and defeat one. He didn’t think Rose would even try to assault the Savage Souls, but he was never one to assume.

The hushed roar of the old military mule lumbered overhead. It brushed across the earth at nearly a standstill before completing a giant circle around the airfield. The C130, perfect for unprepared runways, returned to kick up dust as it bounced and teetered across the uneven surface before piloting toward the northeast windsock.

Justice waited. He saw the pilot’s fist then open palm then fist again. He released the clutch and idled toward an opening cargo bay. Justice swung the HK MP5 submachine gun from the sling around his shoulders and swept his lighted scope through the empty space—all clear. He waved his right hand in a huge circle to rally the others.

“Thanks again my brother.” Justice patted the last biker on the shoulder as he had each of the others when they roared into the massive hull of the vintage WWII airplane.

Orange nylon webbing hung from the walls in contrast to the grey interior. Their powerful engines raped the quiet, empty space now only used for tourists and visiting school kids. Dim bay area lights dotted the solid metal welds that replaced a floorboard damaged over decades. They each had served in the military, so a C130 transport was nothing new to them as their bodies swayed to balance tires across ruts and rails in the floor used to load and unload cargo.

Once airborne, an older looking pilot in jeans and a flannel shirt slipped into the back to brief them. After sharing ETA and location, he and Justice thanked each other for service to their country, and the plane’s owner returned to the cockpit with his co-pilot. Almost three hours until touchdown west of New York state. Rose had secured an airfield belonging to another private aircraft enthusiast.

“STR’s on their way to meet us there.” Justice sat on his hog in the middle of the other ten bikers. Even here, they had positioned their rides into a circle. Bodies jerking and adjusting to the giant workhorse cutting through the air—balancing their motorcycles was a challenge.

“I hope this shit ain’t no set up, Justice,” a biker said.

“These feds saved our ass back in March. ATF would’ve shoved their fist down our throat if STR hadn’t tipped us off.” Justice regarded the younger man, who looked like him. All of the Boudreaux brothers bore a strong resemblance. Even Lawless, the police captain over the Louisiana Task Force, looked like the other six.

“Yeah, well they also caused brother Souls to die in them chemicals,” Rat said. Unrelated to the Boudreaux brothers, he’d earned his colors with the club through multiple tours overseas with the youngest blood brother. Still, he often reacted opposite to Justice’s orders if only for the sake of being contrary. Justice cast a dispassionate glare toward him, but reserved his comments.

The Savage Souls Motorcycle Club had been around for years, but weak leadership and federal indictments had lessened their numbers and effect. Justice had come to know a few of their members while working CIA special ops. He’d never underestimated the value of allegiances with the most vile criminal underworld characters. They usually came through as his best sources of information.

Soon after his discharge, when he grew disenfranchised with living within the margins, the adrenaline fueled combat veteran sought out the fringe lifestyle and freedom of movement he’d enjoyed while working deeper than any black bag organization. The outlaw ethos drew him in like a needle to the vein. Soon, his charisma and skills established him as a natural leader. Civil war soon erupted within the ranks as chapters across the country heard of his quick rise to national president.

Justice enlisted warriors he trusted who not only wanted to fight the battles, but also had the abilities to do it. His brother the cop, Lawless, refused and hadn’t spoken to him since Justice proposed he pledge the club. His other five brothers, who’d served in the military and law enforcement, were either unemployable according to the same government they’d fought for, or hated the mainstream picket-fence life expected of returning war heroes. They pledged without hesitation. Justice soon realized that being war heroes didn’t mean they were all good citizens but for the most part they served him well.

His combat-hardened soldiers controlled the national chapter of the Savage Souls Outlaw Motorcycle Club with such tenacity, that the rest of the Savage nation soon surrendered. However, not everyone was pleased with the power shift.

The last time he agreed to help STR had almost cost him position as national president. This mission to save Voodoo might be the nail in his coffin—there were other factions in the Savage nation lurking to steal the power that came with the position. No matter, the Boudreaux family had a long history with the Laveau family, and no way in hell would the brothers abandon their childhood friend.

The old pilot reappeared with a wave and flash of five fingers, three times. Justice nodded. They were fifteen minutes out.

“Boys, I don’t want no bullshit between us and these feds. The fuckers just got dicked over by their government. They’re out here on their own to save one of ours. Understood?” Justice knew his blood brothers would understand—they all knew Voodoo from the days back in Turtle Bayou. It was the other five, like Rat, that bothered him.

“Makes no shit to me. They still cops,” Rat’s words confirmed Justice’s suspicion.

“You fuck up this mission to rescue our friend, and I’ll kill you before I take out the first Devil’s Own.” Justice stood, towering over his hog.

He leaned toward Rat’s old Triumph and snatched the pitted ape-hanger handlebar with one hand. The cruiser shook against Justice’s pull forward and Rat’s push back. Effortlessly, the leader’s strength dominated. Finally, Rat relinquished and allowed his bike to roll closer.

“Do you hear me?” Justice barked.

“Sir, yes, sir,” Rat said, a smirk of sarcasm smeared across his tattooed face.

“Anyone else got a problem with this mission?” he asked. The other nine bikers shook their heads. Rat averted his glare.

At the peal of a bell, Hollywood sprinted down two flights of stairs at the rear of the eight-story building where STR was holed up. The old pre-World War II brownstone had seen better days but Hoboken was filled with similar structures. Situated close to an area still showing the devastation of 2012’s Hurricane Sandy, the nearby docks were rife with homelessness and riff raff.

He’d not heard the thunderous stampede of muscle-motorcycles, so he assumed his other requested resource had arrived.

His heart raced as he leaned into the peephole. Dusk had triggered a dim automatic exterior light over the entrance. He recognized the body, but couldn’t see the face. His palm pressed against the top of his holstered weapon as he sucked in a deep breath and opened the door.

“Lawless, thanks for coming,” Hollywood said with his hand extended.

“How can I turn down a Black Hawk sitting in my front yard? What’s the latest on Voodoo?” the man asked without making eye contact. His head was on a swivel, instinctively scanning the unfamiliar neighborhood.

“Sounds like another Black Hawk behind you,” Hollywood said without thinking. His lips pinched. The shaggy beard hid his grimace. Hollywood knew what was coming, and he braced for the storm.

“This better not be what I think it is, motherfucker. You should’ve never gotten me involved.”

Lawless reached with an overly long arm and grabbed a fistful of plaid flannel. He pushed the former SEAL into the unpainted metal doorframe and tried to walk away but Hollywood snatched at his wrist and pulled him back.

“Whatever bullshit you got going on with your brother, this is about Voodoo. I know she was special to you so you owe her this much,” Hollywood challenged.

“She is special to me—not was. You should’ve been honest. You’ve no idea what hell you’ve put STR into. You’re dealing with the devil himself.”

A low rumble elevated to a roar as Justice’s biker army rounded the corner. Eleven Harley Davidson motorcycles lined the block in front of the building. Hollywood eyed Lawless. There’d be no walking away this time.

“What the fuck’s that bitch doing here?” Justice hollered over the thump and tat, tat, tat of his Dyna Glide.

Hollywood suddenly regretted his decision to call in both brothers. “This is about Voodoo,” he shouted.

“Without him. I only work with warriors,” Justice taunted.

“I’ll kick his ass right now for being on our block,” Rat dropped his kickstand and leaned his old Triumph Victory cruiser to climb off.

“Chill out, Rat,” Justice warned.

“You the punk ass cop?” Rat provoked as he scuffed across the curb toward Lawless. Called Rat because of his pointy nose and narrow, pinched lips, the man stood about six feet and weighed just under two hundred pounds.

Hollywood watched denim stretch across broad shoulders and pumped-up biceps. Lawless slid his right foot back about two feet. Blood drained from his fist as he cranked knuckles into a wrecking ball. Seemed everyone knew what was about to happen, but Rat. The Savage Soul member challenged Lawless again. Bobbed his jaw as he cursed the much taller lawman.

Lawless’ fist erupted so fast no one saw the punch, though they all expected it. Hollywood cringed as he witnessed six feet and two hundred pounds lift into the air then crash onto the grime-coated sidewalk. Rat lay crumpled, out cold.

“I got work to do,” Lawless said as he burst past Hollywood toward the stairs. “You said second floor, right?” he asked.

“I never said any floor.”

“I saw the rifle scope reflect through the window. Y’all better be better than that.” Lawless disappeared into the dank hall and stomped upstairs to meet the rest of STR’s team.

“Justice, y’all coming in?” Hollywood was actually glad to see the club’s president, but wasn’t sure who he’d brought with him since the last crew of the Savage nation got themselves contaminated in Chicago. The giant nodded and then signaled for everyone to unload.

Hollywood’s lungs burned as the exhaust from the ten oil-spouting road hogs spewed toward him while rear tires rolled against the cement curb. He watched as a biker without the club’s main patch on his colors walked Rat’s bike out of the street and in line with the others. His bottom rocker read Pledge—a rookie in the OMC, he would be doing all their dirty work.

“Drag his ass upstairs,” Justice ordered the pledge as he stepped over Rat to grab Hollywood by the hand and triceps. “You did good in Chicago—I owe you and Rose this one. But you should’ve been honest about everything. Everything.”

“I needed you both more than whatever beef you two have going. This is about Voodoo, not you two or cops and bikers—just Voodoo.” Hollywood’s stance stiffened as each biker approached. He knew they were all combat vets, but he wasn’t sure what their reactions to him would be.

“I won’t bother introducing you. We won’t be around that long. Can’t believe Easter is tomorrow—I never even bought my little girl a basket,” Justice said as he pointed the others toward the staircase.

Hollywood half-smiled at the words. He’d never considered that Justice, or any of them might have a family. His gut churned slowly as he realized his hopes of a family, possibly with Voodoo, were coming to an end unless they rescued her. He stepped back as the pledge tugged Rat through the threshold by his leather vest.

“Rip those colors Pledge, and Rat will make a new vest from your skin,” Justice bellowed through the narrow foyer. The young pledge hoisted the bigger biker onto his shoulders and crawled bent-knees up the stairs.

Hollywood locked the front door before he yanked out his cell phone. Pictures of Voodoo and him on the cypress swing from Good Friday flittered beneath his swiping thumb.

“I love you, Krystal,” he whispered into the darkness. Scarred knuckles that had fought so often for freedom for others brushed away dampness from his eyes. It was time to fight for the one person he’d ever truly cared for. Bonny and the Devil’s Own better pray for death to come quickly for taking his Voodoo. From this point on, he vowed, no more sorrow, only death.

A message alert popped up—Rose telling him to get upstairs. The sounds of a ruckus suggested he’d better.

Then another message alert appeared. This time it was Bonny describing how good Voodoo’s pussy tasted. The picture of her maniacal wet sneer confirmed it.