Shadow Ops: Danger's Passion (Kindle Worlds Novella) (A Shadow Ops Novella Book 3) (7 page)

Inside was chaos. Death metal blared making Hollywood’s eardrums ached. Dark halls, like a cornfield maze, had been spray painted with satanic and white power symbols. Their banner was hoisted in the main area next to Hitler’s swastika flag. A chemical stench from methamphetamine cooking hung heavy in the air like shitty baby diapers or cat piss. Hollywood gagged.

KC led STR through the first room, avoiding the battling bikers by clinging close to the walls. Billy batted away a few attacks by the Devil’s Own, but the Savages were so motivated, the Devils didn’t know who to fight. Hollywood, at the tail end of the team, struggled to keep pace as they zipped through a shit pile of debris and stolen merchandise.

He heard the panic in KC’s voice over the tac comm as she asked which direction to take. So far, no basement door. They’d cleared three large rooms so far, but nothing.

“Find the bar,” Hollywood said.

“No time for drinks,” Chase snapped.

“Most cellars were built behind the bar in these old pubs. Bartender had quick access to restocking.”

“Good call, Hollywood. I guess a playboy would know,” KC joked, and moved as fast as she could toward a large oak countertop.

Wide-eyed, Hollywood peered through the dim space. It felt as if they were ghosts. So much violence going on and the team meandering between flailing bodies, chains and baseball bats. Lawless moved in front of KC to pull a big body away from the solid core interior door. KC twisted the knob but it didn’t budge. Chase has taken Billy’s place. He tried to shoulder it but the thick wood wouldn’t give.

Hollywood became more anxious. He could sense Voodoo was behind that door. Maybe Bonny too. He’d plant a bullet in her though. He heard the strikes against the door, but kept his eyes on the rest of the room. His rear guard position was critical for protecting his team’s 6 from ambush.

“Damn thing won’t give,” Chase said, winded.

Fuck this, he’d had enough. “Switch,” Hollywood told Rose. She rotated to rear guard.

His furious kicks bounced off the door without success. He regretted leaving the breaching tools outside once the rear door was open. His heart roared at the thought of Voodoo hearing their efforts but not knowing if it were someone coming to rape her, or STR to rescue her.

“Everyone back,” he yelled. Hollywood swung to the same side of the door with his team, shielding them with his body. He hoped Voodoo was clear out of the way. He opened fire on the massive metal locking mechanism.

Sparks flew. Shards of steel and wood zinged across his torso. He gritted his teeth as razor-hot fragments seared the soft skin on his face. Both hands steadying his MP5, the metal ember smoldered. The smell of burning flesh whiffed into his nostrils. He shook his head to snap the reek.

“Son of a bitch,” he yelled. His right thumb smashed the magazine release button. The metal bullet holder clanked to the floor. His left hand swept across his chest, snatched a fully loaded magazine from his vest pocket. Hollywood rammed it home and opened fire once again.

The massive lock housing fell to the floor.

He swung to the opposite side of the creaking door. “I’m out,” Hollywood said, again changing magazines.

Rose led the charge. Her high-powered flashlight attached to the bottom of her weapon gave glimpses of a long staircase leading into the basement. Reloaded, Hollywood fell into the number three spot behind KC. Chase remained up top to thwart anyone from following them.

The temporary silence after Hollywood’s rapid-fire flow of ammunition into the door lock created a hushed oh-shit effect. He heard Rose and KC’s weight flex each crooked wooden step as they rushed downstairs. He kept close.

Hollywood felt the prickle of anxiety and anticipation. His skin crawled the closer he came to seeing beneath the upper structure. Sweat bled from his saturated black hood and dribbled into his face—the burnt skin just under his right eye a distant memory. Legs like lead, he struggled to land each downward step on the balls of his feet.

He heard her, or thought so. Whimpering on a soiled mattress pitched in the corner on mud-covered concrete. Hollywood spotted the biker facing her. He had to have known they were coming, but he didn’t appear to give a shit. Dirt bag’s attention was focused on Voodoo’s nudity, and zipping up his diesel coated jeans.

Hollywood secured his firearm—Voodoo was deep in the dark corner, but still in his line of fire. He couldn’t take the risk. The KA-BAR knife made a zip sound as he ripped it from its sheath. Rose and KC hadn’t noticed his move, nor had they slowed their descent down the stairs. The moment his head cleared the structural support beam, Hollywood launched himself from the open staircase. The biker never knew what hit him. Hollywood’s steel blade sank deep into the soft spot just below the back of the biker’s skull.

Blood gurgled through the gap at the front of his throat. The biker hung, suspended from Hollywood’s blade. Voodoo kept her face pressed against the brick corner. Her foot dangled off the thin mattress. They’d carved a tattoo into her leg—Property of Devil’s Own. Vomit pooled in his mouth.

Rose and KC reached the landing to encounter another biker too fucked up to resist.

A picture flashed in Hollywood’s mind. He recognized the silhouette shivering in the shadows. Spittle built up in the corners of his mouth. A guttural roar formed deep within him. Vision clouded. His heart rate exploded with fury.

He snatched the corpse up by his leather vest and yanked his knife out.

“No Hollywood,” Rose’s voice warbled as if she were underwater. The shots and adrenaline had taken their toll.

Too late—he ran the razor edge of the blade around the biker’s neck until his head rolled off onto the cement. Hollywood stabbed at the back of the biker’s cut. He held up the patch, an image of satan breastfeeding an infant. Waved it in his fist like a Super Bowl trophy.

“What’ve you done?” Rose said.

KC held the other biker at gunpoint. The man was frozen with fear.

Hollywood stalked toward them. He threw the biker’s patch to the ground and drew the Glock model 19. Rose moved in front of him.

“Move,” he growled.

“No. You will not shoot this unarmed man. We’re better than that.”

KC’s glower twisted from Rose to Hollywood to the cornered biker.

“You’re right. I’m not going to shoot him.”

Hollywood’s stance widened and his fingers spread wide. Tunnel vision had taken its grip, but he didn’t care. Both STR team members were speaking at him, but the high pulse rate and tsunami of adrenaline pushed him to the edge of unconsciousness.

Hollywood chopped their hands away and lunged to the corner with a blood lust. Grabbing the biker by the skull, he peered deep into the man’s dilated pupils. The dirt bag stunk of gasoline, beer and sweat. His toothless mouth trembled. Yes—it was one of the pricks from the picture. Hollywood smashed the biker’s skull into the brick wall. He dropped the dead man in the corner.

“Get off me,” he barked at Rose. He shrugged her off and went to Voodoo.

KC and Rose moved near the stairwell as Hollywood knelt gently beside her.

“Baby. It’s me, Dwight.” He whispered while slipping an old afghan over her body. As he touched her, something felt wrong. He rolled her over, found what light he could.

He sagged. “It’s not her.

There’s something awful and noble about living in the margin of society’s tragedies. Outlaws wallow in it to mock accountability, while law enforcement invades it to ensure compliance. As bipolar as the interaction between the two should be, the reality is—neither are much different from the other.

It was almost dawn as the last Savage Soul push-walked his hog into the foreign imports auto shop in New York’s Midtown Ukrainian Village. Rose’s years of covert and network building had paid off with another secreted safe housing. Electricity and running water were much better here than the port off the Hudson River, but each served its purpose.

“Shit, I thought that cop was going to yank us over as we came out of the Holland Tunnel,” Chase said.

“Well, if those fucking Savages hadn’t acted like assholes along I-78, they might not have gotten noticed. Serves ’em right.” Lawless spoke as though unrelated by blood to six of them.

“Maybe so, but now we’re screwed without their help to find Bonny,” Chase added.

Hollywood was silent. He carried Voodoo from the SUV into what looked like an employee break area. Despite his gentle exterior, his soul quaked for killing—more killing. His eyes raked across her brutalized body. He’d always seen the tough, kick-ass side of her, but she was fragile at this moment. Not broken—just fragile.

The others milled around the garage’s work area. They scrubbed their hands in vain attempts to erase the vile surroundings they’d just raided. Hollywood watched through an opening in the door, still on high alert. Rose approached. He said nothing but rolled his eyes in diminished enthusiasm.

“How is she?”

“Strong,” he said probably more for Voodoo’s sake than the truth.

“The team doctor will be here shortly. She’s been vetted by me personally—best caretaker there is,” Rose added, probably for both of their benefits.

He sprang up from the couch as headlights flashed across the opposite wall. Held breaths anticipated further sound, but nothing. His right hand pressed against the top of his holster. Rose bent below the window line.

“It’s them,” she said.

“The Savages?”

“Yeah. Push-walking their hogs. Wonder how they escaped that cop?”

“It’s almost 6:00 AM, not sure we want to know right now. Lets finish the mission,” Hollywood said. She nodded—eyes watching shadows.

“I’ll come back when Doctor Hailey arrives.” Rose pulled the door to.

“She gave her name?” Hollywood whispered. Doubt etched deep crevasses in his brow.

“What’s wrong with a name?”

“Voodoo?” Her words surprised him. “Oh, thank God. Hello, baby,” he gushed, letting his fingers trail along her cheeks. Oh, those beautiful green eyes.

“The name, what’s the matter?” she asked again.

“Nothing, baby. Rest.” Finger pressed against his lips, he made a shushing sound. Her smile faded.

“Don’t hush me, Hollywood. I’m not a child.” She struggled to sit up.
Frissons
covered his skin. She was okay and still the same fearless Cajun girl he’d fight heaven or hell to love.

“Please rest. I’ll take care of this. I won’t leave you. I promise.”

“And, I won’t leave you again. It was my damn hot head that got us into this shit. I’m sorry I was such a bitch back at STR HQ.” Her words rang with sincerity. Hollywood didn’t want to agree, but it had been her anger that made her storm back to Louisiana where she’d been nabbed. The truth was best never discussed.

“It’s been a stretch since the swing on Turtle Bayou.” Hollywood whispered. “Better days ahead soon.”

“Thank you, baby. But I still want to know about this doctor’s name bullshit. You ain’t changing the topic on me.” Fierce determination showed in her look. She was physically strong enough to push herself upright on the couch.

Hollywood debated how much to say. His brow pinched as he spoke. “In the biz, we have doctors who patch us up without questions asked. One condition—no names—ever.”

“Doctor Hailey?”

“I’ve never heard of her as an STR doc, but that doesn’t mean anything. Rose said she vetted her on her own, which was odd also. I might run it by Billy first,” he said.

“I’ll be all right,” her flat Cajun accent dominated the statement.

“I’m not leaving you alone with her.” He leaned his forehead next to hers. She smelled like the bikers’ clubhouse, but she’d never looked more beautiful to him.

“I’ll be okay. They need you out there. It’s going down in a few hours.” The impending reality pulled at his belly like a corset. He wagged his head side to side—he had no intention of leaving her.

A commotion burst through the rear door. Hollywood assumed it was the Savages—he pressed the break room door closed and locked it.

*     *     *

“Thanks for bailing on us. Do your dirty work, and then you fucking abandon us—screw off.” The biker’s eyes were glassy—sunk deep in his skull. They looked like the dead. He wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular. Still amped from the battle, he should’ve known better than to enter the room so aggressively. No one was in the mood to put up with anyone else’s bullshit.

“Back off, pledge. Now ain’t the time,” Justice snarled.

Clothes stained with blood and his beard matted with the same, Justice was probably one of the most combat hardened between the STR and Savages. Still, he understood being susceptible to the after effects of high-risk situations. Pumping fists near his pant pockets, he’d also have to deal with the skull shot to his own Savage brother.

The tension remained palpable. STR’s operatives and the Savages still didn’t trust or much care for each other, “How’d y’all get here? Thought we’d have to break you out of prison,” Chase asked with a light tone—almost a taunt.

“We tried keeping up but your driving had different ideas. Matter of finding Houston and 4
th
Avenue.” Justice jabbed Chase’s chest with a giant forefinger. The sheer size and force caused Chase to rock with each poke.

KC’s open palm slap across Justice’s face was absorbed by his thick beard. He grabbed her wrist. She jerked hard to escape, but he never budged, “I’m going to overlook that. Not because you’re a woman, but you’re defending your man. That’ll be your last time.” Justice stared down at her.

Tension spiked quickly with both sides, creating a natural rift between them. The blood brothers were more compliant of Justice’s commands. The other four varied—depending on their drug use and varying states of psychosis. They were all hyped, making coexisting with them as risky as feeding marshmallows to an alligator—possibly worse.

“Where’s Voodoo?” Justice barked, his wild, angry eyes scanning the shop.

“Another room with Hollywood. She doesn’t need all of this testosterone,” Rose said.

“Where’s the coward?” another of the non-blood brother bikers asked.

“There’re no cowards in this group—only ignorant assholes,” Rose snapped back, ignoring the Savage, her eyes remained locked onto Justice’s.

“I want to know how ten felons on stolen motorcycles, covered in blood, walked away from a cop’s traffic stop?” Billy asked. He sat atop a workbench and leaned casually against the wall.

“Best you don’t know. We got a mission, and it’s bigger than a pig roast along the highway. Besides, the punk was a rookie and looked scared shitless. No one will miss his candy ass.” The Savages surrounding Justice all grinned and high-fived each other like children winning at little league.

“If what you’re implying is true, you’ll be held accountable. There is no acceptable collateral damage in this mission. This is still the United States of America.” Billy leaned forward—remained seated.

“Yeah, like Hollywood sawing off that fuckers head? Don’t judge us because we weren’t afraid to walk away from the leash. Keep eating from your government’s kibble bowl, Delta Force pussy Billy Price,” Justice preached.

“Fuck off.” Billy’s expression turned stone cold. The muscles in his forearms bulged as he tensed, as if preparing for battle.

Justice’s extensive background in psychological manipulation came in handy often. He knew what strings to pull. Billy should’ve also known to ignore or counter it. Justice regaled in Billy’s agitation.

“Enough, we’ve just a few hours until this shit goes down. Did any of the Devil’s Own say where Bonny had escaped to?” Rose asked.

“No one lived long enough to talk. Coincidence that everyone we asked nicely, just up and died.” The pledge interjected with a hiccup howl like a mangy hyena. Justice snapped his thick fingers and the pledge became stone stiff.

“No, except for the house mouse upstairs with Voodoo. After pissing herself, she confessed Bonny said she had tickets to a show. Didn’t seem the mouse liked her too much, but strong women aren’t looked kindly upon,” Justice explained.

“Makes sense. Bonny couldn’t get the rifles, so I bet she’s planning to do it from close range herself. I’m sure she has VIP access to the president. We gotta intercept her or get access into that memorial event.” Rose stared back at Justice.

He grinned devilishly because he’d witnessed her shift of depending on him more than her number two, Billy Price. Not that he gave a shit—he just liked the idea of dicking over someone so far up the government’s ass.

“Suggestions?” Justice asked.

“None of us have access to the memorial. Not sure how, unless we wait at the entrances and snatch her,” Rose said.

“How the fuck them cops gonna let our asses hang around the gates?” another biker asked.

“You’d be surprised how many cops will be there dressed looking like you. More Harley Davidsons than at one of your rallies. Just take off your club’s cut, and you’ll fit right in,” Billy said, imitating peeling off a vest.

“Billy, can I talk with you right quick,” Hollywood curled his finger Billy’s way.