New York Minute

by Louis Scott

  “You said, partner,” Voodoo interrupted. Her body stiff, she leaned forward.

  The next slide was a picture of the other Navy SEAL; Cobra. He too had joined FORCE the month before while tracking the bio-chem weapon’s shipment from the mouth of the Mississippi River to Chicago. His official commission photograph showed a short-haired man whose full-length shaggy beard made him appear older than his twenty-something years. Deep-set gray eyes revealed a warrior who’d seen the worst hell had to offer. Unfortunately, he was now living more hell at the hands of the Devil’s Own OMC.

  “His partner, Cobra. The Devil’s Own still have him. They’re holding him ransom in exchange for the guns. He’s about in the same shape as Falcon was before he lucked out and died. He’s apparently hanging on by a thread while the FBI and ATF play tug of war over who’ll rescue him.”

  “Did you reach out to Justice?” Pike asked.

  “Department of Justice?” Alex’s slight head jerk and twisted mouth showed her confusion.

  “Department of Savage Souls,” Pike clarified. “Maybe ask Justice what he knows about this other OMC.”

  “Actually I did. He said not to mess with them,” Alex said.

  “Where do we come in?” Jim asked.

  “We go get our brother,” Alex snarled, showing her warrior’s ability usually concealed under bureaucratic blouses and silks.

  Pike stood. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”

  Chapter Three

  The chopper’s tarmac gave Pike the craps. It meant heading off to who knew where to do who knew what. Throbs of pain pulsed through his shoulder—not bad enough to sideline him, but a reminder he wasn’t twenty-three years old anymore.

  As usual, Voodoo sprinted to the Black Hawk with her tactical gear dangling from every Velcro strap and hook. Pike waited at the cargo door and helped her get kitted up. He still regretted the earlier dust-up with Voodoo, but he'd come to understand the fiery passion of Voodoo’s Creole culture. It’s what drew him to her, and what would keep him there.

  “Sorry again," she said. "It’s still overwhelming, but I’ll fight heaven or hell to be with you.”

  Her expression was sincere, almost angelic. Her fair caramel skin showcased a picturesque smile and emerald green eyes. The olive drab tactical coveralls didn’t diminish her beauty.

  “Let’s roll. This’ll be a short hop to Scarsdale,” Pike said as he held her heavy bulletproof SWAT vest and Kevlar helmet. Although his hands were sheathed in tactical operator shooting gloves, he lingered before releasing her hand—it just felt perfect in hers.

  “Where’s Scarsdale?” she crinkled her nose while fastening her harness.

  “New York, but Alex will brief everyone inflight.”

  Jonas, the former Delta Force commander and FORCE’s number two, took his usual position in the chopper. He liked to face everyone and ensure there were no mistakes. Alex was the abstract conceptualizer of the unit—she saw patterns where nothing existed. Jonas was her counterpoint—everything to him was in the details.

  Jonas had taken a bullet in the neck when the team took down terrorist plotting an attack in Chicago. They thought they’d cornered the leader, but she’d escaped again while Jonas was dumped to the bottom of a stairwell during the gunfight. He looked no worse for wear now.

  The Black Hawk’s cabin glowed in eerie green LED lights. It diminished everyone's expression and cast unnatural shadows over their faces. Rotors whooshed, biting air in mighty strokes as the pilots rocketed the bird northeast towards the Big Apple. Jonas craned forward, started to speak but stopped. He made strong eye contact with each operative until they nodded in acknowledgement.

  “Jim, you with me?” he asked. Jim Graham nodded.

  “Ellie?”

  She blinked and whispered, “Yes.”

  “Voodoo, you with me?”

  Pike saw her hesitate, but realized it was more from the intensity of the moment. Her mouth agape, she nodded.

  “Dave, you with me?”

  Dave Miller nodded. “I know ATF screwed this up, but tonight I’m FORCE.”

  “Pike?” He nodded, feeling a rush of adrenaline flood over him that made giving a verbal answer almost impossible.

  “Alex?” Jonas asked without looking at her. Face buried in intel and operations plans, she managed to bust a thumb up.

  “Max, you with me?” he asked the SEAL Team 6’er who was along unofficially by request of Pike. His growl sufficed for acknowledgement. His thoughts were on the detonation charges that they’d use to force entry.

  “Bandit, you with me?” The Washington DC Metro cop and outlaw biker gang expert nodded.

  The intensity in the cabin was incredible, and they still had over an hour of airtime. Pike knew the routine. Jonas briefed, the team chewed on it a bit, then Jonas briefed again until the briefing became a quiz. He obsessed over every detail until FORCE was actually assaulting the target. Jonas was why FORCE was so successful at executing high-risk operations like this one.

  “This isn’t going to be easy, but each one of you has committed. Speed, surprise and violence of action is the only way everyone survives this.” Jonas spoke through gritted teeth. “We're off the radar and unauthorized. FBI and ATF are still ensnared over which team will rescue Cobra. I have no confidence they’ve even laced up their off-the-shelf SWAT boots yet. We gotta be in and out—no questions—no prisoners—no trace of us.”

  No prisoners. Jonas had just signed the death warrant for anyone other than the Navy SEAL inside the structure. Pike tried to force a smile for Voodoo, but she looked absolutely okay with the notion. SWAT ops were her specialty and where she felt most comfortable.

  “Intel shows Cobra is still being tortured in a secluded structure just north of the city in Westchester County. The Village of Scarsdale sounds quaint, and probably the reason why they chose it. We’re almost thirty miles outside of the city, so no real police presence to contend with. Everything carried is suppressed, except Max’s entry tools.

  Black Hawks will drop us at our rendezvous point just off the Bronx River Parkway. We’ll finish gearing up, grab detonation cord, water bladders, oh, C4 and blasting caps just in case, then drive the rest of the way. It's a few miles off White Plains Road.” As usual, Jonas didn’t reference his briefing book—the guy was a machine.

  “Who’s the taxi?” Bandit asked.

  “NYPD Anti-Terrorism Task Force Agent. Personal friend and one of the white hats,” Alex replied with a crooked smile.

  Her CIA career had allowed her to cultivate close relationships with people from every walk of life. She never knew when it might happen, but always expected to be at even the most remote locations in need of an ally. She made people feel invested in America’s safety.

  “Once boots hit the ground, I want this done like we rehearsed it at the warehouse,” Jonas said. “No freewheeling. By the time we hike the half-mile to the target, I’ll know which room Cobra’s in. No time wasted telling dirt bags to hit the ground—you drop ‘em.”

  Jonas’s sharp hand movements and finger jabbing emphasized each point—his intensity would have to level off before they executed the assault.

  “Prep to land,” snapped the young sounding pilot.

  “Roger that,” Alex said.

  “Remember, drive, hike, assault, rescue, and fly. It’s that damn simple,” Jonas said, again meeting everyone’s eyes. “We were never here. Understood?”

  Chapter Four

  Scarsdale looked like any other upper New York village or hamlet. Except for the blacked out van cruising through with its cargo area filled with secret operations specialists and enough ammo and explosives to overtake the countryside.

  “Five minutes till drop off. I’ll pick up once you signal entry.”

  The cop brooded behind the steering wheel. Alex reached through the separation panel and patted his shoulder. Pike saw the slight grin flash once he glanced back at her.

  “Straight line behind Jim’s navigation
to perimeter,” Jonas said.

  Everyone nodded.

  “I give the signal and we separate into two-man elements to scout outside of location for threats before entry. Intel advises there are no bikers or dogs outside the stash house.”

  They acknowledged.

  “Max gets us in, and we get Cobra. Easy, right?” Jonas's gaze met stone stares that focused beyond his words and onto the mission.

  Pike studied the intensity in Jonas’s eyes and the hard chiseled look etched over years of doing jobs most people would never imagine. He flipped a switch, and the whirl and hum of his night vision goggles sprung to life. Jonas’s expression looked even more tense under the green glow. He looked to Voodoo, who hadn’t donned her helmet yet.

  “You better get with it. Once that Marine hits the ground, we’re going to bolt through the woods like lightning.”

  “I heard that,” Jim growled.

  Voodoo tried to force a laugh, but averted eye contact to check her submachine gun’s suppressor.

  She struggled with the strap of her helmet and Pike swatted her hands aside.

  “Let me help,” he said.

  Securing the clasp, his fingers brushed the underside of her chin. She drew closer and her scent, that rich, musky scent he knew so well, brought his senses to full alert. She met his gaze and they smiled.

  Pike's thoughts drifted back over the last few weeks with her—just the two of them at her home along the banks of Turtle Bayou, Louisiana. There hadn't been the heart-pounding risk of adrenaline-fueled adventure. There actually wasn’t much excitement beyond watching gators sun atop the logs. It was another world from this one. He chewed on his bottom lip—this wasn’t even her world. She was here because of him.

  “Okay, thanks for dressing me—now focus on the mission,” Voodoo said patting his cheek.

  She was right—time to focus.

  “Deploy,” The NYPD cop called as the wheels crunched quietly across uneven ground before cradling to a rest.

  Jim jerked open the sliding door. The interior dome and taillights were all deactivated with one switch to avoid detection. The team vanished into wooded terrain exactly one half mile from the Devil’s Own lair. The driver would wait at the drop off site until radioed to move in for extraction.

  The pace was quick. Voodoo’s pulse rose. She exhaled through pursed lips and controlled the heavy breaths. A light mist of sweat formed over her brow and across her upper lip. She usually kept herself in excellent condition, but the last month of running and gunning with FORCE had left her without much time to train.

  “You okay?” Pike whispered from behind her.

  His hand helped steady her across fallen logs and natural terrain arraigned in unnatural ways. She nodded, the reflective cats-eye band wrapped around her bulletproof helmet bobbing up and down. She was familiar with foliage and fauna—but these were man-laid obstacles.

  “Target ahead. Team up and spread out,” Jonas spoke quietly but sharp into the tactical headset system. "Intel says Cobra unchained in northeast corner. Too much activity inside to gather more. He’s still alive.”

  Voodoo willed her heart rate to settle. She was surprised the others couldn’t hear it thrashing beneath her heavy, bulletproof SWAT gear. She shortened her steps and edged close to Pike. They both took a knee in the tree line just before the fifteen-yard clearing leading to the structure. The ground was moist, and the cold mush saturated her TDU pants.

  Jonas’s instructions warbled through her headset, but Voodoo was busy studying the building’s single story ranch-style layout. A home/business hybrid build, the features were hard to distinguish. Through the NVG, she could see the windows were boarded up with shutters fastened across them. They would conceal Max and Bandit as they moved in to set the detonation charge for an explosive entry. The door looked sinister and unbreakable—but she’d heard Max was the best at getting SEAL teams in.

  “Team 3, move to breach,” Jonas ordered.

  Voodoo’s peripheral vision caught the stalking movements of the Navy officer and the DC Metro cop. Her Colt 9mm submachine gun was aimed level with an elbow on knee. She made a face as the pressure drove the other knee deeper into the soggy soil. The low light scope provided images as though it were daylight. She scanned the boarded up windows and around the yard for bikers or dogs but saw no activity.

  “They’re almost done. We’ll move in stack once they give the signal.” Pike’s eyes were wide, like crazy wide open, and his tongue pressed toward the front of his mouth as he spoke.

  “Driver notified, and slow roll into position,” Jonas chimed over the headsets.

  “Hear that Voodoo?” Pike’s words struggled.

  He was sweating heavily. She noted that the shoulders and hip area of his coveralls were drenched and discolored. It was April in New York—not that hot.

  Her eyes still pressed against the rifle’s scope, she breathed, “Baby, you okay?”

  He leaned to catch his balance though already kneeling. “It’s like Pakistan again.”

  “It’ll be all right. We got to rescue Cobra,” she replied.

  “To do that we have to execute everyone in that building. That’s what we did to the Chechens who tried to escape the Moscow Theater—armed or not. It’s a heck of a thing to live with. I don’t want you to carry it with you.” Pike whispered.

  “Kinda late, hero. Jonas gave the rally signal. Lets roll.” She nudged him, chuckling, trying to assure him she’d be fine.

  He recognized her low laugh as a coping mechanism to process the stress of handling horrible situations. Personally, he buried his in silent suffering.

  “Right. Time to focus on Cobra—just watch each other’s back.” Pike rocked forward.

  Voodoo followed as they quickly breached the fifteen feet of open space between woods and structure. Team 1’s Jim and Ellie emerged like fog from the trees. They stacked behind them at a forty-five degree angle to the door. Alex and Jonas arrived carrying the protective blast-proof shield. Alex positioned it in front of Pike.

  The entire team crouched into a tactical go position. Voodoo’s thighs burned and she was more than once tempted to lean against the wall for support. She gazed past those stacked in front of her, hunched with arms bent and hands coddling weapons like their very own infants. Her pulse drummed in both ears. Breaths clutched between her lungs and mouth to fill her throat with an unnatural pressure.

  “Driver in position?” Jonas whispered.

  “Check,” said the NYPD cop.

  “Fire in the hole?” Jonas asked.

  “Check,” replied Max.

  “On my count of three we grab Cobra and get the hell out.” Jonas’s voice never varied form, totally under control.

  Voodoo once again felt the confidence of operating with the best and baddest operatives in the world.

  “One. Two. Three. Go,” Jonas ordered.

  Detonation cord combined with water-filled plastic bladders created a shape charge concentrated on removing the lock that secured the metal door. With the force of the blast focused to do the job but avoid mass casualties, it blew one heck of a hole through the front door.

  Voodoo’s pulse picked up as she saw Alex snap to attention holding the ballistic shield. With her handgun stretched around to the front of the bulletproof barrier, their leader shifted toward the door. Jonas quickstepped next to her with a battering ram in case there was anything left to the door—there wasn’t.

  Jonas traded his breaching equipment for a HK MP5 compact rifle and nestled behind Alex and the shield. Voodoo stuck close to Pike and felt Ellie inches behind her in the tactical stack. Alex spun to the right and faced the open threshold.

  Gunfire erupted.

  Chapter Five

  Alex went down.

  Voodoo scanned from left to right to avoid the effects of narrowed tunnel vision. She crunched close to Pike. She never saw Alex’s body blow backward, but Pike halted, held up his left fist. Everyone stopped. Voodoo peeked around him to see Jona
s launch a series of Def-Tec 25 flash bangs through the front opening. Through the walls, Voodoo heard the deafening sounds. The gunfire stopped. Jonas dragged Alex’s body away from the opening.

  “Move,” Pike commanded.

  Voodoo pushed off with her right foot, lifted her weapon to eye level and sped through the fatal funnel. No time to think about Alex. Jonas would tend to her. Voodoo’s focus was on watching Pike’s back and locating Cobra—whatever stood in their way would be eliminated.

  Voodoo and Pike took a straight line from the front door toward the hallway to the right rear of the building. Jim and Ellie streamed fast behind them and rolled to a series of rooms toward the left rear corner. Max and Bandit followed last and secured the main room by the front door. Except for Alex and Jonas, everyone flowed according to the plan.

  Heavy metal music pumped hard and heavy. So loud, Voodoo felt it against her chest. She hesitated as Pike smashed a hollow core door with his boot. Access into the dark hallway was granted. Music pounded in her ears. If there were instructions over the tactical headsets, she’d never hear them—so she stuck to the plan.

  The walls were lined with flags and banners bearing satanic images and the Devil’s Own logo. A few leather vests with club patches hung from hooks. Known as colors or cuts, the vests represented membership and position in the club. Bikers valued their colors more than life itself, and would fight to the death for them.

  Voodoo's view remained sharp through the NVG. She saw a barrel emerge from the first door to their left.

  “Gun! Left door!” She called.

  Pike didn’t redirect his weapon. She crouched beside him and opened fire into the doorjamb about four inches from the frame and opening. She felt Pike’s body tense. He lurched to the right. A wiry frame with more hair than flesh and bones fell out halfway into the hall.

  Six more doors stood between them and the target room where Cobra was being held. Clearing the rooms wasn’t their mission—getting to Cobra was. Voodoo’s tunnel vision began to close tight on the very last door. Experienced enough to recognize it, she blinked and again scanned left and right. It was a simple but effective technique to avoid becoming so focused on one thing that you missed other threats.