Split Second

by Louis Scott

  Split Second (Book 2)

  A F.O.R.C.E. Adventure

  Louis Sccott

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 Louis Scott Silverii, Ph.D.

  SilverHart Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  SilverHart Publishing

  Dedication

  This second book in the F.O.R.C.E. trilogy is dedicated to my wife. I love saying that.

  Chapter One

  “You better make sure those cuffs are tight. Otherwise I’m gonna thrash you with ‘em once I escape.”

  Krystal Laveau was helplessly strapped across the bed’s mattress. Worse than that, she sensed the helplessness of no possible escape. She twitched her shoulders in hopes of finding slack in confinement—nothing gave. Black hair whipped wildly over her cheeks as the camera clicked like an opening night red carpet.

  “Empty threats and promises don’t alarm me." His voice rumbled—low and husky—sending shivers down her spine.

  He slid deeper into the chair, a comfortable pose, as if he could wait for as long as it took. Her eyes cut to the 9mm pistol he’d laid upon the glass-topped nightstand. Ready and within his easy reach.

  “You better give it your best. One shot’s all you’ll get,” She resisted. “I promise, you’re going to pay for this.”

  Her wrists ached, the cold, stainless steel handcuffs cutting into her flesh. She trembled. The white satin bed sheets tangled at her feet as she fought against her restraints.

  He stood and slinked gracefully across the plush carpet toward the open window. His shirtless body glimmered in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Their effect increased the feeling of space in the opulent suite.

  The twenty-eighth floor penthouse opened up to the Gulf of Mexico. Oilrig lights blinked offshore, while moored yachts floated over three hundred feet below.

  “Isn’t it poetic that the cuffs holding you down are your very own?” He clucked his tongue.

  “I’m warning you.” She whimpered.

  He’d ignored her latest objection. His finger tapped the window’s reinforced glass as he studied his own image in the reflection. He looked over, watching her tattooed body twist and turn. He had her in a bind. Krystal “Voodoo” Laveau belonged to him, and his devious imagination.

  “You know that video will be used against you,” Voodoo pleaded hoping to stop the recording of her torment.

  His every step exuded power and control. He strode to the camera, and adjusted the tripod. It’s field of view covered the offset angle of her writhing form shackled across the California king-sized mattress.

  He smirked. “It’ll be used to entertain me, baby. It’ll also ensure you do whatever and whenever I tell you to do. How do you say it—blackmail?”

  He checked for the red blinking light once again, and eased from behind the camera, moving toward her.

  Her muscles tensed as she braced for him. His thick leather belt crashed against the over-stuffed mattress. The pillow-top covering helped to muffle the sound, but Voodoo pressed against the inch or two of wiggle room available as the surface vibrated at contact.

  “That was close.”

  Her voice was defeated and low—eyes tried locking onto his to plead for mercy. He avoided the fire green eyes, but instead glared at her thighs and the dark, hard body laid bound for him.

  “Close? You ain’t seen close.”

  He stalked to the foot of the giant bed, his frame lean and muscular. Smacked the wide belt against his open palm. Her hips rocked side-to-side w.ith anxiety over what would come next

  “No.” She yelped as he hoisted the black strap above his head. Panic on her face said she feared her inked flesh might be his next target.

  “I’ll do whatever you say.” The words hitched in her chest.

  “Good girl,” he growled, his voice the only sound in an otherwise eerily quiet room.

  The metal studs and buckle were still chilled. They created a stream of frissons across the collar’s wake of her hyper-sensitive skin. He stalked the elevated bed and slid the leather strap between his fingers. He circled her breasts with the belt and lingered there. The buckles clinked against her angular chin.

  How did she allow herself to wind up in this situation?

  Her spine arched at the threat of more leather against her skin, and the collaring against her will. He torqued his shoulders to face the camera. Lips sneered as if to boast about her surrender.

  Dark grey pinstriped suit pants pulled tight across his thighs as he knelt close to her head. The plush comforter squished and then molded around his knees. She laid her cheek against the starched bedcover—her hair falling behind her right ear.

  He reared over her as he snapped the black leather between powerful fists. The collar’s jolt caused his chest to flex. She eyed sheer power in the striations through his pectorals that revealed the fatless musculature of a body well trained. He grinned, seeing that his hard work intimidated her.

  “Surrender to me. Now,” he commanded in a soft voice.

  With no possibility of escape, she blinked once, and rolled her head and shoulders up off the bed to expose her smooth, thin neck. He clamped the buckle and rotated the strap around her throat until the hinge hung against the mattress.

  “Good girl.”

  “Thank you.” She snarled.

  “I love you, Krystal Laveau.”

  His whisper was soft and intimate. His kiss started gentle with light touches against her lips, but pushed until deep and intimate. He growled with satisfied delight. She closed her eyes—he saw her pupils darting back and forth beneath the eyelids. He waited, wondering.

  “I love you too, Dwight Harriman.”

  Her words brought a wide warm grin to Pike’s face.

  Pike had lived the dangerous life of a United States Navy SEAL, but on this night in the penthouse of Biloxi, Mississippi’s Beau Rivage resort, he was just Dwight.

  “You make me feel alive. I never want this to end.” Pike whispered.

  He’d always had his way with the ladies—lots of them. They seemed to throw themselves at him no matter where he went. He wasn’t looking to give up that lifestyle—hadn't been until he reunited with her, that is. Now, that playboy life meant nothing to him.

  Blessed with all the natural gifts any parent would hope for their child, Pike had received a double dose. A dead ringer for a younger Brad Pitt, the movies wouldn’t have had to depend on magic and special effects to pull off his feats of heroism—he was the real deal.

  Pike met Krystal during a human trafficking rescue operation outside of New Orleans, Louisiana years earlier. He thought her undercover code-name, Voodoo, was fitting, as she’d cast a spell on him the very first day. She’d been assigned to the South Louisiana Violent Crimes Task Force, but she worked full-time for the Lafourche Parish Sheriff’s Office. The rescue operation was her first and most successful undercover venture. More than two years later, and she was an experienced special agent, highly sought after by investigations teams, and now, Pike.

  “You’ll be dead if you don’t turn that video camera off.”

  She jerked against the restraints. His persona shifted—no more sweet talk.

  “Baby, that’s no way to talk to me. You should be sweet.”

  Pike stepped back onto the carpet, his bare feet dug into the shag as he unbuckled his dress slacks. He watched her tummy tighten and he knew her role-playing was back on.

  “Yes, I’m so sorry for the outburst. I want to hold you so badly, I can’t control myself.” She spoke in a mocking mecha
nical tone.

  “When did robot girl show up?” Pike laughed as he collapsed on the bed beside her.

  “Baby, release me so I can hold you,” she begged flirtatiously.

  “I’d love to, but you forgot to say please. Now I’m going to torment you.”

  He had no intention of releasing her because he knew what a control freak she was. It really was driving her crazy.

  “Dwight, do anything you want, I just don’t want this to end. It’s finally me and you and the world can wait.”

  He drew closer to her and stroked the one-side of long hair that contrasted the sheared opposite side and nape of her neck. He looked into her deep, green eyes with a sorrowful smile—and kissed her.

  “I’m afraid we’ll get separated like the first time.” She looked away.

  “Baby, don’t talk like that. I’ve waited my whole life to find you, and now that I have, I’m not letting you get away.” He said.

  “Yeah right, you’ve just waited around for me.” Voodoo rolled her eyes as her lips pulled tight against her teeth. She looked to fight against a fit of pouting.

  “Well, I didn’t exactly wait around.”

  He grinned, proud guilt showing in his expression.

  A crooked smile captured the single tear that escaped her wet eyes. He grabbed the small metal key and jumped across her to unlock the cuffs. He knew he could never guarantee her that they’d never be separated by the job’s demands. It was always a dark cloud hanging over their new relationship.

  The rattling cell phone on the nightstand demanded their attention.

  “Please just let the phone ring. This is supposed to be our night—the fate of the world can wait until morning.” Krystal reached out for Pike with one uncuffed hand.

  He’d already hurried across the post-Elvis Vegas-style suite.

  He mouthed, “It’s Alex.”

  Krystal flopped back against the pile of pillows, hands thrown up in surrender.

  “Go ahead, I’m listening.”

  Pike's face paled as he focused on Alex’s words. Voodoo slumped, waiting to be disappointed. He’d never debate his obligation to fulfill his duty to his country. And that debate was no longer one-sided, as she had become an important factor in his decision making process.

  His look of regret pierced her heart as his serious eyes narrowed into a frantic expression.

  “We gotta go. Now.”

  Chapter Two

  “You’re going to have lots of making up to do for this interruption.”

  Voodoo huffed as she climbed up the emergency stairwell and humped it to the casino resort’s rooftop in high-heeled shoes. A moist wind off the Gulf of Mexico whipped at her sheer dress causing her to clutch the skirt and the closest railing.

  Pike checked and rechecked for ETA messages. Transport had been dispatched to retrieve them and shuttle both back to the FORCE headquarters outside of Washington, DC. The First Ops Response Command Enforcement, known as FORCE in very small circles, was an ultra-black ops unit created by special executive order of the president of the United States.

  FORCE operated under it’s creator and commander, Alexandria “Alex” Vaughn, who had decades of specialized top-secret field experience with the CIA. Although her life almost ended after a horrific nineteen days of extreme torture at the hands of a former Soviet-bloc dictator from Avaslavia, her will to survive sustained her, and now led FORCE through some of it’s toughest times.

  “I’m sorry, but this is huge and I feel like it’s my fault.” Pike yelled over the whipping winds.

  “How’s it your fault?” Voodoo asked. “You’ve no control over the Coast Guard’s screw up. Besides, Bonny was my roommate. I should’ve known or at least done something.”

  Her short-cropped hair bristled in the wind while she struggled to prevent her mini-length dress from exposing her booty to the whole Mississippi Gulf Coast.

  He checked the orange windsock and cautioned her from stepping too far away from the brick roof-access shelter. He checked his phone again and grimaced.

  “Hold your hat—three, two, one.”

  The Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk stealth helicopter appeared from below the opposite side of the resort tower. The sixty-four foot, twenty thousand pound mechanical marvel hovered in the night—dark and silent.

  His breath seized in his chest—feet felt stapled to the deck as the former Navy SEAL’s mind banged back to the first of May 2011. These were the same type of delivery choppers used in Pakistan to raid bin Laden’s compund. He recalled the night assault as he’d protected the bomb techs who set explosive charges to destroy the bird that had crashed as the raid on the Waziristan Haveli complex begun. His heart jumped in a panic, but he willed himself to regain the calm atop the Biloxi resort. This was simply escorting Voodoo for a ride, not hunting Osama bin Laden.

  “Pike?” one of the two pilots asked.

  “And Voodoo,” he shouted with a thumb up. He helped her into the nylon seat, strapped the harness, and placed a headset over her ears so she could monitor the patch in with the FORCE team’s HQ.

  “Locked and loaded,” Pike spoke into the foam-tipped microphone.

  “Copy. I’m going to connect you into FORCE’s Communications Center via Bluetooth link adapter,” the other pilot explained.

  “Okay, make it happen. And guys, thanks for the ride.”

  “Voodoo, sorry to have interrupted,” Alex’s voice rung into the headset.

  “Once again, you mean?” Voodoo’s hand clenched Pike’s.

  He tried to smile, but the green glow from the night vision made everything look eerie. His thoughts kept flashing back to Pakistan.

  “Yeah, once again,” Alex replied. “This is a heck of a situation your roommate got us into, Krystal.”

  Alex’s accusation crackled clear through the headsets. Pike would have to pick up the pieces after this briefing call was over.

  “Alex, we’re in the dark at this point,” Pike cut in. “All we know is you said to haul tail topside for extraction, and we did. Can we start from the beginning? I assume this bird’s on its way to HQ, so there’s lots of time for details.”

  Pike’s jaw twitched without words as he calculated the distance and travel time back to Washington D.C. The thought of flying almost one thousand miles over the next five and a half hours caused his gut to tighten.

  “You’re right. We’ll see you both before the sun breaks.” Jonas cut into the conversation.

  As the FORCE unit’s second in command, Jonas, a former Army Delta Force commander, was better at operational details. Alex saw bigger pictures better, but Jonas was a numbers man.

  Alex, the former CIA operative, had met Jonas during his days leading the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta. Tasked with killing or capturing high-value targets, and dismantling terrorist cells, Jonas’s missions often overlapped with Alex’s covert assignments. Though Pike hated to admit it, Jonas was the baddest of the bad in FORCE’s cadre of Special Forces elite.

  “Be good to see you all after what, four whole days?” Pike’s sarcasm reflected the stress of non-stop missions since discovering the Serpent’s master plan. The latest had been their successful interruption of a plot aimed at the public figure selected to reign over the New Orleans’ Mardi Gras.

  The assassination would’ve made a mess of carnival—not to mention the target, which was none other than JW Colt, the disgraced Navy Captain whose movie about SEAL Team 6’s killing of Osama bin Laden had placed Pike and every member of that raid team—including their families—in danger.

  “Guys, I know this isn’t optimum weather conditions, but we’ve really got a bad situation on our hands.” Jonas began.

  Pike knew Jonas well enough to know when to cut the bull. “Sorry, you’re right. All ears, my brother.”

  He patted Voodoo’s thigh and gave her a thumbs up signal that it’d be okay. Her terse snarl in the glow of his NVGs proved she wasn’t convinced.

  “Our Intel unit’s still d
ecoding the Serpent’s hard drive that Bucky Colomb seized,” Jonas said. “The Serpent might be dead, but his influence lives on through an alliance of unholy disciples. That devil was able to unite domestic and international terror networks to destroy the nation. It’s us against the world, and I for one ain’t going to allow a bunch of radicals to bring down America.” Jonas sounded like an old-school tent revival evangelist.

  “Does the hard drive mention anything about Bonny or the Rougarou?” tentatively, Pike asked.

  He knew the policy on discussing individuals with a blue star designation, but he gave it a shot anyway. After all, the bayou boys who tried to kill him and Voodoo had spoken of the Rougarou with such reverence—he’d wondered what made him so special.

  “Pike, you know better. No mention.” Alex injected a somber level of seriousness.

  Voodoo snapped her head at him and mouthed, “What the heck?”

  Jonas said, “This crisis isn’t about the Serpent’s data. It’s the diary. We’ve discovered similar information that links Bonny as a disciple of his, but the text is in an obsolete language from some Eastern bloc country. The diary is being translated as we speak. Once discernable, it’s then going to be decoded.”

  “Bonny did all that? She really seems too stupid to order drive thru,” Voodoo said with a hint of admiration about her former roommate.

  “Hold your horses before giving her spy creds,” Alex quipped. “She slept her way to the position, but she’s nowhere near the top. Between a genetically gifted body and her penchant for foreign languages, she’s become a hierarchy favorite.”

  Alex’s declaration dripped with disdain for dishonorable women like Bonny. Alex had never compromised her principles—not once. Alex endured almost two weeks of inhumane torture and never broke. She was more legend than rumor.

  A micro-burst of weather rocked the chopper.

  “Whoa, what the heck was that?” Pike felt the shudder in his bones. He scrambled for a handhold for balance and activated the intra-cockpit comms button.