Split Second

by Louis Scott

  “Quarter mile out. Eyes up, fan out into elements,” Jonas snapped. The rain flooded his speech with each microphone click. Lightning crashes illuminated their movements, so they tried to coordinate advances between thunder claps.

  “Team 1, cover down,” Jonas’s command sent Jim and Ellie ahead to provide cover at the gangway that led from a patched rock and asphalt hard top to the port side.

  “Team 2, take point.”

  That order signaled Cobra, and his fellow SEAL, Falcon, to lead Jonas and Pike up the rickety walkway and onto the vessel. Team 1 would fall in behind Pike as they passed their position.

  The storm served to conceal their stumble and clatter. Pike’s injuries caused him to fail at maintaining balance across a hatch. Other than that mishap, all three elements cleared the one hundred and twenty-three foot vessel in under three minutes—bow to stern.

  “Geez, missed ‘em again.” Jim’s agitation reflected everyone’s disappointment.

  “Let’s get ready for processing. There’s got to be a clue about what’s next.” Jonas ordered.

  Even after the target was cleared of threats, Jonas left his tactical gear, including his ballistic helmet on. It was a Delta Force thing. He walked onto the deck and waved for Alex and Voodoo to come aboard.

  Dim lights in the mess hall allowed everyone to decompress as much as they could. Strain loomed heavy in the small space. Coming away empty handed was more difficult than fighting a battle with meth heads or terrorists. At least you knew where you stood in the process of reloading.

  Pike plopped down onto a metal bench, tugging at his soaked bulletproof vest, the sub-machine gun set between his knees. His face drained cold. The aluminum tabletop reflected the blanched stare of someone on edge.

  Exhales to release the flood of adrenaline helped him finally stop the cold shivers. His gaze rounded the room until he found Voodoo. He’d been so wrapped up in the breakneck speed of the op that he’d not fully thought of her. She leaned against the bulkhead to make space for the tactical team operators still winded from the raid. Their eyes met, his heart warmed. Pike felt chills race across his skin until it almost burned.

  “I miss you,” he mouthed without checking for the others.

  Still a hint of doubt remained about the cell phone app, but his heart wanted to trust her completely. She sneered and shot him the middle finger beneath the palm of her other hand. His eyes dropped and he planted his forehead against both forearm. She should’ve been his warmth on this otherwise cold, ragged night. He understood her vehemence, but still, he couldn’t break the thought—he wanted that feeling of complete trust, of their closeness.

  “They had to transfer to ground courier, there’s no place to ship swap and running out of river,” Alex spoke up. “And, despite the rain and your approach boot prints, I saw footprints in our headlights that were heading away from the boat. I doubt shoe print casting is possible, but best bet is this op’s gone to a ground game. Moline isn’t their target, but it’s secluded enough to launch the next phase. Whatever that is.”

  Like a caged panther, Alex paced.

  Pike picked up his chin to feign paying attention, but his eyes dashed back to Voodoo.

  “What about the friend tracker app,” Voodoo asked.

  “She’s deactivated it—this location was the last transmit,” Alex replied while she handed Voodoo her cell back.

  “Split up and scour this thing. Too much time spent aboard to not leave a clue. Pike, set this room up as the command center,” Jonas said as he left to search.

  “You mean set up an infirmary?” Pike didn’t lift his head to speak.

  Her hair swept across the back of his bent neck. Voodoo’s soft, full lips pressed against Pike’s salty skin. Her open mouth hovered there with a slight suction, and flit of her tongue until he rolled his forehead side-to-side on the table and moaned.

  “I love you Dwight, but I’m still pissed you doubted me.”

  “I know,” his voice was low and muffled against the table. “But you’ve got to trust me too, Krystal.”

  The bad weather affected this boat more than it had the ship in Memphis. Shallow waters in the channel made the severe wave action more intense. Pike’s already unsettled gut knotted into a strangulation hold. Burying his warm face in sweat-covered palms only made it worse. His elbows were tucked against drawn up, quivering knees. Sickness overcame him. Pike stumbled through the narrow passageway.

  Feet tangled as he gripped the moist dog handle to yank open a hatch. Finally, he spotted the head. Torso bent at the waist, he stumbled with palm smashed against his mouth. Sweat exploded across his head and upper lip. Mouth ajar, what little he’d eaten over the last two days surrendered itself to the toilet.

  “Pike, you okay?” Ellie asked.

  “Fine,” he spit through coughed up blood and bile.

  “Rally back in mess hall—nothing here.” She exhaled to show frustration.

  Pike didn’t exactly share her same concerns at the moment. His mouth refilled with blood—he suspected the fall from fast roping might’ve caused internal bleeding.

  I’ve gotta get to a hospital.

  He hugged the stainless steel commode while the last mouthful chucked between chapped lips. His breath came hard and labored. Pike mustered the strength to push away and stand or crawl back to the mess hall.

  He swiped sticky blood-stained sweat from across his eyes, and blinked. He didn’t have the ability to straighten his back. Both hands pressed against the stainless steel bowl while he rested. It was cold to the touch and soothed his forearms and palms. He blinked again before debating to yell for help. And there it was. His thoughts created a vortex. He knew where Bonny was headed.

  Maybe she is that stupid?

  Chapter Eight

  “Get me out of here.” Pike demanded—unsure where 'here' was.

  Loopy was the only way to describe the way his skull felt. It was as if his head turned one way while his brain twisted the other. He poked his tongue around his cheeks and inhaled a long breath. Then he noticed tape strapped over a needle shoved in the top of his hand. Stinging throbs made him exhale that long draw of antiseptic air.

  A figure was concealed in shadow, hovering in the corner of the shallow room. Black denims and dark loafers absorbed the low light, but Pike was able to tell by the small feet and narrow anklebones that his watcher was a female.

  Holy crap! Is that Bonny?

  “How long have I been in here?” he rocked his head back and forth on the pillow, trying to see more, trying to lose the pain.

  “About three hours,” the voice bungled inside his head.

  “Where am I?”

  “Where you need to be.” Yep, whatever poison was pumped into his veins had him by the kahunas.

  The monitor sported a green line that blipped with his pulse against the grey screen. Pike flexed to sit up. Skyrockets flecked behind his eyelids and the spinning made him sick to his gut again. This time, there was nothing to surrender but intestines.

  Hands strained to help him fall back against the twisted bed sheet. A cool whiff of conditioned air kissed his skin, and Pike realized he was in an open-back hospital gown—but why?

  He jammed his eyelids shut until crevasses etched into his temples and brow. The scent, body smells blended with antiseptic, sent his mind begrudgingly back to the Waziristan Haveli complex in Abbottabad, Pakistan—May 2, 2011. DevGru’s role in Operation Neptune Spear was to capture/ kill the devil. His memory retained every detail about the action that led up to pulling the trigger on his HK 416 rifle.

  Human screams and animals’ sounds remained vibrant. The helicopter crash on approach into bin Laden’s compound, and firefights to gain initial entry into the secure grounds still haunted him. Pike often relived the feel, and weight of his weapon’s frame. Even the metal clatter it made as his body rammed through obstacles to reach his objective.

  Besides the carousel of images that led up to him placing three 5.56mm rounds int
o the head of the most notorious murderer in world history, it was the smell. His empty belly lurched. His watcher leaned forward into the modest light.

  “Baby, you okay?”

  “Krystal, thank God it’s you.”

  “Who’d you think I was, Bonny?”

  Her dark complexion hid her face in the corner shadows. She emerged and knelt next to his hospital bed. Voodoo clutched his hand, lips parted slightly. She smiled with watery eyes.

  “I’ll be okay.” Confused why he'd been admitted, his breath temporarily bottled up in his throat.

  “The doctor said you were extremely dehydrated and the trauma from your torn rotator cuff contributed to your body just revolting against you.”

  “So fluids and I’m out of here?”

  “Yep.”

  Her quick agreement surprised Pike. He’d expected an argument to stay and rest. His limbs tingled—something was up.

  “You did it, hero.” She soft-clapped her hands as if to lead a cheer.

  “Ah, the four-leaf clover.”

  Pike held up his hand and pretended to hold the four-leaf clover he'd found in the ship’s bathroom. The single clue that helped break the mystery.

  “You’re brilliant, baby. FORCE’s been piecing everything together, and we’ll leave as soon as you sign out.”

  She nudged over the paper-thin hospital bed cover and kissed him. He smiled—then she really kissed him. Her fingers rummaged against the grain of his matted hair and scratched the shaggy beard that had grown thick. All the while, she drove her lips harder and tongue deeper against his.

  His head began to swim again, but it was all Voodoo’s fault and nothing to do with his injuries. The green screen bleeped wildly as he felt the flesh of excitement rush over him with Voodoo’s kiss.

  Three nurses, one orderly and the ER doctor stood silent in the doorway. One gripped the crash cart for stability—another deactivated the code blue alert. Pike figured they’d seen it all before.

  He gave a weak smile. “What can I say? You give excellent attention to patient care.”

  Chapter Nine

  Voodoo drove carefully with Pike riding shotgun, as she steered the rental car into the empty parking lot to meet with the rest of FORCE. They’d been holed up at a resource Alex had established through her CIA network. The complex was clean, but nothing to stick around for. Besides, they’d been busy deciphering Bonny’s next step. Pike’s hospital discharge was a boost to everyone’s dashed spirits.

  “Look who’s back from the dead.” Jonas hugged Pike close—the way warriors who’ve shared trauma do.

  “I feel much better. The doc said to eat these pain meds until I can get the shoulder checked proper.” Pike tossed them in the trash, “Enough about me, what we got?”

  “Your lucky find of that four-leaf clover was the game changer,” Jonas said.

  Pike associated the four-leaf clover with the famous Chicago tradition of celebrating St. Paddy’s day with a giant parade and by coloring the Chicago River green.

  Jonas continued, “Knowing they’re on the road to Chicago, we checked the tire tracks and width the best we could—considering the rain. Tires set apart wide, big truck or moving hauler. Looked up the vendors in Moline and asked for one-way fares. Safe assumption they’re not returning it. Bingo, Hart’s Hauler off of 27th Street leased the biggest one they have—twenty-six footer on a one-way fare. Guess who signed for it—Cranston Stoner.”

  Pike laughed. “How stupid is Cranston Stone? Does he think that’ll cover his tracks by adding an r to his last name? It’s like chasing the Apple Dumpling Gang.”

  “Except Don Knotts didn’t have a WMD loaded for Chicago.”

  “Their payload has to be enormous,” Alex said. “They demanded the truck with over sixteen hundred cubic feet of loading space. I figure they got one hundred and sixty-five miles to Chicago. Fuel capacity is fifty-seven gallons at ten miles per gallon, so no need to refuel. Cruising at fifty miles per hour to avoid attention from the coppers, it should take three and a half hours.” Alex ran the numbers.

  Jonas threw cold water all over the plan. “All that’s great, except the rental receipt was signed at sixteen hundred hours yesterday. They got an eighteen hour head start.”

  “Black Hawks on their way—we got time to regroup,” Alex said. “Can’t blow into Chicago without a plan. I don’t even know who to reach out to. Thanks to the Serpent having every agent’s identity, this damn operational embargo has left my resources thin.” Alex’s concern was evident.

  She’d created a career of nurturing relationships for times like these—and now she had nothing.

  Voodoo chortled, “I get it. Blow into Chicago. The Windy City—get it?”

  She looked around for support. No one paid attention. FORCE enjoyed their moments of hazing each other, but when it came time to operate—there was no joking. Pike whispered to Voodoo and reassured her it was a good joke but now was not the time. She winced.

  There was a pall over the entire unit—Pike sensed it even through the slight fog of prescription pain meds. Fatigue haunted them, and this last empty raid had drained their well. It was like a drug addict—the rush got harder to come by after each missed opportunity. But promises of operational success would refuel them. Had it not been for Pike spotting that four-leaf clover, FORCE would’ve been overdosed on the unknown and dead in the water.

  Pike caught a bad vibe when Alex admitted to the lack of resources. Chicago could be a rough place to play if you didn’t know the rules or the players. An administrative shake up at the Chicago PD had created an air of mistrust over who to communicate with for special operations service support.

  Jonas jammed his cell in his jeans’ pocket. “As I expected, the Field Office has no one to spare unless we get an exact location for the Hauler.”

  The former Delta Force operative's expression remained stoic, but Pike caught the flash of anger in his eyes. He realized with surprise that in all the years he’d known Jonas West, this was maybe the second time he’d seen him get emotional.

  “How dare they blow this off like some rookie threat?” Pike said.

  “Looks like we’ll hit the ground running—alone as usual. I wish there was someone, even a beat cop to work a landing pad.” Alex paced, though this time it was more of a plod.

  Pike watched the others’ actions while waiting transport pick up. Voodoo bit her cuticles. She then tapped her teeth with an unpainted fingernail and gave a slight hum.

  “What’s on your mind?” Pike asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Looks like something’s bothering you.”

  “Nope. Nothing.” Green eyes avoided contact.

  Pike read people for a living. Voodoo was an open book. “Okay, last chance. I hope it’s not something about this operation.”

  “I’m not sure what I should do,” Her voice trailed like a whiny child. She went back to gnawing on her cuticles.

  Pike sensed her conflict—he just wasn’t sure what caused it.

  Was she really to be trusted?

  “I’m not sure how this’ll sound, but you do what you want with it,” Voodoo said matter-of-factly.

  Pike hadn’t seen that attitude since the first day they’d crossed paths at SWAT training in New Orleans.

  “Whatever it is, all that matters is intercepting Bonny. This is about saving lives—not saving face.” He assured.

  “Ever heard of the Savage Souls?” Her mouth next to his ear would have aroused him again, had it not been for the name she’d just uttered.

  “Of course. They came up earlier.” Pike cut her a hard look

  “They kinda run Chicago if that helps,” Voodoo said.

  “I don’t need a lesson in outlaw motorcycle club history. I know what those dirty scum do. Running Chicago isn’t the way I’d describe it.” Pike's heart rate climbed. His fists clenched so hard his fingers ached.

  “Okay, never mind. I knew it was a bad idea.” She spun away from him.


  The stomp of her steps alerted the others who were trying to rest. They all knew it was nonstop days until this latest threat was resolved.

  Pike glared after her. Anger boiled at her casual mention of the country’s most monstrous motorcycle gang. The Chicago-based club had developed a fast reputation for inhumane violence—against others and their own. They lived by a code—and murdered for breaking it. They’d mastered the methamphetamine networks, and diversified their portfolios with human trafficking and prostitution to boot.

  He went after her. “Don’t drop their name, and then walk off like a spoiled prom queen.”

  “Well, are you going to listen or take an attitude? The attitude, I don’t need.” Her glare wouldn't have melted ice. She widened her stance, poised to retaliate.

  “Sorry.” His hand sprung away from her upper arm. “Let’s try this again.”

  “I know the president of the Savage Souls Motorcycle Club. You know his brother. They may hate cops, but those patriotic bastards love America. It sounds crazy now that I’ve said it out loud, but no one knows bad juju going down in Chicago like they do.”

  “Justice,” Pike whispered.

  He blew out a breath in surprise. He leaned against the edge of a desk strewn with the latest edition of the Moline Dispatch. Newspapers shuffled under his weight.

  “Lawless is Justice Boudreaux's brother?” Pike asked.

  “Same momma and poppa. Kinda ironic, the way their names crossed career paths.” Voodoo chuckled.

  “This could mean our reputations. Crud, it could mean our lives. Are you sure about this, Krystal?” He peered into her eyes.

  “Justice, like most of them, fought for our country, same as all of you. Life choices meant the differences. This ain’t about making arrests—it’s about fighting for our nation. We’re all Americans, Pike—just different patches on our uniforms.”

  Pike paced for a few moments in silence before joining the others.

  “Alex, can I have a minute with you and Jonas,” he called out.