by LS Silverii
Voodoo’s experience in high-risk SWAT operations had also conditioned her mind to slow down the sequence of events so she might fully process her environment. Although they moved faster than a walk but slower than a sprint, everything seemed to pass in slow motion for Voodoo. Most operatives had the same ability, a result of training and experience overriding panic and confusion.
A flash of thought came making her smile—how hot Hollywood was and he was all hers. That nanosecond of distraction didn’t jeopardize the mission, but it did motivate her fatigued body to keep fighting.
Three rooms left. Two rooms left. One room. The last door slammed shut.
Hollywood yanked a flash bang from his tactical vest. Voodoo slammed her power-packed size seven boot to the left of the doorknob. The old wooden frame crashed to splintered confetti. Her body launched the opposite direction into a panel wall. She slapped her palms against the wall, torso-springing forward for another front kick that exploded the entire door off its hinges. She quickly balanced and sidestepped behind Hollywood.
Concealed behind the door’s frame, Hollywood jerked the safety pin out of another flash bang and tossed the casing into the room. Voodoo spun around to watch their 6 during the debilitating explosion of two and a half million candlepower and about one hundred seventy-five decibels. Not enough to kill, but more than enough to stop reactions for about four seconds. All the time they’d need to make entry.
She saw rear movement. Reaching behind, she felt for, then tugged at, Hollywood’s pants, a signal to halt. His training told him it was her signal to wait. Trust without seeing. His eyes remained on the open door.
The second door on the left spewed open. Two cockroaches crawled out. Her view via the NVG’s spooky green glow showed what looked like a meth-fueled rage. The first biker, without pants, fumbled with a sawed off shotgun. His partner, also without pants, slammed what looked like a long, plastic dildo against his palm.
Voodoo snarled at their depravity. She dropped both with one shot each to their faces. Sawed-off and a flaccid dildo fell to the floor. She whipped around and squeezed her partner on the left shoulder. The nonverbal signal to move to the next phase.
Hollywood’s Kevlar helmet bobbed. He understood. She captured her breath after a flood of adrenaline swept over her. Always happened after a kill. Voodoo’s NVGs caught the safety pin bounce at her feet. She tucked her head to brace for it. Another blinding, deafening eruption from the second flash bang. They bolted into the very last room. Her vision swept from middle to left—while Hollywood swept the other half of the room. Remaining disciplined to focus on only your area was difficult—but she was well trained.
Flesh clumped motionless in the far corner. Voodoo jerked at the muzzle flash from Hollywood’s machine gun. He’d dropped the dirt bag busy hacking away at the body with a machete. As she twisted away from the blasts, Voodoo was caught off guard by movement behind her. A house mouse cowered deep in the corner.
Voodoo’s barrel remained in the view of her NVG as she took aim to kill. The young girl looked terrified. She held up her hands showing only bandages and a water bottle. Voodoo saw her dark t-shirt that read “Property of Devil’s Own”. The girl was as much a prisoner as Cobra.
“Don’t fucking move,” Voodoo commanded her.
“Confirm the body,” Hollywood ordered Voodoo while he held covered.
Voodoo slung her Colt sub-gun against her torso—the tip of the suppressor’s barrel bouncing off her inner thigh. It was still glowing hot. Burned through her pants. But operating on autopilot, it would require getting near blown apart to allow pain to stop Voodoo. She knelt next to the mass. It was a male, white, unable to tell age. She bit into her glove and yanked it off her right hand. No pulse. Her heart sank.
She mentally reviewed the briefing details, which had included every identifiable marking on Cobra’s body. She began scanning the corpse—after she slid the glove back on.
“Let’s move,” Hollywood ordered. He split his attention between the open door and the girl Voodoo let live.
“Not him. It’s a decoy,” she said.
“Pull that door,” Hollywood’s sharp order showed his agitation—this was taking too long.
Voodoo low-crawled across the room. Making sure Hollywood’s weapon was trained on the closet door, she jerked it open. There he was. Hands cuffed over the clothes bar, leg bent at a forty-five degree angle to support his weight. Leg? Only one? Voodoo spun her head, jerking down the thick balaclava. Vomit erupted from her mouth.
“I can’t,” she cried.
“Cover,” Hollywood said.
She raised her weapon toward the door, toward the girl. Saw a knife now tucked beneath her left thigh. Voodoo debated.
Had that sawed his leg off?
The girl held still. It was too dark to tell Voodoo’s weapon was aimed at her skull. Through her night vision goggles Voodoo scanned for any other signs that the bikers’ whore had amputated Cobra’s leg below the knee. Cracking sounds drew her focus away. She cat-walked back into the opposite corner. Saw Hollywood physically rip the steel bar from the walls.
He hoisted Cobra’s nude body over his shoulder. “Go,” he spat.
The night goggles showed Voodoo crude tattoos ripped across Cobra’s skin. He was covered in the Devil’s Own images—where there was skin left. She again lifted her rifle and moved to the hallway, but not without aiming once and kicking the shit out of the girl who sat smiling.
* * *
“Son of a bitch. Thought I’d have to refill the tank,” the van driver screamed in his yawky Brooklyn accent. The NYPD cop had sat exposed for too long, and didn’t sound happy about the change of plans.
Pitch darkness filled the van. Hollywood held the door handle in one fist. He clutched Cobra with the other. Blood boiled—he felt heat flooding up his neck into his face. He’d just been through the worst shit since Paki, and didn’t need this blue blood barking at him about a change of plans.
He felt Voodoo’s ass bump against his as she kept her eyes peeled behind them. They weren’t in the clear until the Black Hawks were off the ground back to HQ.
“How’s Rose?” Hollywood asked as he and Chase struggled to ease Cobra onto the van’s floor.
“I’m here. Blasted bullets knocked the wind out of me,” she said, as she lay propped against Billy’s knees.
“What the fuck’s she doing here?” Hollywood yelled.
CHAPTER 6
The Black Hawk bounced once before its landing gear sunk into a set position on the tarmac for dismount. Nearly four thousand horsepower settled while the honeycomb-shaped rotor blades eased their circulation. Only six hours had elapsed since STR first left HQ. They’d returned with an extra body, black hood bound. KC and Chase were designated escorts until the prisoner went into a secured cell.
“You better settle your ass, or you’re back to the bayou, sister.” Rose’s voice, still strained by the trauma she’d suffered, mustered all the fervor she could to grab Voodoo’s attention.
“I got a right,” Voodoo screamed over the slowing whirl of the powerful engines. She stomped against the cement walkway. Emphatic fists beat against moist air.
“You belong to the United States Government. You have zero rights. There’s a world much bigger than you or Turtle Bayou. When are you going to get that through your thick skull?”
“Fuck you,” Voodoo pounded her fists against her thighs. Her once naturally attractive face looked contorted and sinister.
Hollywood hung his head.
“Fuck me?” Rose said. “You botch this shit up, and I’ll fuck you. For what your life is worth, there’ll be nothing left to it,” Rose’s volume never fluctuated, but tension caused her vocal chords to shorten, which raised her tone an octave.
Hollywood moved away. Voodoo was in way over her head, and Rose had the ability to make painfully good on her promise. Or her threat.
* * *
The ten by ten room was eggshell colored. A wooden table fille
d the middle. One wooden chair sat on one side, while two more wooden chairs faced it. The simple table was bolted to the cement floor.
The legs of the single hardback chair were engaged in floor-mounted rails that only allowed the seat to slide forward or back. A single air conditioning vent was mounted in the eight-foot ceiling, controlled by a switch outside. The door behind the single chair, had no handle or push bar on the inside. There was no cliché two-way mirror. It was simply four ugly walls, a cement floor, a vent, and a table with three chairs. Except that it wasn’t.
Rose walked in and sat on the two-chair side. She now wore a dark navy suit with white silk blouse. A simple string of pearls dangled in an arc close to her throat, while silver earrings shone at her ears. Her hair was freshly washed and pushed back into a loose ponytail. Naturally striking, she’s used no make up.
Both feet were planted, knees directly beneath the table. Her back was straight, chin parallel. She took two deep cleansing breaths and exhaled quietly over her bottom lip. Her teeth nibbled at the inside of her cheek, and then she nodded twice.
The door opened. KC and Chase escorted the prisoner into the room. The black hood was still fastened in place since the Scarsdale extraction. Feet were shackled to the front legs of the wooden chair. Each wrist stretched down to eyebolts where stainless steel mashed against bone. No words were uttered beyond a guttural growl.
Chase nodded. Rose mouthed a silent okay. KC removed the hood. The door was buzzed, both exited quietly.
Short-cropped blonde hair lay slightly matted to the prisoner’s forehead and temples. Rose assumed it was hot beneath the hood. The last picture she’d seen, Bonny looked more tanning-bed bronzed and lean. Life spent running along the Mississippi River and leading a series of terrorist attacks must be hard on a girl. Regardless, here she was.
“Interesting reading, your diary,” Rose said, unsure how to breach the conversation.
“Thank you. How far have you gotten?”
“Far enough so you’re here with me.” Rose coughed. Her head hurt slightly—maybe it was still the affects from the shooting.
“Let me know once you’ve come to a point where you can’t decipher it. I’ll help.”
“Thank you, but we’ve completed the translation. Yes, we also caught the change in languages at the midpoint and end. You’ve become predictable and easy to read. That’s why you’re here.” Capturing Bonny had come as big a shock to STR as it probably had to her. But Rose was not about to reveal that.
“I’m here because I chose to be here. I could’ve taken you out with headshots, but aimed center mass at the shield. You were careless to come around that blind corner before Billy Price tossed the flash bangs—too eager I guess. I’m not the only one who’s predictable, Rose Prospero.”
“You shot me? Well, thank you for sharing. I’m sure yet another federal charge will only expedite your death sentence.” Rose struggled to calm herself.
Adrenaline surged beneath the smart-looking outfit. Her fingertips dallied across the string of pearls as if they’d begun to tighten across her throat. Swallowing harder than usual, Rose fought the constriction of her breathing. She needed air—and a drink of water.
“There will be no federal charges or trial,” Bonny said. “Matter of fact, I’ll be leaving here once I’ve had my say. I don’t blame you honey, I know you’re just doing what you’ve been told is right. Nothing personal, but this isn’t going to progress the way you think it might.”
Straying attention had become Rose’s adversary. She nodded tightly to Bonny’s claims, as if to refrain from launching insults at the extremist who sat shackled.
“Let’s be clear, missy. This is not New Orleans and you’re not running this game. I’m in charge here, and you will pay for what you’ve done.” Rose’s lips pinched as she snapped her hands off the table to cross her arms. Bonny grinned. She was a master at manipulating and her smugness seemed to set Rose off. She flapped her linen jacket as her gaze flicked upward to the vent as if praying for a breeze.
“Hot?”
“Just tired of your bullshit.” Rose hid her hands beneath the table. She’d become figidity, and knowing Bonny was aware, caused her to do it more.
“Do you even know my name?”
Rose gave a small smile. “Of course, Bonny.” Her tone spelled the name b-i-t-c-h.
“Yeah, because that stupid coon ass told you that was my name. Krystal Laveau let me live with her for months and was such a great cop, she never asked my name. Dumb bitch was just desperate for someone—anyone. Probably why she’s fucking your guy, Dwight David Harriman. What a fuck job he is.”
“Do you use our full names to show how smart you are?” Rose challenged her.
“Aren’t names important in your line of work, Rose Prospero? Aren’t you curious what mine is? With everything you think you know, you’ve actually no idea who I am. I’ve never hid my fingerprints or DNA. Just ask Dwight, or as you call him, Hollywood.”
“Will you consent to a DNA swab right now?” Rose snapped.
“Yes.”
KC entered through the door behind Bonny, and stood behind her. Bonny stretched her mouth wide. KC’s gloved hands ran a buccal swab around the inside of Bonny’s cheek. KC dropped it into a clear plastic tube, snapped the lid and exited without speaking a word.
“Thank you, KC Westin.”
Rose clapped softly and eased back against her chair. Her eyes eased their narrowed glint and she smirked. “It’s cute that you memorized us—like a child memorizing a favorite sports team.”
“There’s nothing cute about what’s going to happen to you and your team. You’ve had your head buried so deep in Billy Price’s well-endowed crotch, you have no idea things are progressing to a climatic encore. Not much you can do to stop it. Even if you do decode the diary—who says it tells the entire truth?”
“Are we back to threatening again? I thought we’d moved past that. So far, everything we’ve decoded has led us to intercept your plans, or anticipate your next step.” Rose shot her a smug look.
“Oh really, so did you find that four-leaf clover in the diary?”
CHAPTER 7
“Voodoo, you can’t quit. Not now.” Hollywood reached for her. She spun away and cut him a look that would’ve stopped a train. His hand froze in mid reach—they both glanced at it.
Hollywood had watched Voodoo and Rose’s relationship ebb and flow. While he knew Voodoo admired and respected the team’s hard-ass boss, he was also aware that their constant run-ins might soon erupt into an irreparable scenario. The simmering look of Creole steam signaled this might be the one. Rose had really come down hard on her this time—Voodoo was only with STR as a temporary assignment. She wasn’t as invested as the rest—except for her love of country.
“I’ve had enough of Rose Prospero. Fuck STR and fuck this secret squirrel shit. How she gonna tell me I ain’t got no rights? I’m a damn United States, American citizen—I got rights.” She stalked across their bunkroom and jammed gear into her go-bag. She swiped at tears streaming down her cheeks—making her eyes muddy orbs as mascara washed away in the flood of emotion.
“You can be so damn stubborn. Think about the big picture for a minute. I know you’re overwhelmed, but you’re not a quitter. That’s one of the things I first loved about you—the way you fight. I love you, Krystal.”
“That’s the first time you’ve said that in days.” Her lips quivered. She blinked back another wave of emotion as her wrist swiped below her nose. Rigid tension slipped from her shoulders. “I want to be with you, but I don’t know how much more I can take,” she confessed then stumbled into his arms.
Hollywood stroked the tangled hair from her face. He sensed her body’s response to his touch. Energy filled the minute gap between his touch and her being. He needed reconnection—emotionally and physically. They both did. Still moist from her shower, Voodoo’s light brown skin was smooth. Her inked right arm relaxed as he outlined the images of fish and flowe
rs and sky with his finger.
“I don’t want to leave here—to leave you, but my mind is racing and it feels like I’m going to crash. You might think I’m a badass bayou girl, but I ain’t never killed nobody. I want to have a family someday, not spend my time in therapy and swallowing pills.” She laid her head against his lap while her body spread out along the bed.
“I’m sorry, baby. This is my fault. I assumed since I was broken that everyone else was too. Never thought about the landing, just the leap. I’ll get you transport back home, and when this is over I’ll meet you there.” Hollywood moved to slide from beneath her. Her hand reached, caught his right shoulder—he grimaced.
Her feet shuffled, entwined in the bed sheet to move closer to him. He lightly touched his mouth to hers, playing with fire, he knew.
Rose was in the middle of an interrogation and information gained might send any or all members of STR on assignments in a flash. If he got Voodoo heated up and had to leave suddenly… Nope, didn’t want to go there. Better to do the deed quickly and hope Rose didn’t call. His eyes darted away as Voodoo pressed her thick, full lips against his. Her tongue licked and flitted until his fresh change of boxers could no longer contain his erection.
“Baby, you’re killing me,” he said.
“I know. I can feel you.” Her fingers gripped his dick over the soft cotton material. “I need to be close, Dwight. I need you next to me—inside of me.”
“But…” Rose might call at any moment. His mind finished the sentence but he didn’t dare say the words out loud. Shit.
“I know, High and Mighty Prospero might call. And that is why I hate her.” She gasped as her fingers unwrapped the hold. He stopped her, and pressed his mouth against hers.
“Is this a government issued t-shirt?” Hollywood asked. Her nose crinkled and she laughed. “Umm, yes it is.” She wagged her head.
Hollywood gripped her shirt in both hands and ripped it in half. She groaned through an electric smile. He moved down to her waist.
