by LS Silverii
“Are these government issued?” His fingers slid inside the lining of her modest sports panties.
“No, these belong to me,” she pretended to scold. Green eyes exploded with anticipation. Her hips began to wiggle before he moved.
She lay bare on the government issue mattress with nothing but the shredded remnants of a black t-shirt over her shoulders. She didn’t seem to care. Conscious of time, Hollywood dove into her. His mouth pressed against the jewelry that dangled from her clit. The way his tongue pressed onto the loose metal while he flicked at her pussy’s lips drove him mad. On his stomach, his mouth buried in her, he felt his dick pulsing between the mattress and his thighs.
“Talk to me, baby. Make me cum,” she moaned. Hollywood smiled. He knew how she loved to hear his naughtiest thoughts and fantasies while they fucked. He also knew the challenge of talking while his tongue was sunk into her pussy.
“Krystal, you’re so naughty. Why you want to hear me so bad?” he teased her as his torso ground between her legs. They seemed to quiver with each forward lunge his body took until their mouths met. He felt his abs moist with her excitement, and loved the sensation of her warmth against him.
“I love to hear what you like, what you want. What turns you on, baby?” Her voice had dropped down to that guttural slur she had just before an orgasm.
His cock also sensed she was ready. The walls of her pussy became flush and swollen just before she climaxed.
“Baby, talk to me.” She’d become aggressive.
His back arched as his dick was surrounded by the fleshy press of hot, wet walls pulsing toward an orgasm.
“Oh, baby. Yes. You, you…” His speech became incoherent as semen readied to explode from his cock.
“Yes, baby. Talk to me.” She clawed at his chest and neck as her ass popped off the bed, slamming her pelvis against his.
“You, baby, and…Rose?” His body erupted into a violent convulsion of muscular contractions. Sweat poured from him as he pulled at her super short hair. His hand cupped her rigid neck. He jerked her toward him and thrust her body down harder onto his throbbing dick.
“Me and Rose?” Her expression blanked.
He fell limp atop her—both bodies soaked in the stains of sex and intensity.
“No, baby. Rose is calling us back to duty.”
“I’m outta here.”
CHAPTER 8
“Would you care for water?” Rose had grown weary of this adversary. Someone she once dismissed as a dumb blonde with foreign language skills turned out to be much more talented than she had imagined.
“Would you?”
“You’re not in the position to offer water. Only information,” Rose said.
“Tell me, what did the DNA swab reveal?”
“You already know the answer. You wouldn’t have offered the profile match unless you wanted me to know who you are. Let’s cut the shit and talk like two regular people.” Rose twisted her hip and tossed her right elbow over the chair’s back.
“That’s the problem. Neither of us are regular people. The world could never know who we are or what we do—like super heroes. But I will tell you who I am and what will soon happen as compensation for what’s about to happen to you.”
Rose jerked her elbow off the chair and glared. Her mouth slipped open to retort, but sealed instead. She’d hear her out.
“Sometimes its best to bite your tongue. Now, hold it a bit longer and I’ll tell you everything. Not like you can stop destiny.”
Rose’s jaw jerked as the muscles strained to prevent an outburst. She peeled her lips back and upward in a fake grin and nodded.
“My name is Georgia Washington Ross. I’m from Virginia—Mount Vernon. I am a direct blood descendent of our nation’s father and the most influential woman of their time—George Washington and Betsy Ross. They first met during worship at Christ Church in Philadelphia. This bloodline has been guarded for over two hundred and thirty years. Our family’s confidences are shielded by a secret society that has also run most of this nation’s affairs since the beginning.”
“Do you expect me to believe a club controls America?” Rose laughed in dismissal.
“You don’t think we’d leave it up to just anyone to run what we created, do you?”
“So why are you trying to destroy a nation your family built by working for the Rougarou?”
“Poor dah’lin, I love this country. But its so far off track the only way to right it is to destroy it and rebuild. Oh, and I don’t work for the Rougarou—I am the Rougarou.”
Rose’s cackled. It was only partially an act. “I can accept you’re related to George Washington—hell from what I remember, he nearly fathered a nation. What I can’t buy is you being the terrorist mastermind, and calling yourself the Rougarou. That’s stupid.” Her eyes rolled.
“It’s disappointing, Rose. To be mocked by another woman of influence. I’ve never made light of what Gregor did to you over those nineteen days in Rasgravia. I respected your struggle—your strength to survive. Here I offer you the truth and you call me stupid? I should have the call made now—would serve you right.”
“You’re not entitled to one call, this ain’t the county lock up,” Rose said bitterly.
“No honey, I’m not going to call out. Someone will call in—for you.”
“Better not be a collect call. We don’t accept charges.”
“The family is disappointed with the leadership of the nation. Heroes and elected officials no longer stand for anything but themselves. We tried the legal system to pursue the crooks, but soon that became corrupted. Assassinations were always useful, but we’d allowed the family to be dissuaded from doing so many. It’s time the family takes a new look at using them as a deterrent. We want to teach America a lesson by making a strong statement. We’ve decided to eliminate two bad examples—a disgraced politician, the POTUS and a dishonorable war hero—JW Colt.”
“How do you plan to do that?”
“The Devil’s Own really aren’t that bad a bunch of boys once you get to know them. I’m also big on efficiency—you know, two birds with one stone kinda thing.”
“Do you really think I’m going to allow you to follow through on your plans?” Rose taunted.
“STR will not stop the family. You’ll see why very soon. And the name Rougarou might sound a bit silly to you, but I liked the legend and the name seemed to fit. Fats and I were down at a rum distillery in Thibodaux. The tour guide shared the legend, and my alter ego was born. The Rougarou was a good deterrent to scare bad kids into behaving. What’s so different than what I’m doing?”
“How does Fats factor into this?”
“I needed him to lure Hollywood down to the bayous. Hated sleeping with that pig, but a girl gotta do… You know the rest. I suppose they’ll find him soon. Best I know he’ll have an alligator’s meat hook run up under his chin and out below his tongue. I was told a man could hang by that hook for a long time before he died. He really was a fucking pig.”
“Bonny or Georgia, while your direct bloodline to GW might’ve earned a no mention blue star in the law enforcement’s database, it doesn’t mean shit here and now. You’re under arrest for the violation of treason—punishable by execution. I’ll have someone escort you to your cell.”
“I told you, honey, that there’ll be no arrest being made.”
KC and Chase slipped into the room through the silent door. Rose nodded and told them to take her away.
“For you, Rose.” Chase handed her a cell phone.
“This is Special Agent in Charge Rose Prospero.” Surely Bonny’s threat couldn’t be real. She kept her voice steady, determined to portray a strong front.
“Rose, this is Senator William Dunn.” The voice was unmistakable. He chaired the United States Senate oversight committee, which controlled STR. Rose had met the man many times, and they’d enjoyed a neutral relationship in the past.
“Hello sir, what may I do for you?” Her eyes sliced to Bonny
.
“What the fuck you think you’re doing? She’s a blue star.” Dunn’s voice trembled in rage. Rose imagined his fat chins quivering as he threatened. “You’ve got three minutes to release Ms. Ross, escort her from the warehouse and put her on this phone to confirm she’s free, or I have an FBI SWAT team positioned to storm your facility to take you into custody for high treason.”
“You realize she just confessed to a plot to assassinate the President of the United States?” She regretted the statement the moment it slipped between her lips.
“According to who? I have grave concerns about STR’s ability to play honest with the public and us. I don’t know that I trust you anymore. Without trust, Rose, you got nothing. STR is done—I’ve contacted a quorum of the committee and we’re pulling the plug.”
“Just like that? But what about POTUS?”
“Enough of your wild imagination. Get your personal belongings and get out.” He slammed down his phone. The crack reverberated through Rose’s cell.
“Silly, bitch. Told you so.” Bonny smirked.
CHAPTER 9
Saturday mornings were for sleeping in, or at least that’s what Hollywood had gotten used to over the last several weeks on injured reserve. Absent was the glimmer of gold shimmering off the late morning bayou, and the gentle toe touches across the mattress from a lover debating sleep or sex.
This Saturday, the day before Easter, he was alone in a Baltimore economy hotel room. Voodoo’s text message said she was on her way back to Louisiana. Rose’s text message said STR was now in phase Zulu. He’d anticipated that alert, which was why he’d relocated to Baltimore. The last alert he received was a status of phase Tango.
Tango meant STR’s facility and network were under threat of—or actual—attack. The COOP system established off-site safe locations to reconstitute operations until the mainframe was reinstituted. Hollywood was aware that an abandoned mini-mall manager’s suite near BWI airport was designated as their temporary facility. Picked arbitrarily because the area isn’t the best but still used for a lot of UC groups. And they need a location.
Like most of the other STR operatives, he knew the Senate oversight committee had terminated their authority. Reporting for duty would officially classify their efforts as “rogue.”
Which is what they all became once they convened that afternoon. A subdued Rose greeted them, setting out bottles of water and an assortment of cookies in the shapes of Easter bunnies.
“Team, thank you for seeing this through. You know the implications of participating in an unsanctioned action against American citizens.” She said.
Hollywood thought she looked deflated. Substituted for her always-intense persona was a mechanical warrior trained by a government that had abandoned her—again.
“Save the official record warning, Rose. We’re here to do what’s right,” Chase assured her.
“Thanks, but there is no longer an official record. No rules,” she murmured past tight lips.
Hollywood slumped in a rickety office chair. Pain pills and the loss of Voodoo had combined to drain and distract him. He’d become accustomed to operating under any and all dire circumstances, but her heading home to Turtle Bayou had him off his game.
“This is our situation as we understand it.” Billy cleared his throat and paused for Hollywood to open his eyes. “Bonny, with help from the Devil’s Own Motorcycle Club will try to assassinate the President tomorrow during Easter service at the 9-11 Memorial. They wanted extra-long range sniper rifles. As far as we know, they never secured any.” Billy rapped knuckles against the Formica-topped conference table—causing Hollywood to jerk awake, sliding from the edge of his seat. His head popped up once both knees slid to the carpeted surface.
“Sorry, I’m bushed,” he said as he recovered.
“With no long-range options confirmed, we have to assume Bonny will try a direct assault. Maybe the Devil’s Own will try to assault the target location, cause chaos and kill her. We just don’t know.” Billy nodded sympathetically as if he understood Hollywood’s behavior was more than just exhaustion.
A slight vibration against the tabletop caught Hollywood’s attention. “No fucking way,” he exclaimed, blasting from his chair. A dark energy came off him, flooding the small room. The experienced Navy SEAL’s body quivered with adrenaline. He scraped a hand through his blond hair. Swollen blue eyes stared at the phone in his hand. His chest rose and fell as if he’d run a four-minute mile. No one spoke—just watched.
KC reached over and took the cell phone from Hollywood’s fingers. Her face blanked as she read the text message from Bonny.
[We have her]
The picture attached showed a terrified Voodoo. Everyone lowered their glances after KC waved the phone around the group. Chase, seated closest to Hollywood reached out an arm across slumped shoulders, and was immediately joined by the others.
Billy snatched the cell to mash out a reply to Bonny. [Where is she]
[Voodoo for the products]
[Products?] Billy texted, beads of sweat framed the ridge of his mouth. This was a negotiation for Voodoo’s life.
[Rifles]
[Never were rifles. U/C deal all the way] Billy’s fingers ripped into Hollywood’s phone screen. He looked to Rose for input.
[Then you better shit some by Sunday morning]
Hollywood jerked the phone from Billy to check the dialogue. Inadvertently, his thumb slid across the screen and pulled up the next picture. It turned his guts. Two dirt bag bikers stood over a stripped-nude Voodoo. Their tattered leather vest read Devil’s Own motorcycle club—1%’ers. Backs turned to the camera, their colors were the only clothes they wore. The conference table splintered beneath the force of Hollywood’s fists.
* * *
Rose paced the rear of the outlet store space, cell to her ear. Baltimore’s slowed economy had put the brakes on occupying this mini-mall but while there’d be no retailing, there would be difficult negotiations taking place. Agitation twisted her expression as she ended the unanswered call.
Rail-thin finger tapping against her teeth, she fretted over strategies to rescue Voodoo. She debated an oath to her government versus her obligation to the team. Both had abandoned her. The cell buzzed in her pocket.
“Rose, you called?” asked the deep voice.
“Justice, thank you for returning my call. You said when they fuck me over, to call you. They have and I need your help.” She expelled a gasp of relief. Rose distanced herself from the conference room where Hollywood waited.
“Not sure what I can do, but give it a shot.” Justice now sounded as if his offer had been more courtesy than promise.
“Bonny and the Devil’s Own are holding Voodoo hostage. Familiar with them?”
“Hate those fucks. Low level jerk-offs do anything for a buck.” Loathing dripped from his voice.
“Senate oversight pulled the plug on STR. We’re rogue,” Rose said.
“How’d the Senate get involved? Especially over the Easter holiday.”
“Bonny is the blue star, real name is Georgia Washington Ross. She made it happen. She and the Apple Dumpling Gang are planning to hit POTUS tomorrow during the 9-11 memorial ceremony.”
“I figured as much on the blue star. That shit always pissed me off. That where cops, fire and military going to gather?” Justice’s voice elevated.
“Yep. Devil’s Own tried to buy long-range rifles to drop the president. That’s how the two undercover Navy SEALs got caught up.”
“Heard about that shit. Good rescue and recovery.” Justice knew the code—no one left behind.
“They want the rifles in exchange for Voodoo,” she said.
“Give them the rifles. Swap a sub for the prez and up outer perimeter security. Simple protocol. I think it’s best handled by the suits. My boys won’t touch this shit, much less beef with a sub-group like the Devils. Sorry, no can do, Rose.”
Justice had seemed to trust Rose and she sensed where his heart was.
She debated before making her next move. Looking down at Voodoo’s picture, her horrified expression, Rose’s stomach knotted. Her imagination ran wild at what those two outlaws had probably done to her. She hit the send button to forward it to Justice—and Lawless.
CHAPTER 10
Justice James Boudreaux sat in the open field of an undisclosed airstrip just north of Chicago. Goggles dusty and filled with condensation, he systematically scanned the whole area. He’d been trained at the sharpest tip of the United States government’s black ops spear. If there were a threat within miles, he’d detect it and neutralize it.
His late model Harley Davidson Dyna Glide rattled between long, powerful thighs. Scuffed square-toed boots planted against the dirt, the bike easily balanced as an extension of his frame. He’d grown accustomed to the vibration—even as it caused the muscles packed across his chest to shake. A custom flat black paint job supported the Savage Soul’s emblem embossed across the tank. The skull and sniper’s crosshairs epitomized Justice’s ideology—he believed in being the baddest ass there ever was.
Heat from the twin cam engine poured between his legs. The red-hot heads and cylinders snapped to life as he cranked back against the leather-wrapped accelerator. He rested easily atop the stitched saddle, but he never relaxed. He trusted Rose Prospero—and only her.
The horizon was dotted with ten vertical figures. Their hogs, a collection of stolen and bought bikes, also thrummed under the early afternoon haze. Justice’s government paid-for smile flashed past his thick beard. Trained to avoid ambush—their positions were as he had instructed to detect and defeat one. He didn’t think Rose would even try to assault the Savage Souls, but he was never one to assume.
The hushed roar of the old military mule lumbered overhead. It brushed across the earth at nearly a standstill before completing a giant circle around the airfield. The C130, perfect for unprepared runways, returned to kick up dust as it bounced and teetered across the uneven surface before piloting toward the northeast windsock.
