The Darkest Hour
Page 10
“Okay?” Inquired an anonymous civilian voice at the unofficial response.
“10-4.” He snapped—Pike knew communications protocol.
Pike laid in silence as the city buzzed below. Voodoo was all he could think about, and how thankful he was to have found her again after the last two years. He wouldn’t lose her.
He noticed a buzz from his go-bag—reached over for his cellphone. Hand quavered—was it Voodoo?
“Dwight.”
“Alex?” Pike asked.
“Bravo Team secured,” she reported.
“Good going.”
“Lawless went down. It’s not good.” Alex reported.
“Sorry to hear. Word on Voodoo?” Fear laced his question.
“Nothing yet. We’re giving it our all.”
“I know, Alex. Thank you.”
“Control to Sniper 1. King Rex float is about seven blocks out.”
“10-4, Control.” Pike confirmed.
“Whatever you decide to do, I support you. Not just on the job, but as a friend. “
“Alex, thanks for allowing me the chance to rediscover me.” Pike said.
“Control to Sniper 1. King Rex float is about five blocks out.”
“10-4, Control,” Pike responded before he tossed the cell back onto his go-bag.
He nuzzled up against the rifle, and peered through the scope again. The streets had filled with partiers looking for one last depraved throw-down before Ash Wednesday’s start of the Lenten season of repentance and sacrifice.
Sacrifice. My life’s been about nothing but sacrificing for others. What about me?
Pike pressed off the safety button until the nub showed red. He gripped the bolt action and snugged it one last time before his focus zeroed only on sight picture and controlling his breathing.
“Control to Sniper 1, the King Rex float is about three blocks out. No response needed for final countdown.”
“10-4.” Pike said, and understood this was it. It was all on him.
He saw the high school color guard marching in time with the American flag elevated above the State of Louisiana flag. He smiled. “Good kids.” Next were the marching band and three members of King Rex’s royal krewe.
“Control to Sniper 1. King Rex float is about two blocks out.”
Finger tugged to remove the trigger’s slack. He blinked, but never lost sight.
“I can’t do this—he doesn’t deserve to die because he’s a freaking prick. But Krystal hasn't done anything.”
Skin on his right index finger began to indent as he applied steady pressure against the brass trigger. He’d flat-lined his breathing to prevent his vision from moving up and then down behind the scope.
“Control to Sniper 1. King Rex float is about one block out.”
Oh God, what do I do?
“Control to Sniper 1. King Rex float is in the red zone.”
I love you, Krystal Laveau. Pressure raged—he prayed for an answer. Sweat streamed across his lips. God bring her back to me.
"I love you." Pike said aloud.
“I love you too.”
He eased his finger from inside the guard and spun away from the rifle. Pistol drawn from the waist holster, he aimed toward the ladder behind him. It was her.
“Alone?” He asked.
“Yeah.” She topped the ladder and stood open armed until he climbed to his feet. Weapon still gripped in his paw. The chaotic celebration below restricted his rooftop hearing. He scanned the area, and asked again.
“Yes,” she yelled.
They closed the small gap. Their bodies mashed together. He grabbed the back of her head with his unarmed hand and kissed her like his life depended on it. Eyes remained open just in case.
“How?” He whispered.
“Monkey fist.” She laughed and rubbed the hard bone on the top of her wrist, “You said he was a sucker for the monkey fist.” She imitated her v-shaped wrist smashing against his chin.
He snuggled into her neck, and tears spattered across her breast. Pike surrendered to emotions he’d suppressed for a lifetime.
Pike and Voodoo hurried through the emergency entrance at Touro medical center. He felt a rush of panic as he led her through a crowded lobby. He saw his team and slowed his pace as they anticipated the worst of news.
“Alex, this is Krystal Laveau. I mean, Voodoo,” Pike corrected as he introduced them. They all three entered the hospital’s critical care post-surgery center where they could speak in private.
“I hear you’ve got a pretty wicked wrap?” Alex smiled. Voodoo’s nose crinkled in question. “I mean you must be one hell of a woman to have wrapped this wonderful man around your finger.”
“Enough of this—how’s Lawless?” Pike asked.
“Soft tissue lost along with a kidney, but docs expect a full recovery and return.” Jonas gave the unofficial prognosis.
Pike laid his hand over Alex’s forearm and walked her across the room near the vending machine. “How about the Avaslavian ship?”
“Ghost, just like Bonny. We’re not sure if there ever was one, but FORCE is in the process of translating and decoding her diary. Obviously, we’re on code orange standby in the event they locate Bonny or the ship.”
“How about Fats?” Pike asked.
“Yeah, how about him? Seems he and Bonny have had a naughty little affair going for quite some time. I don’t understand it, but I guess she enjoyed being domineered by a slimy pork ball.” Alex shook her head and frowned.
“Are we going to pinch him for intel?” Pike asked.
“We think it’s best to leave him be for the moment. He’s a real chatterbox on the cellphones, so the more he lights up the wire, the more we know.” Her hand imitated lips yapping. Pike laughed.
“Dwight, I’m sorry for what I said the other day about you being the same old Pike.” Alex patted his shoulder.
“It’s okay. I deserved it.”
“No, now listen to me—this is important because you’ve accomplished your mission—you’ve found the real Dwight David Harriman. Not to mention Krystal, who obviously loves you, but of course I’m no expert in human behavior.” She hugged him, and then walked back to where Jonas was interrogating the attending surgeon.
“What were you two scheming up over there?” Krystal cornered him and moved close to kiss him.
“Nothing much. Just boring work talk.” He chuckled.
“You better not be jetting off to some high-flying cowboy adventure without me.” Voodoo wrapped her arms around his waist. She pulled him into her.
Pike eased against her hold and smiled.
“Never. As long as you remember to pack the leather collar.”
CONTINUED in SPLIT SECOND
A F.O.R.C.E. Adventure
Book 2
Book 2 - SPLIT SECOND
Keep the chase going in book 2, Split Second
“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.”
About Louis Scott
Chief of Police (rtd.), Scott blends over 25 years of heart-stopping policing Special Operations experience.
From deep in the heart of south Louisiana’s Cajun Country, his action-packed writing style is seasoned by the Mardi Gras, hurricanes and crawfish étouffée.
Don’t let the easy Creole smile fool you. The author served most of a highly decorated career in SOG buying dope, banging down doors, and busting bad guys.
Bringing characters to life based on those amazing experiences, Scott writes it like he lived it.
Lock and Load – Let’s Roll.
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The Darkest Hour
Split Second
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End Of Watch
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Bayou Backslide: Special Novella Edition
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