Shadow Ops: Danger's Heat (Kindle Worlds Novella) (A Shadow Ops Novella Book 2)

A Shadow Ops Novella

LS Silverii

This second book in the trilogy is dedicated to my wife. I love saying that.

I fully appreciate that one is only as good as the people who surround them. The writing community is amazing for surrounding each other with genuine support. These wonderful people generously support and mentor me without hesitation. I thank you for your time, talent and truth. CJ Lyons, Liliana Hart, Adrienne Giordano, Jean Jenkins, Whitney Stegall Michel, Jk Danielle Dauphinet, and Christie Pepper

“You better make damn sure those cuffs are tight. Otherwise I’m gonna thrash your ass with ’em once I escape.” Krystal Laveau was helplessly strapped across the 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 easy reach.

“You better give it your best. One shot’s all you’ll get. 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 bed sheets tangled at her feet as she fought against her restraints.

He stood and paced across the plush carpet toward the open window. His shirtless body glimmered in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors designed to increase the feeling of space in the opulent suite.

The twenty-eighth floor penthouse opened up to the Gulf of Mexico. Oil rig 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?”

“I’m warning you.” She whimpered, but he’d not reacted to this latest objection. His finger tapped the window’s reinforced glass as he studied his own image reflection. He looked over, watching her tattooed body twist and turn. He had her ass in a bind. Krystal “Voodoo” Laveau belonged to him, and his devious imagination.

“You know that video will just be used against you,” Voodoo pleaded hoping to stop the recording of her sexual torment. He strode to the camera, and adjusted the tripod to cover the offset angle of her form shackled across the mattress.

He smirked. “It’ll be used to entertain me, baby. It’ll also ensure your submission to whatever and whenever I desire. 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 king-sized mattress. The pillow-top covering helped to muffle the sound, but Voodoo leapt the inch or two of wiggle room available as the surface vibrated.

“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, slick folds open to 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. The dangling jewel through her pierced clit swung in rhythm. He sandpapered his jaw and grinned at her ornamented pussy.

“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 submit.” The words sickened her.

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

The metal studs and buckle were still chilled, and created a stream of
frissons
across her hyper-sensitive skin along the collar’s wake. 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 the rods double-pierced through her nipples.

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.

“Submit to me, baby. 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 smiled.

“I love you, Krystal Laveau.” His whisper was soft and intimate. His kiss started soft with light touches against her lips, but pushed until deep and invading. 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 Hollywood’s face.

Hollywood had lived the rough 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.”

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

Never married or even semi-serious about anyone he’d dated, he’d met Krystal at a human trafficking rescue operation outside of New Orleans, Louisiana. He thought her undercover code-name, Voodoo, was fitting, as she’d cast a spell on him, captured his heart, in fact, on the very first day. Assigned to assist the South Louisiana Violent Crimes Task Force, she worked full-time for the Plaquemines Parish Sheriff’s Office.

“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 know discipline is required.” He 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 whimpered again. Her hips began to grind and she nibbled on her bottom lip. Hollywood had learned one of her behavioral flags was to bite on her bottom lip when she became aroused. It probably wasn’t fair to use his specialized training to decipher her, but all was fair when Voodoo became frisky.

“Good girl. Thank you for apologizing. You’ve spared yourself the belt.” He laid the wide leather cowboy belt across her stomach which twitched at the touch of the embroidered surface. “Just a reminder that it’s still a possibility,” he cautioned as his head dipped between her bent knees.

Hollywood’s tongue flicked at the jewelry attached to her pierced clit. Her hips writhed, inching closer to his mouth. He teased her with light brushes of his lips across the walls of her swollen pussy. Responsive, she begged him to give her more. His mouth opened and warm breath cascaded across her vagina. He covered her clitoris with his open mouth and sucked. The jewel rose against his palette and he mashed at it with his tongue until she wiggled herself away from him.

His dick stiffened between thighs that hung off the edge of the bed. Unable to contain his desire to enter her, Hollywood crawled to his knees. A breath caught in her chest as he slid his body closer to hers. Still restrained, she fought against the metal handcuffs that held her wrists and the silk ties that bound her ankles.

“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. They both knew that no matter what she said or did, there’d be playful punishment for her behavior. Tonight’s discipline was his cock breaching just her opening. Voodoo loved his long, deep thrusts. They made her gasp for life’s breath, but tonight she’d be tantalized by soft sensations against her labia.

“Dwight, do anything you want to me tonight. I don’t want this to end.” He withdrew from inside her and knelt on all fours over her spread frame. He stroked the one-side of long hair that contrasted the sheared opposite side and nape of her neck. He looked deep into her eyes with a sorrowful smile—and kissed her.

“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.” She knew Hollywood had worked hard to learn the language of love. Not the pick up lines to score with women—he wanted to truly communicate with her.

“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.” 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.

“Please just let that damn phone ring. This is supposed to be our night—the fate of the world can wait until morning.” Krystal reached out for Hollywood with one uncuffed hand. He’d already hurried across the post-Elvis Vegas-style suite. He mouthed, “It’s Rose.” Krystal flopped back against the pile of pillows, hands thrown up in surrender.

“Go ahead, I’m listening.” Hollywood’s face paled as he focused on Rose’s words. Voodoo slumped, waiting to be untied. 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. “Oh shit, we gotta go. Now.”

“You’re going to have lots of making up to do for this interruption.” Voodoo huffed as she climbed the emergency stairwell and humped it to the casino resort’s rooftop in high-heeled shoes. A moist wind off the Gulf whipped at her sheer dress causing her to clutch her skirt and the closest railing.

“I’m sorry, but this is huge and I feel like it’s my fault.” Hollywood checked and rechecked for ETA messages. Transport had been dispatched to retrieve them and shuttle both back to STR’s headquarters outside of Washington, DC.

“How’s it your fault? 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 ass 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 Hollywood’s mind banged back to the first of May 2011. These were the same type of delivery choppers used in Pakistan. 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 calm atop the Biloxi resort. This was simply escorting Voodoo for a ride, not hunting Osama bin Laden.

“Hollywood?” 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 Special Threat Response team’s HQ.

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

“Copy. I’m going to connect you into STR’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,” Rose’s voice rung into the headset.

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

He tried to smile, but the green glow from the night vision made everything look eerie. Kept flashing him back.

“Yeah, once again. This is a hell of a situation your roommate got us into, Krystal.” Rose’s accusation crackled clear through the headsets. Hollywood would have to pick up the pieces after this briefing call was over.

“Rose, we’re in the dark at this point. All we know is you said to haul ass 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.”

Hollywood’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 ass cheeks to tighten.

“You’re right. We’ll see you both before the sun breaks.” Billy Price cut into the conversation. As the Special Threats Response unit’s second in command, Billy, a former Army Delta Force commander, was better at operational details. Rose saw bigger pictures better, but Billy was a numbers man.

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

“Be good to see you all after what, four whole days?” Hollywood’s sarcasm reflected the stress of non-stop missions since discovering the Preacher’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 Hollywood and every other 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.”

Hollywood knew Billy well enough to know when to cut the bullshit. “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 decoding the Preacher’s hard drive that Lucky Cavanaugh seized,” Billy said. “The Preacher 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.” Billy sounded like an old-school tent revival evangelist.

“Does the hard drive mention anything about Rougarou?” Hollywood knew the policy on discussing individuals with a blue star designation, but he gave it a shot anyway. Shit, 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.

“Hollywood, you know better. No mention.” Rose injected a somber level of seriousness.

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

Billy said, “This crisis isn’t about the Preacher’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. 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.” Rose’s declaration dripped with disdain for dishonorable women. She’d never compromised her principles—not once, if the rumor mill had it right.

A microburst of weather rocked the chopper. “Whoa, what the hell was that?” Hollywood felt the shudder in his bones. He scrambled for a handhold for balance and activated the intra-cockpit comms button.

“Sorry, sir. Pushing her at max velocity. Wind hooked us up and almost went vertical.” The dread of almost losing his copter tightened the pilot’s voice.

“Good recovery, just slow it down a bit,” Hollywood suggested.

“Negative. No time to lollygag. I need you two back at HQ pronto.” Rose cut into the closed circuit patch. Hollywood smiled at her unrestrained access to even the most insignificant resources. He wondered if she’d been watching his and Voodoo’s antics before placing a strategic call to interrupt their sex.

“You heard the lady,” Voodoo snipped without trying to hide her displeasure.

“What we know so far is that your roomie is on that vessel loaded with bio-chemicals. She’s heading up the Mississippi with her Razgravian comrades.” Billy’s anxiety was apparent, though he had never shown that emotion before.

“Up the Mississippi River?” Hollywood shot in surprise.

“Yes, it was the only way to transport their product to its final destination,” Billy continued.

“Which is what and where?” Hollywood craned his neck through the tinted cabin windows. They weren’t anywhere near the river, but he knew that’d soon be his destination.

“Negative on both,” Rose said. “Do you think it’s possible to contact Dr. Celeste Rayburn at the CDC down in Savannah? If you haven’t burned that bridge too badly, I mean.” Hollywood sighed. Rose wouldn’t let it go. Needling him again about what she thought was a professional indiscretion although he’d never slept with the doctor. Despite Rose’s accusations. He decided to ignore her.

Billy spoke up. “I think it’s the same weapon of mass destruction concoction they tried to use in Norfolk when the president and first lady commissioned that Navy destroyer. They know their best chance for igniting widespread fear is a chemical or biological WMD. Why stop now?” Billy’s intercept seemed to neutralize the friction between Hollywood and Rose.

“Shit, then it’s probably close to that same lethal fentanyl mixture. We dealt with it in Russia. The Spetsnaz gassed the Chechen terrorists and the poor hostages in the Moscow theatre.” Hollywood’s voice drifted. His gut knotted at the memory of those bloated bodies. “Exposure did make hunting the perimeter terrorists much easier.”

“We’ll have more decoded diary by the time you arrive. Voodoo, we’ve already authorized participation with your Sheriff, and made notification to your Task Force commander. You’ll have federal jurisdiction once we get you credentialed at HQ,” Rose assured her.

“Thanks for the credentials. How’s Lawless feeling?”

Hollywood watched her body’s response. Tension stiffened her arms and shoulders. She probably had not considered her only real authorization for law enforcement powers was within her home jurisdiction of Plaquemines Parish, Louisiana. Either that, or she wasn’t over her former friend with benefits—Lawless Boudreaux.

“He’ll heal better than our country if we don’t stop this damn strike. You kids get some shuteye. See you in less than four hours.” Even Billy, the warrior, was also beginning to show the signs of stress-related fatigue. His once strong tone was not weak but lacking. They’d all have to dig deep.