Shadow Ops: Danger's Desire (Kindle Worlds Novella) (A Shadow Ops Novella Book 1) (3 page)

“Last chance, pretty boy. You walk her or I will.” Bonny’s innocent wheat field, girl-next-door look forfeited to a snarled command.

“Baby, please walk me.” Voodoo moved back against him. She moaned in pleasure, though pain satisfied her desires.

“Here girl,” Bonny called.

He felt her heat around the head of his cock until she moved away and broke their connection.

Voodoo immediately stooped onto all fours. Bonny bent forward and brushed her thumb and fingers together at knee height. She made a quiet kissy noise. Free from Hollywood’s grip, Voodoo silently slinked across the room. She was the sexiest feline in the entire animal kingdom.

“This shit’s weird.” An inferno baked his testicles—it was crazy intense. Hollywood fell back against the kitchen island. His mouth open, he tried to suck extra air through his nose to slow his pulse. He jumped when his bare butt touched the cold stainless steel dishwasher. Both girls looked back at him. His sheepish smirk shone through the lightless space.

“Heel,” Bonny commanded. Voodoo sat—face focused on her trainer’s next words. Hollywood tried to divert his thoughts away from the rush of cum marshaled to explode across the kitchen floor. He was hooked. Only wanting a fast fuck and escape before another long day of field ops, Hollywood fantasized about Voodoo’s submission and ownership role.

He began to understand that Voodoo was actually more in control of their situation than he was. It strangled his desire to hammer her with a quickie, but instead slowed him into wanting more. His heart pounded as he watched her—he’d never wanted anyone so bad. Bonny had suddenly lost her appeal.

“Good girl.” Bonny encouraged her. She slowly fingered Voodoo’s jet-black tresses with an open hand. The way Bonny’s hand raked across the back of her pet’s sheared nape sent Hollywood into shivers. Although he fancied himself a ladies’ man, he admitted this was out of his league. His throbbing dick on the other hand signaled he wanted back off the bench and into the game.

“Would you like another chance pretty boy?”

“Yes, please.” He’d never had to beg.

“Please what?”

“Please may I have her?”

Voodoo’s small waist that flared into perfectly rounded hips and a tight round ass resembled a guitar from behind. She patiently waited on her knees for Bonny to negotiate terms with him.

“Have her?”

“Train her,” Hollywood clarified.

“You may.” Her grin showed sinister delight.

“Thank you.” Hollywood wouldn’t avert his glare—neither would Bonny.

“I know what you’re thinking, hero, but Voodoo has a fetish for transference of power. It’s my pet’s way to relieve the stress of always being the Alpha female cop. What type of roomie would I be if I wasn’t willing to accommodate her bad little ass?” Bonny beamed, but her high attitude had fallen flat. “Everyone’s broken, hero. Even you.”

Mouth as dry as desert sand, he couldn’t swallow enough to continue speech. The arterial beat through his neck set a rhythm. Carnal adrenaline consumed him. His hand trembled when he reached for the leash’s loop. He guided Voodoo toward him. Her smoldering eyes glanced up and she flashed a playful leer.

Bossy bitch wouldn’t pass up the chance to manipulate her roommate.

“Come.” Hollywood forced his weakening legs to carry him toward the bedroom. Voodoo paced in front of him—her round behind rocked with each slide of hand and knee.

Sexual electricity surged below his skin. He’d played the collar and control game long enough, and it was now time to put that behind them. He wanted a partner, not a pet.

“Heel.” Hollywood played out the role for Voodoo’s benefit. He jerked the leash and sat her up onto both knees. Eyes scanned—his mind raced as if this still wasn’t real. He took a last glower at Bonny standing in the kitchen before he fully focused on Voodoo.

“Let’s cut the charades, if I don’t consume you soon, I’m gonna crash.” He fumbled to unclip the leash.

“No charades, hero.”

“Stop with the hero crap too. I ain’t that.”

“But Fats said you killed someone. Must’ve been a high-value target.”

“I was Naval Intelligence—desk geek. No hero.”

“If you say so, pretty boy.” Her tongue dabbed her bottom lip.

“Yeah, I say so. I also say get on that bed before I hero your fucking hot ass.”

“Like you attacked me yesterday at SWAT training? I’m really scared of you.” She laughed as they wrestled across the mattress.

“Who knew you’re such a fucking sex mutant? I thought you were maybe some kick ass dyke. But damn, you and Bonny freak me out with that S&M stuff. Let’s save this collar for something else.” He removed the leather neckpiece and returned it to her like she’d originally presented it to him. He bent to kiss her—she pushed his head to the side.

“I take it seriously, Dwight, even if you can’t understand the value of transferring the roles of power. It’s an important part of life. One day you may have to depend on someone other than yourself, hero.”

“What are y’all a cult or something?” He simulated making the sign of a cross.

“Yeah, that’s it. A cult or something. Why you think they call me Voodoo? Now I cast a spell on your horny ass.” Her hands waved before his face. His smile turned into a wooden expression.

“You’re right. I shouldn’t mock what I don’t know shit about. Besides, I was that close to banging the both of you had I played along.”

“No you weren’t, pretty boy, but dream on. You’re about to lose out on me if you don’t stop yapping and start sexing.” She pretended to bite at him as she rumbled toward his groin.

The touch of her moist mouth clenched around his cock almost caused him to faint. The contrast of sensations between soft wet and rock hard bent his torso over her shoulders. Strong thighs became weak as he pulled her head into him.

Her cheeks hollowed gouged when the head of his dick heaved from her mouth. She pulled him back. Lips tensed behind the ridge of his cock’s head. She sucked until he caved. Both hands full of hair—he cupped the rear of her skull to shove his organ back into her throat.

She grunted. He tried to slow her ferocious motion—Voodoo was a man-eater. His mind raced with images of fantasies yet unrealized. Sweat seeped from his pores, ran into his eyes, his mouth gaped for air. Her fingernails clenched his ass cheeks. He winced as air hit the opened skin. Hollywood thrust his pelvis forward while she swallowed him down.

He let one hand loose to swipe water from his face. Sweat usually reserved for long, hard running now painted his physique. He inhaled the aroma of decadent exhilaration mingled with her herbal shampoo. His spine arched as his muscles tensed for an all-out orgasmic assault.

“Krystal, oh momma yes. Suck my cock. Make me come.” Incoherent speech began to slur. Hands reached for support—anything to cling to, “Come on, baby.”

“Hollywood,” Bonny yelled from the kitchen. “Hollywood.” She now stood in the open bedroom doorway. “Hollywood.” She rooted right up next to him.

“Shit woman, I’m busy.” His upper body convulsed, his eyelids beat faster as the flush of blood began to pool south. “You want in?”

“No, Casanova. Your cell phone’s going crazy. Five missed calls from RP.”

His erection vanished. Rose only called when things got critical. Usually he snapped to returning her call, but he’d imagined reuniting with Voodoo since their first meeting. And now—
now
—freaking duty called. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, scanning the room, seeing nothing. Duty always came first.

“I’m so sorry, I gotta take this call,” he apologized as he tumbled through the dark scooping up clothes and his weapon.

“Your wife?” Voodoo’s terse allegation stopped him while one leg hung suspended above the pant leg.

“No, my job,” he said.

“You running out on me again?” she teased in a pouting voice that tugged at his obligation to STR.

“No, baby, but seriously, I gotta go.” He cupped her soft face in his hands and kissed her. His somber expression illustrated his concern for Rose’s call and the potential of losing Voodoo again. Hollywood hopped while he shoved his foot into a boot and bolted for the door.

*     *     *

“This was one crazy fucking night girl.” Voodoo collapsed onto the bed. She looked up at Bonny and exhaled. “Wouldn’t doubt if he transferred out by morning.” Voodoo laughed, but with a serious glint in her eye.

“You’re not serious, Krystal? He was a total slime ball—wham bam thank you ma’am.” She slapped her palms together like whooping some ass.

“I know tonight got weird, but you should’ve seen him at SWAT training. Something about him that’s broken—he’s searching for answers.”

“He ain’t no stray. You can’t fix him. His remedy’s usually found in a bottle or a bullet,” Bonny admonished.

“He’s got a soul, Bonny. I sensed it.” A sad smile loomed until a light rap against the condo’s front door alarmed her.

“Back so soon?” Voodoo tried to cover her breasts.

“Forgot my car keys.” His sheepish admission caused Voodoo to fake fan her face.

“Here, hero. See you at the undercover briefing in about three hours. Be on your game, pretty boy. I’m counting on your best to watch my back.” She traced the clef dimple in his rock-hard chin—then blew him a kiss.

“Rose, sorry I missed your calls, what’s going down?”

“Is that a police K9?”

“Neighbor’s dog.”

“Good you found a place to bunk.”

“Actually…”

“Never mind. Same old Hollywood.”

“Well, it is the Big Easy after all.” Hollywood slid a pair of satin panties off his driver’s seat and tossed them across the console. “Wonder whose panties these are?”

“Dwight, you’re on hands free and I can hear you. I allowed temporary duty because you claimed you needed to sharpen your field skills. If I knew it was to pick up tail during carnival, I’d have kept you up here to help STR get back on its feet.” Unmistakably pulling no punches, his boss, Rose Prospero wasn’t impressed.

“I’m sorry, Rose, back to business.” The soft glow from his in-dash GPS reflected off an unshaven complexion. He fat-fingered in his hotel’s coordinates and zipped his way through barren pothole infested streets.

“You set to blanket an undercover operation later in the day?” she asked.

She knew the answer already. Rose had years of field experience, unlike many of the supervisors in the federal system. Her leadership skills had been learned during her time with the CIA and sharpened through the never-ending skirmishes between terrorists and politicians—some were one and the same.

“Yes ma’am. Briefing in about three hours at the Task Force warehouse.” Narrowed eyes scanned each intersection before he blew through the red lights. Full stops made ripe targets for ambush. Vicious memories of Afghanistan’s Kunar Province blasted in his mind as Rose’s monotone diatribe continued.

“You listening?” she snapped.

“Yes, ma’am. Old ghosts in the attic. You know the symptoms.” Hollywood’s fingers strangled the fine leather steering wheel. His other hand hovered over the pistol tucked below his hamstring. He’d lost enough in one ambush. Now he lived to suffer because he’d survived. “Why me?” He chomped on the insides of his cheeks.

“Survivors guilt, Hollywood. You’ve got a purpose—focus on finding it.” Rose’s tone switched from chastiser to counselor. She’d been there and knew where the cracks were. Healing them wasn’t her job—protecting America was.

“Why you up at four in the freaking morning, Rose?” His haggard reflection bounced back through the rearview mirror.

“Gotta move when the data deciphers. Intel Division’s still muddling through the Preacher’s hard drive. Seems something’s brewing down your way other than coffee and beignets.” Her attempt at imitating the thick slur of Cajun dialect fell flat.

The sound of the Preacher’s name chilled his soul. This homegrown uber-extremist and his network of disciples had nearly pulled off the most significant terror plot against the American way of life. Though he’d been killed months earlier by Special Threats Response Team’s very own boss, Rose Prospero, the Preacher’s diabolical schemes continued to be launched by his blood family and his network’s hierarchy.

The specialized STR was authorized by the United States Government to operate beyond the blackest of black ops’ environments. Deciphering the Preacher’s confiscated hard drive had allowed STR to anticipate the many still active attempts against America. According to Rose, Hollywood just so happened to be in the right place at the wrong time—something often said about the Big Easy.

“Did you say coffee and beignets?” His voice perked up.

“Yes, I guess I did.”

“Great idea, I’ll hit Café Du Monde until briefing time. Not like I got a place to stay.”

“You could pawn that hundred thousand dollar car and buy a place.”

“A hundred and fifteen.” He punched in the new directions and navigated toward Decatur Street.

“Anyway, seems bayou country’s scheduled for more than Mardi Gras this March. The Preacher’s disciples are still hell-bent on carrying his torch for world domination through its destruction.” Hollywood heard the rapid rattle of typing in her background. Rose was not alone.

“Tell Billy I said hello.” Hollywood laughed. His voice up-ticked.

“Tell him yourself in surround sound.” Rose’s throaty laugh said she was most happy next to Billy Price, STR’s resident Delta Force and Capitol Hill lion tamer.

“Hollywood, seems the FBI picked up chatter across the wire about your local chapter of animals recruiting sniper/spotter teams.” Billy’s voice from across the room wasn’t as clear, but his message was crystal.

“Who’s their target, Billy?” He stabbed at the dashboard controls. “Hold on, I’m on Chartres and I’m pretty sure I’m heading down a wrong way. Ever drive the French Quarter?”

“Watch them alligators, pretty boy.” Billy teased, “They make great boots.”

“Sorry ’bout that,” Hollywood said as he got himself back on track. “If they’re advertising for outside contract work then they must have multiple targets. Amateurs gonna make it a hatchet job. No self-respecting shooter would answer a casting call—it’s uncivilized.” He stamped the center console.

“Place not open yet?” Rose asked.

“How’d you know?”

“You’d be crazy to slap a hundred grand car unless your caffeine fix had gone dry. Look again, their website shows it’s open twenty-four hours a day.” Rose was spot-on as usual.

“Hollywood, anyone mention Carvaka yet?” Billy had moved closer to the microphone as his usual soft-spoken voice became dominant.

“Indian or Hindu, but never heard of it. Is that our main baddie?”

“Half right as usual.” Billy chuckled. “It’s a secret society based on the ideology of hedonism. You know, where they believe no afterlife exists, so you should do any damn thing you please. Even murder.”

The morning was quiet, as Hollywood walked casually along Decatur Street. He settled into an empty table at Café DuMonde across from iconic Jackson Square and St. Louis Cathedral. He lifted a free finger and smiled at the waiter. “Yes, one coffee black and six beignets please.”

“You know I’m going to kick your ass for teasing us with beignets,” Billy joked.

“I’m following, but how does that jive with a Mardi Gras assassination and the Preacher’s plan for destruction? No pleasure in that.” He slid the phone between his jawline and shoulder. “Guys, I’m operating on eleven hundred miles driven, one thousand rounds of ammo fired, three glasses of scotch chugged and two sexy-ass bayou babes. I’m trying to focus, but you gotta tie it together for me.” His score sheet was more brash accomplishment than complaint.

“Back to the same old Hollywood. Your screwed up encounter with Dr. Celeste Rayburn at the Georgia CDC didn’t teach you a thing about taking your job seriously. You almost cost us a mass contamination disaster because you were more concerned scoring with the doctor than with the facts.” Rose spat, her tone laced with condemnation and judgment. Hollywood knew she didn’t approve, but was never one to outright criticize others. Emotions raw, he allowed her words to spew past a simmer.

“No Rose, I’m not going to make the same mistake, but it’s been a long two days and your details lack clarity. Just tell me what you expect, and then I’ll go plant a bullet through the old Hollywood’s thick skull. Will that make you feel superior? Matter of fact, call me Dwight—Hollywood is dead to you.” Thick white powdered sugar spewed across his expensive shirt as his hand flailed.

His mind skipped back to how his mother had doted over him as a child. The family’s fortune required a certain appearance—it wouldn’t include powdered sugar. Old habits were hard to break—part of why he’d absconded for the military.

“Now hold on a second Hollyw…Dwight. That’s no way to speak to Rose—she’s only doing her job. Making damn sure you’re focused on saving lives is more important than looking for a place to stick your dick for the day.” Billy covered the microphone in defense of his precious Rose Prospero.

“I’d order you to get some sleep and call me after you’ve had a chance to balance your emotions, but unfortunately we don’t have time for naps in the shadow ops world.” Rose condemned his state of fatigue, while she’d probably pulled another consecutive week of all-nighters. The woman was a robot.

“Yeah, thanks. Another coffee—black please.” Hollywood’s voice trailed as he turned his attention to the waiter. “Sorry Rose, I’m honestly working to get my edge back. Not my fault some fucking glory hound 6’er decided to punk us out for a paycheck.” He slapped a hand across his bent knee—the snub nose revolver strapped around his left ankle quivered at the vibration.

“I understand, Dwight. Think you know a guy, but…” Billy tried to console.

“…people can be assholes.” Rose completed his sentence for him. They’d done that for years, but the seamless supervisory team seemed singular minded of late. Hollywood presumed the intensity of chasing down the Preacher’s endless empire and assets had forged an inseparable bond between them.

“I do understand, and I’m sorry one selfish bastard stained the historic work your team sacrificed so much for.” Rose knew where the cracks were.

“This afternoon a Task Force member by the name of Krystal Laveau is scheduled to meet two locals called T-Boy and Tater about the sniper’s job. Audition of sorts.” Billy said.

“Voodoo?” Hollywood whispered. His heart ripped at its chains—no way would he allow her to get mixed up in this cesspool.

“Who’s that? Another target?” Billy pressed.

“No, Krystal Laveau—they call her Voodoo.” He reached for the coffee cup, surprised to find it empty. His shoulders stiffened. “She can’t get involved with these people—it’s too dangerous.” He bit his lip at the overexposed advocacy he felt for Laveau.

“You know her?” Rose’s directed question seethed—as though she knew he was guilty.

“We can’t allow local cops to get involved at this level. We’ve been trained to combat these vile fuckers. These good folks just want to go home at the end of the day. I’m pulling the red card on this until you contrive another way to undermine their plan.” He paced to release tension that stiffened his back and hips.

“That’s not an option given the immediate threat.” Rose said.

“Everything’s an option. Don’t play me.” Hollywood’s posture reeled up from anger as cords twanged in his neck. The waiter stopped in his approach and backed away with open palms.

“They swore to an oath, just like we did. Nothing makes us better than them. She’s got to be the one,” Rose rationalized.

Hollywood’s gut wrenched. He dropped the paper basket with two beignets into the garbage can—he knew what was coming.

“Tell me why can’t you deploy a local team attached to STR? There are DEA and ATF field offices here.” He scraped scarred knuckles across his teeth as her green eyes and milk chocolate skin ran through his memory.

“Thanks to the still uncovered leak in the system, the Preacher’s disciples have every federal agents profile at their fingertips. The DOJ and Treasury Department have suspended U/C ops until the training of new secret operatives can be completed,” Rose explained.

“So what’s that got to do with Voodoo?” He rubbed sandbagged eyelids. The earliest of sun’s light had begun to take its eternal toll. He sucked in soupy gulps of humidity-burdened air to clear his head.

“She’s bait. A fresh fish.” Billy spoke quickly.

“At least mobilize STR and get down here to help me cover this.” He tugged at his clothes, which now seemed to bind him, and picked at the deep-fried crumbs, finally throwing his hands up in surrender.

“Sorry, no-can-do. In the big scheme of things, this crew of local cops is…” Billy walked Hollywood to the ethical cliff.

“…expendable.” Rose pushed him over it.

“She’s correct—expendable.”