Shadow Ops: Danger's Passion (Kindle Worlds Novella) (A Shadow Ops Novella Book 3) by LS Silverii
Authors: LS Silverii
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cop, Lawless, refused and hadn’t spoken to him since Justice proposed he pledge the club. His other five brothers, who’d served in the military and law enforcement, were either unemployable according to the same government they’d fought for, or hated the mainstream picket-fence life expected of returning war heroes. They pledged without hesitation. Justice soon realized that being war heroes didn’t mean they were all good citizens but for the most part they served him well.
His combat-hardened soldiers controlled the national chapter of the Savage Souls Outlaw Motorcycle Club with such tenacity, that the rest of the Savage nation soon surrendered. However, not everyone was pleased with the power shift.
The last time he agreed to help STR had almost cost him position as national president. This mission to save Voodoo might be the nail in his coffin—there were other factions in the Savage nation lurking to steal the power that came with the position. No matter, the Boudreaux family had a long history with the Laveau family, and no way in hell would the brothers abandon their childhood friend.
The old pilot reappeared with a wave and flash of five fingers, three times. Justice nodded. They were fifteen minutes out.
“Boys, I don’t want no bullshit between us and these feds. The fuckers just got dicked over by their government. They’re out here on their own to save one of ours. Understood?” Justice knew his blood brothers would understand—they all knew Voodoo from the days back in Turtle Bayou. It was the other five, like Rat, that bothered him.
“Makes no shit to me. They still cops,” Rat’s words confirmed Justice’s suspicion.
“You fuck up this mission to rescue our friend, and I’ll kill you before I take out the first Devil’s Own.” Justice stood, towering over his hog.
He leaned toward Rat’s old Triumph and snatched the pitted ape-hanger handlebar with one hand. The cruiser shook against Justice’s pull forward and Rat’s push back. Effortlessly, the leader’s strength dominated. Finally, Rat relinquished and allowed his bike to roll closer.
“Do you hear me?” Justice barked.
“Sir, yes, sir,” Rat said, a smirk of sarcasm smeared across his tattooed face.
“Anyone else got a problem with this mission?” he asked. The other nine bikers shook their heads. Rat averted his glare.
CHAPTER 11
At the peal of a bell, Hollywood sprinted down two flights of stairs at the rear of the eight-story building where STR was holed up. The old pre-World War II brownstone had seen better days but Hoboken was filled with similar structures. Situated close to an area still showing the devastation of 2012’s Hurricane Sandy, the nearby docks were rife with homelessness and riff raff.
He’d not heard the thunderous stampede of muscle-motorcycles, so he assumed his other requested resource had arrived.
His heart raced as he leaned into the peephole. Dusk had triggered a dim automatic exterior light over the entrance. He recognized the body, but couldn’t see the face. His palm pressed against the top of his holstered weapon as he sucked in a deep breath and opened the door.
“Lawless, thanks for coming,” Hollywood said with his hand extended.
“How can I turn down a Black Hawk sitting in my front yard? What’s the latest on Voodoo?” the man asked without making eye contact. His head was on a swivel, instinctively scanning the unfamiliar neighborhood.
“Sounds like another Black Hawk behind you,” Hollywood said without thinking. His lips pinched. The shaggy beard hid his grimace. Hollywood knew what was coming, and he braced for the storm.
“This better not be what I think it is, motherfucker. You should’ve never gotten me involved.”
Lawless reached with an overly long arm and grabbed a fistful of plaid flannel. He pushed the former SEAL into the unpainted metal doorframe and tried to walk away but Hollywood snatched at his wrist and pulled him back.
“Whatever bullshit
His combat-hardened soldiers controlled the national chapter of the Savage Souls Outlaw Motorcycle Club with such tenacity, that the rest of the Savage nation soon surrendered. However, not everyone was pleased with the power shift.
The last time he agreed to help STR had almost cost him position as national president. This mission to save Voodoo might be the nail in his coffin—there were other factions in the Savage nation lurking to steal the power that came with the position. No matter, the Boudreaux family had a long history with the Laveau family, and no way in hell would the brothers abandon their childhood friend.
The old pilot reappeared with a wave and flash of five fingers, three times. Justice nodded. They were fifteen minutes out.
“Boys, I don’t want no bullshit between us and these feds. The fuckers just got dicked over by their government. They’re out here on their own to save one of ours. Understood?” Justice knew his blood brothers would understand—they all knew Voodoo from the days back in Turtle Bayou. It was the other five, like Rat, that bothered him.
“Makes no shit to me. They still cops,” Rat’s words confirmed Justice’s suspicion.
“You fuck up this mission to rescue our friend, and I’ll kill you before I take out the first Devil’s Own.” Justice stood, towering over his hog.
He leaned toward Rat’s old Triumph and snatched the pitted ape-hanger handlebar with one hand. The cruiser shook against Justice’s pull forward and Rat’s push back. Effortlessly, the leader’s strength dominated. Finally, Rat relinquished and allowed his bike to roll closer.
“Do you hear me?” Justice barked.
“Sir, yes, sir,” Rat said, a smirk of sarcasm smeared across his tattooed face.
“Anyone else got a problem with this mission?” he asked. The other nine bikers shook their heads. Rat averted his glare.
CHAPTER 11
At the peal of a bell, Hollywood sprinted down two flights of stairs at the rear of the eight-story building where STR was holed up. The old pre-World War II brownstone had seen better days but Hoboken was filled with similar structures. Situated close to an area still showing the devastation of 2012’s Hurricane Sandy, the nearby docks were rife with homelessness and riff raff.
He’d not heard the thunderous stampede of muscle-motorcycles, so he assumed his other requested resource had arrived.
His heart raced as he leaned into the peephole. Dusk had triggered a dim automatic exterior light over the entrance. He recognized the body, but couldn’t see the face. His palm pressed against the top of his holstered weapon as he sucked in a deep breath and opened the door.
“Lawless, thanks for coming,” Hollywood said with his hand extended.
“How can I turn down a Black Hawk sitting in my front yard? What’s the latest on Voodoo?” the man asked without making eye contact. His head was on a swivel, instinctively scanning the unfamiliar neighborhood.
“Sounds like another Black Hawk behind you,” Hollywood said without thinking. His lips pinched. The shaggy beard hid his grimace. Hollywood knew what was coming, and he braced for the storm.
“This better not be what I think it is, motherfucker. You should’ve never gotten me involved.”
Lawless reached with an overly long arm and grabbed a fistful of plaid flannel. He pushed the former SEAL into the unpainted metal doorframe and tried to walk away but Hollywood snatched at his wrist and pulled him back.
“Whatever bullshit
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