The Darkest Hour Read online

  The Darkest Hour (Book 1)

  A F.O.R.C.E. Adventure

  Louis Sccott

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 Louis Scott Silverii, Ph.D.

  SilverHart Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  SilverHart Publishing

  Dedication

  This first book in the F.O.R.C.E. trilogy is dedicated to my dear friend and bestselling author, CJ Lyons, who generously shares and supports others who also possess a passion for writing.

  CJ made this trilogy opportunity possible with a thoughtful invitation to join her Shadow Ops world. Her offer to come along was purely a selfless gift, and I’m once again thankful for our friendship.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMTS

  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, Lynn Chandler Willis, and Christie Pepper.

  Chapter One

  “Flash bang deployed.”

  “Moving.” Called out a Special Agent

  “Clear.” Affirmed Pike.

  “Negative, not clear. One target.”

  “Shots fired.” Yelled the SWAT team leader.

  “Stop, y’all freeze.” Ordered the commander, Kymani.

  The flash of hot white overhead lights and the shrill blare of a whistle signaled the end of another police training mission—and the commander’s patience. Nine mismatched bodies slumped in a camouflaged collection of sweat-soaked BDU uniforms, and agency identifier patches. Submachine guns hung around their necks from nylon harnesses as SWAT officers, known as operators, lumbered beneath the weight of full tactical gear.

  The undercover team of skilled officers guzzled water from rubber bladder bags attached to the back of their ballistic vests while moving around the specially constructed training facility. It had been built deep along the bayous of south Louisiana as a means to conceal the high-speed training the officers were receiving from the best instructors on the planet.

  The cement block building led into a section known as a shoot house. It was constructed out of railroad ties and packed with sand to allow officers the opportunity to shoot live-fire ammunition while running through training scenarios. The risky maneuvers required the training to simulate action as real to danger as possible.

  The unbearable environment of the swamps added an element of stress to the operations, and helped improve their physical readiness. Each officer was required to maintain top fitness as a condition of Task Force membership, but a little extra exercise never hurt.

  “What’s wrong with y’all today? Gonna get somebody killed.” Kymani’s cheeks hollowed as he barked.

  A line of moisture rivered its way along gaunt temples until it had a decision to make—snake into his tiny pinned-back ear or chance crossing chapped, maroon lips. Long fingers slapped the wetness until a dart of his narrow tongue licked it away.

  “It’s the new guy. Stupid rookie moves with two left feet.”

  A tactical operator called Voodoo jabbed a gloved finger toward the newest member of the team, Pike. The Kevlar helmet and fire-resistant hood muted the angry words.

  “Who you calling a rookie?” Over six feet of off-the-shelf tactical gear, Pike pitched toward Voodoo. Two other SWAT team members stood between them.

  Pike was on special assignment to the Task Force, but worked full time for a top-secret federal agency based out of Washington D.C. This detail was scheduled to be temporary, but he’d had about enough of working with the blend of other cops.

  “You look like a magazine model—ain’t much broke a sweat even. Who you with, some news channel?” Voodoo reared up to hunch the heavy ballistic tactical vest back in position.

  “Cool your beans, bandy rooster. You don’t know who you’re messing with.” Pike brushed the other officers hands off. “I don’t have time to mess with this boy. When you're tall enough to be on this ride let me know.” He chuckled nervously, scanning the others for an ally.

  “All right, that’s enough. This stuff is serious. Mardi Gras is right around the corner, and unless you get your heads on straight, you’ll spend the season in a high-rise window begging for beads.” The commander sounded U.S. military, but Kymani looked like an Ethiopian warlord with muscles to spare.

  “Ain’t carnival season a state holiday?” An older, gravel-voiced operator asked, as he struggled under the weight of his weapons and equipment.

  “Only in Louisiana, but it ain’t a federal holiday. So if I gotta work, you local yokels gonna be there with us overworked feds,” said Agent Chu, a capable looking guy with a slight Asian accent.

  Chu’s left shoulder patch read Homeland Security. The fleur de lis symbol adorned each team members’ right shoulder patch, with South Louisiana Violent Crimes Task Force embroidered over it.

  The Task Force was a combination of local, state and federal law enforcement agencies tied together through a mutual aid agreement for targeting the most serious threats in the region. They were each the best their agencies had to offer, but it didn’t mean they worked together without ego and attitudes.

  “How ‘bout you pretty boy, gonna enjoy some Mardi Gras mambo?” Voodoo targeted Pike again.

  “Why don’t you mind your own business? You the best your sheriff has to offer?” Pike’s tone stung of fed up. “We finished with this training session? I got crap to do.” His question challenged Kymani.

  Kymani ‘s tired eyes encircled with red, sent out a yellowish gleam beneath the faded jungle-pattern boonie hat. The commander’s pitted nostrils flared, steaming quick snorts of air. The other eight operators averted their gaze and busied themselves adjusting snaps and Velcro straps on their gear kits. Pike stood his ground, but his turned-up palms signaled submission.

  “Sorry, sir, but I’m not here to quibble over tactics and holidays. I was assigned to work with this Task Force, but if training is done for the day, I’ve got to find a place to bunk.”

  Pike fumbled with thick-gloved fingers to strap his helmet so it hung from a pouch lid on his tactical vest, then dabbed at the thick sweat across his forehead and yanked the Nomex hood off his head.

  “Damn, you sure is pretty.” Voodoo whistled.

  “Enough of your crap, punk.”

  Pike evaded Kymani’s grip as he moved toward Voodoo, sliding past the older team member who was still reattaching his NOPD Velcro patch. Although much shorter, Voodoo swiped Pike’s fists away while sidestepping his advance. Pike slipped on the slick gravel parking lot. To his chagrin the others’ chuckles turned to taunts.

  “Come on punk, you wanna hit a girl? Let’s go.”

  Helmet and goggles skidded over the ground as Voodoo ripped the thick hood from her head. A trained fighting stance dropped her center of gravity even lower than her five-foot-six inch frame.

  Unlike his, her tactical boots were tattered and well worn. The rubber-soles balanced her stance, left foot forward matched by a clenched left fist to protect her chin. Limber, Voodoo’s body wafted like a lethal butterfly.

  “Y-You’re her,” Pike stammered when he got a good look. His shoulders slumped. He fought to hide an embarrassed smile as his veins coursed with eager adrenaline.

  “No joke, Sherlock. We sure lucky you on our side. I feel safe and fuzzy with you here.” Voodoo ignited a chorus of laughter.

  Her tongue
pushed slightly forward to capture full breathes as her chest heaved from the adrenaline. Her shoulders rolled back and forth as if the tactical uniform had tried to attack her. Light brown hair was matted to her forehead and right cheek. Voodoo exhaled, but her body remained taut, right foot to the rear just in case he tried to advance.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Pike forgot the others surrounding them. He moved in, she stepped back.

  “What? That you suck at police SWAT tactics?” Voodoo’s voice wasn’t as boisterous, but still condescending.

  Pike froze as he gazed into her electric green eyes. They’d met a few years ago during a regional SWAT operation targeting human traffickers. Voodoo had worked as the undercover agent that led to rescuing forty-three women. The debriefing and drinks that followed brought the two together. One kiss after hours of talking. He’d never forgotten that kiss.

  “Yeah, I remember you,” Voodoo snarked. “That’s why I’m busting your butt, cover model. You hauled tail after that night.” Her lips vibrated in a motorboat sound. “Yet here you are again.”

  Voodoo’s fearless attitude impressed him, but her smile, even warped behind an adversarial green-eyed snarl was welcoming.

  “Pike, I see you making friends like always.” New Orleans Police Detective Alphonse “Fats” Hebert crunched across the police training complex’s firing range, the cement floor tracked up with gravel and mud. “Krystal Laveau, affectionately called Voodoo, got a knack for getting under your skin.”

  The polyester of Fats’ discounted-clothier suit swished as he walked, while his portly torso jiggled from the fat of too much French Quarter food and late-night surveillance.

  “We’ve actually met before.” Pike told Fats.

  Pike, whose name was, Dwight D. Harriman, was given the nickname during his time in Navy intelligence, but only his closets friends called him that. His gaze met the others’ rolling eyes, except for Voodoo.

  She laughed out loud, “Pike? Well, that explains it.” Her electric green eyes raked the blue-eyed, younger version of Brad Pitt. “I never even knew your name that night. Just some hot guy,” her words launched Fats into a bout of exaggerated laughter.

  Pike shuffled to close the gap with Fats, and separate himself from Laveau. They hugged, but he couldn’t feign his displeasure at having his nickname exposed.

  “Kymani, my man, how are ya?” Fats embraced the SWAT commander.

  “Well, Pike, I’m glad you know someone very important down on the bayou,” Kymani snickered, “All good my brother, Fats?” The commander’s ageless face, a shiny blue-black in the lights, beamed. His accent slipped into a Caribbean dialect.

  “Pike, don’t let Lil’ Bit get under your skin,” Fat’s teased. “Voodoo is good to stir the pot, but she won’t lick the spoon.”

  He wagged a thick forefinger her way. His diamond pinky ring bounced sunlight across Pike’s face.

  “I’ll lick it when pretty baby gets his tactics together. I still think he’s a SWAT magazine model—never a real deal blue liner.” Voodoo flipped her fingers to dismiss both men, while her right hand never moved from the trigger guard of her Colt 9mm compact submachine gun.

  “You little creep. This man’s a freaking hero. You should show respect.” Fats said. A flush flashed bright red across the veteran NOPD detective’s shaved head.

  “Hero? Go fool yourself, fatso.”

  Voodoo reared her fist to blindside the NOPD detective. Pike leg-swept her as he gripped the drag/rescue strap hemmed to the rear of her bulletproof SWAT vest. With one quick, downward jerk, her feet were flung from beneath her. The sub-machine gun reverberated as its barrel smashed against the floor.

  “If you’re going to punch a fellow officer, do it with honor. Not while his back’s turned.” Pike stood over her as she bounced off the ground.

  “Stupid little girl.” Fats turned, glowering.

  “Screw off, this ain’t the big sleazy.” Voodoo’s caramel complexion drained pale as she swung around to regain her footing. Her battle-beaten boots scrambled, but the heavy tactical gear tangled her legs.

  “Respect I said. This man killed freaking bin…” Fats’ brown eyes bugged out like football-shaped orbs as they darted toward Pike. His mouth formed an odd circle, and then clamped shut without another word.

  “Killed who?” Voodoo asked. She struggled on the loose gravel that coated the concrete.

  “No one. Fats just popping off at the trap again. Sorry for taking you down like that,” Pike turned toward her.

  He regretted the aggressive maneuver he’d used to stop her attack on his old friend, Fats. He tried to rationalize it, but logic didn’t lessen his embarrassment or quell the powerful draw he felt toward this cocky female SWAT cop. He’d been warned south Louisiana women were unique, as was the Cajun culture. He was getting a taste of it all in day one.

  She looked helpless on the deck with fifty plus pounds of Velcro-wrapped specialized police equipment, ballistics and ammunition entwined around both knees. He smirked, though he admired her fierce determination, despite having been knocked off her feet. Pike’s stomach fluttered. He was hardly able to break his gaze—he was taken with her.

  Voodoo finally smiled when Pike extended his hand. Even through their gloved hands, he felt a jolt. The sensation deep in his gut caused his own grin to explode—as it had the first time they met.

  “Hero, huh?” She nibbled on her bottom lip.

  Her green eyes cut back to him while she retrieved her helmet and goggles. Pike found it nearly impossible to break eye contact, but he quickly glimpsed at all of her as she bent to retrieve the Kevlar helmet.

  “Watch her, Pike. She’s full of southern hospitality with a thirst for violence,” Fats teased.

  “Just because you can’t handle us bayou girls, don’t mean we bad. Ain’t no women like us Creole ladies anywhere in the world. Fats, you should know better.” Voodoo warned him, but her smoldering eyes never left Pike.

  Pike could only shake his head in agreement.

  Chapter Two

  New Orleans was always abuzz, but the excitement of the Mardi Gras season was palatable. Despite the festive carnival atmosphere, danger lurked in the shadows. The Big Easy wasn’t always kind or safe for tourists. Especially intoxicated tourists.

  Pike punched in the map coordinates to the Old Absinthe House, but still found navigating the French Quarter more harrowing than escorting military convoys along the Baghdad Airport Road.

  He debated parking the Porsche Cayenne SUV curbside, and making his way on foot. He decided against leaving his chick-magnet vehicle exposed on the slime-covered streets. Pike checked, and rechecked his hair and smile in the rearview mirror as he meandered along Bourbon Street toward Bienville until he found garage parking.

  “Mister, this is a Cayenne.” The young lot attendant gasped as he sidestepped to open Pike’s door.

  “Yep, and I’m trusting you to take care of her.” He made an obvious show of examining the young man's nametag.

  “You know this Porsche runs a hundred K?” The attendant locked focus on the interior.

  “It actually cost closer to one fifteen. Can I trust you?” He handed him the fob.

  “You know it.”

  “What’s the mileage, James?” Pike already knew the answer.

  “Two thousand eight hundred and thirty seven miles. Why?” A nervous hand adjusted the seat and rearview mirror. A screech of tires echoed in the background.

  “I figure you’re going to test it by driving to the top of this five floor garage. Then you’re going to zip around the corners all the way back down. Then you’re going to park it right over there beneath that lighted surveillance camera. Up and down is no more than one mile. Two thousand eight hundred and thirty eight miles—nothing more.” Pike drew back his hounds-tooth sports coat for his wallet and tipped the boy twenty dollars.

  The boy’s eyes zeroed in on the brown leather paddle holster that held the Sig Sauer P228 pistol close to Pike’s waist.


  “That the M11?” The boy swallowed several times.

  “You military, James?”

  Pike smiled—M11 was the military classification of the civilian’s P228 designation.

  “Sir, yes sir. Delayed entry. College ROTC and history major, sir.” The young man sat upright in the driver’s seat. A wary smile snuck out.

  “Okay, maybe two miles then.” He slipped out another twenty.

  “I’ll take good care of her, sir.”

  Pike thanked him again, and eased back onto the street. It was dark and the air was damp with humidity. He struggled to gain his bearings. He pocketed his cell phone map finder. No need telegraphing to any thugs watching him that he was a NOLA newbie. But too late.

  “Yo mister, got a light?” One voice asked, but three shadows danced against the brick wall across the street. The silhouettes didn’t appear to have anything in their hands.

  “No sir, sorry, I don’t smoke.”

  Calling the guy “sir” twisted Pike's gut, but he knew it was better to talk than fight. Besides, he hadn’t practiced hand-to-hand combat in years, and he’d been on desk duty for the last two.

  “You might not smoke—punk, but you got cash. Hand it over.” Demand another voice.

  The voice grew louder, angry. This guy wasn’t the leader—he was talking loud to impress whoever was in charge. Pike walked slowly toward the light at the corner, but the guy jerked at his coat.

  “No need to get pushy. Just mug the next guy who comes through,” Pike’s tone remained even. He watched the other two shadows close in, but they couldn’t hear him. “Last chance son," Pike added a slight hiss, "or I’ll haunt you forever.”

  The hand released his coat.

  One less to deal with if they attacked.

  “Hey stupid, you heard my boy, give it up.” Another guy murmured.

  This was the leader.