Operation 6 Atlanta Comes to Hollywood
Green
Green hated this goddamn shirt.
The red collar dug into the back of his neck, and the cheap fabric scratched across his shoulders every time he moved. The matching ball cap with the smiling cartoon pizza slice on the front made the whole outfit that much worse.
The two insulated food carriers—stamped with the logo for Blvd Pizza Express—sitting between them appeared legitimate enough from the outside. The smell of garlic butter and melted cheese also helped sell the illusion.
Two pizzas sat on top of Green’s bag. Underneath them were his boots, holster, shoulder rig, jacket, magazines, and sidearm.
Ruxs carried the same setup, except his bag had salad bowls and breadsticks covering his weaponry and clothes.
Hollywood Boulevard was teeming with life, and Green was taking in the sites as they approached the massive Studio 8 gates on foot.
Tour buses rolled past while guides yelled exaggerated celebrity stories into their microphones.
It was almost noon and already fans were crowding the barricades. Cameras were held high, flashes sparking every few seconds despite there being no celebrities in sight.
The giant silver-and-black Studio 8 sign stretched overhead like the entrance to a royal kingdom.
Green assessed everything—main gate coverage, guard posture, reaction to approach attempts, weak spots, camera placement.
The security guards near the entrance were talking more than watching. One kept checking his phone. Another moved as if he was exhausted. Two more weren’t even facing the crowd only a few feet away.
“You ready?” Ruxs muttered.
Green grunted.
One of the guards stepped forward first. “Delivery?”
“Yeah,” Ruxs answered, sounding mildly annoyed as he read the fake receipt. “Crew order for Stage 12, effects support.”
Green stayed quiet, letting Ruxs perform.
“We normally leave deliveries at the service entrance,” the guard said.
“Yeah, well,” Ruxs sighed dramatically, “Tiffany in catering and that little intern guy, Micah, insisted we hand deliver everything ourselves because somebody screwed up the vegan orders last week and now everybody’s traumatized.”
Green almost smiled.
Free had hacked most of the crew’s social media accounts in under seven minutes last night so they could get some real names.
Tiffany had posted last week about the meals the crew ordered from some place that took over two hours to deliver, and Micah bitched about the lack of vegan options at fast food places.
“We ain’t gonna be responsible for bad reviews and get fired. I can’t afford that shit,” Ruxs added. “I got a past due car payment.”
The guards exchanged looks.
Green watched their uncertainty carefully.
None of them seemed to know the procedure well enough to challenge the story.
That was the dangerous part.
Ruxs shifted one bag down and unzipped it enough to reveal the steaming pizza boxes.
“Hell,” Green added casually, “take a slice if y’all want. Best pizza in the city. We deliver to half the celebrities in Malibu and the Hills.”
A younger guard leaned forward checking their contents. “For real?”
“Last week we dropped off six pies to some actress with three tigers living in her backyard,” Ruxs laughed.
“What?” The young guard gaped. “Man, I don’t get these damn celebrities.”
The guards laughed, getting way too relaxed.
The more serious one held his hand out. “You got IDs?”
Green handed over the fake credentials, but the guy barely glanced at them. He didn’t scan or verify anything or take time to compare the photos.
Eight security personnel standing at one of the biggest studio lots in California, and not one of them thought to pat down two strangers carrying oversized bags onto the property.
What the hell?
“All right,” the guard finally said. “Go ahead.”
The gate opened.
Green and Ruxs walked through.
After clearing the checkpoint, they rounded a row of production trailers and stopped to observe who was around.
No one.
Ruxs shook his head. “That was embarrassingly easy.”
Green glanced toward the gate. “Didn’t even pat us down.”
“Didn’t wand us neither.”
Green tapped the communications icon on his watch. “Post one breeched.”
There was no static or crackle in their high-tech comms pieces.
God’s deep voice answered. “That gate should’ve failed both of you before you hit the sidewalk. Proceed to post two.”
Green could hear his lieutenant’s disgust.
He and Ruxs dumped the delivery bags and changed clothes, happy to get rid of the fake uniforms.
They were back in their boots, graphic T-shirts, and holstered weapons under their jackets.
Green noticed a passersby glance at them, with a hint of suspicion— because unlike the pizza delivery boys, now they actually looked dangerous—but no one stopped them.
Four minutes passed before Tech’s voice came through the comms.
“We’re in.”
Green leaned beside the cab of a big rig while crew hurried around them, going about their jobs.
“How?”
Tech answered, smugness pouring through every word.
“I told them we’re contracted IT support from Silverline Systems Integration—I thought it sounded legit enough—and said were responding to a critical firmware failure in the DMX synchronization network connected to the atmospheric pyro sequencing system Wes and Law are using for scene forty-two.”
Green stared ahead blankly.
“What the fuck did that mean?”
“Nothing at all. I just said a lot of big words,” Tech laughed. “They let us right in.”
“I also brought my laptop, tablet, and a portable server with enough cable to wrap around the lot.” Free chuckled. “I look like I do computer shit, so they let me in too.”
“We should audition for a part,” Ruxs muttered. “We’re some damn good actors.”
A few minutes later Free added calmly, “Mainframe acquired. I’m inside everything.”
“What’s ‘everything’?” God asked.
“The gates, internal phones, security cameras, lighting systems, communication channels.” He paused. “Honestly this place is offensively vulnerable.”
Ruxs whistled low.
Day spoke up. “Get ready, we’re entering.”
Green moved farther along the soundstage perimeter and watched.
God, Day, and Steele approached the gate openly, wearing dark suits over T-shirts and jeans with fake federal badges clipped onto their belts.
The guards waved them through before they’d even finished speaking. One of the idiots even pointed them toward the security office without assigning them an escort.
Steele stole a walkie-talkie on the way past, and nobody noticed.
“All teams in position,” God said quietly.
Green looked toward Ruxs across the lot.
Ruxs grinned before he fired two rounds in the air—aiming so the bullet would fall onto the roof—holstered his weapon and pulled the fire alarm.
The shriek exploded through the soundstage, blaring about ten seconds before crew members, actors, and personnel scattered like birds.
A commanding voice barked over the security’s radios.
“Delta and Charlie teams hold your positions! Alpha move to combat response!”
Green stayed still beside a stack of equipment crates and watched as absolute chaos unfolded.
Security scrambled everywhere. One of the motherfucking guards actually ran with the crowd, another shouted into a dead cellphone while spinning in circles, and a third nearly collided with a catering cart.
Nobody established perimeter control, secured exits, or attempted to identify threats.
“Jesus Christ,” Steele muttered through comms.
“Charlie team hold your motherfuckin’ line!” the unseen commander barked again.
Nobody listened.
Free killed the cell towers.
Green’s eyes landed on a young woman sprinting past in full-on panic.
“Blue jacket,” Tech blurted. “Grab her.”
Green moved fast.
One second, she was running. The next, his arm was locked around her waist while he pressed his Smith & Wesson to her temple in a perfect hostage hold.
The woman screamed as nearby crew members lost their minds.
“Oh my god!”
“Let her go!”
“Someone help her!”
The studio workers were reacting more forcefully than security.
Several guards continued to try to get through on their dead phones while others yelled conflicting orders at each other near the locked gates.
“Cut the lights,” God ordered.
The lights flickered violently before going dark beneath the now overcast sky.
Screams erupted louder, wilder and frantic, until Free cut the alarm and the silence that followed felt more dramatic than the noise.
Green remained calm, gun against his hostage’s shoulder while she sobbed, clutching his forearm across her chest.
He never said a word.
Too many minutes dragged by.
Finally, there was movement from above—snipers.
About damn time.
Green glanced upward before his attention shifted back in front of him.
A man was approaching slowly. He was big, serious, measured…and exuded danger.
Cassidy Morrison.
Even from a distance Green could spot the Marine in him.
Broad shoulders, ripped forearms, and a strong chest, beneath a black jacket concealing a double loaded holster.
His steady walk, and air of confidence reflected his fearlessness. His dark hair was shorn on the sides and longer on top, brushed back from a face carved hard by discipline.
He narrowed his dark eyes…assessing. And unlike everyone else scrambling around him, Morrison was completely calm.
Interesting.
Green noticed him clock Ruxs first. Then Steele leaning against a nearby wall smoking a Swisher Sweet as if none of what was going on concerned him.
Then Morrison’s gaze landed back on him.
“You must be the men from Atlanta,” he rumbled.
His voice sounded deep enough to vibrate the concrete.
Morrison lifted his radio to his mouth and gritted. “All teams stand down.”
Day emerged from an actor’s trailer nearby, and God stepped out of another trailer marked…
XANDER VALE
Morrison’s expression changed for the first time.
Subtle, but there.
His jaw tightened as his intense glare blazed on the cowardly security guards making their way back towards him.
Green released his hostage.
The woman turned and beamed at him.
“Well?” she asked. “How’d I do?”
“Perfect,” Green answered, tucking away the unloaded Smith & Wesson. He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it politely. “You should be promoted from an extra to a more prominent role.”
“Make sure you tell casting that,” she urged, smiling.
Tech and Free approached alongside Wes and Law.
Law spread his arms. “See HOS? Didn’t I tell you these motherfuckers were the shit?”
Wes smirked at Morrison and started pointing them out.
“Meet your new security consultants. That’s Detectives Ruxsberg and Green, the task force’s enforcers.
Over there smoking is Detective Steele, just an all-around badass, ex-Marine Force Recon lieutenant.
Beside me is Detective Murphy, aka Tech, and this is Free, who’s a goddamn computer genius.
” Wes frowned as if thinking, before he shrugged. “Uh, yeah, he’s just called, Free.”
Lastly Day and God stepped forward, looking like renegades.
“Meet the men in charge. That’s Lieutenant Day.” Law’s grin widened almost proudly. “And this, is the man known on the streets of Atlanta as God.”