Survivor

by Logan Ryles

  So he was an American hero, then. A public servant. Another good citizen that she had betrayed with her failed leadership.

  Maggie looked down. “I’m ready,” she mumbled.

  The door of the SUV burst open, and Maggie flinched. Coulier appeared, dressed in an impeccable new suit, a confident glint in his eye.

  “Coulier?” Maggie said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

  Coulier frowned, then he twitched his head toward O’Dell. “Give us a minute?”

  O’Dell looked reluctant, but he nodded and slipped out of the SUV. Coulier piled into the back seat and shut the door, straightening his tie.

  “What are you doing here?” Maggie asked again. “I thought you went back to Texas.”

  “I did. It was an urgent family matter, like I said. A death, actually. A great aunt of mine. I flew back immediately after the funeral.”

  “But . . . why?” Maggie couldn’t hide the emotion or confusion in her voice.

  Coulier frowned again. “Because I’m the attorney general of Louisiana. I’ve got work to do.”

  “But, I thought . . .”

  “Thought I was skipping town? I apologize. Family deaths really do come at the worst times. But I’m back now, ready to serve at your discretion. What next, Madam Governor?”

  Maggie stared down at her clenched hands and then unclenched them.

  “I have to resign. It’s the only right thing. I have to clear Sharp’s name. I know you’re gonna try to talk me out of it, but—”

  “No, I’m not going to question you any further, ma’am. Secretary Warner will make an . . . average governor, I suppose. Good enough until an election can be held.”

  Warner was Louisiana’s secretary of state, and with the lieutenant governor unable to serve, Warner was next in line for the executive office.

  Maggie nodded but didn’t reply.

  “Do you know why I took this job, Maggie?”

  “Because you have a vendetta with some business people in New Orleans. You wanted revenge.”

  “Yes, I want revenge. And I’ll get it, one way or the other. But that’s not why I took the job.”

  “Okay. Why?”

  “I took the job because there’s one thing I hate in this world more than the devil himself. And that’s bullies. People who get their way, regardless. I hate these people with a passion that is both dark and consuming. It’s my life’s mission to crush them. When I met you, I saw the same passion in you, and I figured this was a good place to work. A place where I could spend my days hunting down and destroying the people I hate and defending the people who can’t defend themselves.”

  Maggie was lost in his words for a moment. He’d never said any of this before. He’d always come off as a cynical, self-serving, yet highly effective prosecutor.

  Coulier sighed. “Well, that’s it. That’s why I took the job. And what bothers me most right now isn’t that you’re doing what you believe in. What bothers me is just, well, that they’ve won. The bullies won this round.”

  Coulier stared at his open hands in his lap.

  “I’m damn proud of you, Madam Governor. I’ll do my best to ensure that Warner continues the fight.”

  He clasped her hand for a moment, then ducked out of the SUV as quickly as he had come.

  Maggie sat alone on the leather seat, watching him disappear into the crowd, his last words ringing in her ears.

  The bullies won this round. The bullies won this round.

  She felt fire seep into her veins, starting in her chest and flowing into her stomach, her hands, and then her cheeks. It was pure, indignant outrage.

  To hell with this, she thought. To hell with all of it. She wasn’t done. She wasn’t quitting now, or ever.

  The bullies were going down if it was the last thing she did.

  Twenty-Four

  Port of New Orleans

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  Reed heard shouts from the media long before he saw a tight column of security personnel appear, marching with Trousdale toward the podium. With her head held high, Trousdale wore her hair in a simple ponytail, and her minimalist suit joined by black combat boots was something he remembered as a signature of hers from her file.

  So this was Muddy Maggie. Reed had to admit, she was pleasant to look at, but it was more than that. Her posture held an air of confidence and command, the sort of inspiring leader that drew out the voters. Today, her face was set in hard, serious lines, but he could imagine how she might radiate if she smiled—if she were on a podium waving and delivering a charismatic campaign speech.

  Reed adjusted the wide-brimmed trooper hat and stepped into the crowd, working his way toward the right-hand perimeter as Trousdale marched toward the podium. A couple hundred people had assembled at the dockside to hear Trousdale’s address, and a line of state troopers guarded the edges of the crowd, holding shotguns and pepper spray.

  A bit aggressive with the shotguns. Maybe this thing is more volatile than I thought.

  Near the edge of the crowd, a group of hippies leaned under an oak tree, their checked-out stares and slack jaws betraying their agenda long before their “Legalize!” and “Weed is natural, dude!” signs. Reed couldn’t resist a smirk. Either no one had told them that the dockside workers waving signs fifty feet away were protesting the port closure, or perhaps they just didn’t care.

  He circled behind the tree and approached the nearest stringy-haired protestor from behind. The guy was wearing a conveniently half-zipped backpack. Reed dipped his hand into his pocket and retrieved the ankle monitor, which was now neatly packaged in a sandwich bag, the red light still blinking every five seconds. Without disturbing the stoned protestor, he dropped the monitor into his open backpack, then stepped away.

  After the press conference, Gambit would track the monitor back to whatever pot den Stony retreated to, but by then, Reed would be back in control—the hunter instead of the hunted.

  Fifty yards of long strides brought him back through the protestors to the front line of troopers, just fifteen feet from the bulletproof shield. He could see the twin water bottles loaded with shaped C4 just behind the shield, undetected.

  Reed wiped a trail of sweat from his forehead. Even in late November, New Orleans was little better than a sauna, and the crowd closing in around him didn’t help. He twisted between bodies and worked his way toward the edge of the shield, where more troopers hurried back and forth, snapping at each other and ordering the protestors to step away from the deadline.

  He saw Trousdale reappear from the crowd, her skin a paler shade of white than it had been only five minutes prior. Something dark and sticky that had been hurled from the crowd was running down her cheek, and she was escorted at either elbow by troopers burly enough to give Floyd Mayweather a run for his money. They glowered at the protestors and kept their free hands resting on identical Glock 20 pistols.

  Geez, these people are tense.

  Reed had heard that Louisianans could be wild, but as the chanting grew louder and more pieces of garbage sailed toward the governor, he couldn’t help but marvel at the tidal wave of outrage. He wondered if the mob would feel any different after the bombs went off—if they would regret their hostility and mourn their governor.

  Trousdale wiped her face with a rag and waved the troopers off as she approached the two steps to the podium. Both officers objected, but she glared them down. Finally, they stepped back, returning her icy glare. It’s possible they didn’t like her either, Reed thought. Maybe they voted for the other guy. Reed was pretty much apolitical, but he remembered how passionate his mother became over elections. Perhaps these troopers felt more sympathy for the jobless dock workers than they did for their governor.

  That could be useful.

  Trousdale wiped her face again, then straightened her suit jacket and stepped onto the podium. The crowd erupted in a roar that sounded like something between an angry screech and a chorus of jeers. Trousdale stepped into the middle of the p
latform, just behind the lectern, and scanned the angry faces.

  Reed slipped to the right again, only twenty feet from Trousdale’s left shoulder but still on the other side of the shield.

  Trousdale held up a hand and leaned toward the microphone. “New Orleans, I hear you!”

  “Too little, too late, bitch!” somebody screamed.

  “This is what happens when you elect a woman!”

  “Dumb whore!”

  Reed flinched, once more astounded by the sheer vitriol of the mob. The reek of liquor drifted from their packed ranks, and he wondered how many of them were wasted beyond their minds.

  Do these people even work at the port?

  Trousdale extended a finger toward the bearded man who called her a whore. He was spindly and held a paper bag in one hand, only partially concealing the bottle inside.

  “Bobby Moore, is that you?” Trousdale demanded. “Shame on you, you son of a bitch. Your mama would roll over in her grave if she saw you now.”

  Reed blinked. Did she really just say that?

  The man named Bobby hesitated, uncertainty crossing his face. Somebody in the crowd jammed an elbow into his ribs, and then there was laughter.

  “Aww, sheeeeeaat,” somebody cursed. “She called you Bobby! Muddy Maggie gonna put a boot in yer ass!”

  More laughter, and Trousdale leaned closer to the mic. “Y’all shut up, now! I know you’re angry. Dammit, I’m angry, too. You think I wanted this port closed? Y’all shut up, and I’ll explain. Shut up, now!”

  There was zero fear or intimidation in her voice. She glowered at them, but not with hostility—only command. Reed had never heard a politician talk this way. He wasn’t sure if she was beyond caring or if this were just the way of the bayou. Trousdale wasn’t a politician, after all. She was a gator farmer’s daughter, one of the people, so maybe she knew what they needed better than any political adviser.

  The crowd still grumbled, but the shouts began to fade, and the signs were slowly lowered. Reed slid his hand into his pocket and felt for the detonator. He set his jaw and braced himself for the blast—the heat on his face and the dust in his eyes. He didn’t want to do this. He liked this swamp girl. She was bold, defiant, totally unyielding, probably a good governor, a great leader, and a vicious enemy . . . of Gambit.

  The enemy of my enemy. She is the enemy of my enemy.

  Reed closed his eyes and saw his father again in the woods of North Alabama, barely conscious but present enough to look up and recognize his son. There was a lifetime worth of pain and agony and bad things that clouded his father’s eyes, but for just a split second, that cloud had parted. Reed saw beyond the trauma of David’s shattered psyche and saw his father—a good, strong soul. Just like Trousdale.

  A soul who was also the enemy of Reed’s enemy.

  Reed thumbed the safety switch and placed his hand on the first of the two detonator buttons.

  “I’m not here to waste your time with political bullshit,” Maggie snapped into the microphone. “You know I’m not like that. I’m here because I know the value of a good job. I’m here because last week I was forced to make a terrible choice to close this port, and you deserve to know why.”

  Trousdale leaned even closer to the mic, holding the eyes of every person in the now silent crowd, controlling them and consuming their focus.

  Reed pressed the button.

  The two bottles at the base of the shield erupted in flames, a deafening boom ripping skyward as shards of melting plastic and a massive grey cloud filled the air. The bulletproof shield shook, but held, absorbing the brunt of the blast and protecting the crowd, while Trousdale was knocked backward, toppling off her feet and vanishing into the smoke.

  A scream burst from the crowd, followed by a chorus of shouts from the troopers, but Reed was already moving. Both hands cleared his pockets, his left hand still clutching the detonator as he circled the shield and leapt toward the podium. A trooper brushed past his elbow just a breath ahead of him. Reed grabbed the man by his collar and hurled him backward with the force of a linebacker, then his feet hit the podium, and he crashed toward the governor.

  The air was flooded with smoke, leaving almost nothing visible. Reed lunged forward and almost tripped over Trousdale before he saw her. She sat slumped to one side, coughing and struggling to pick herself up. Reed scooped her up with one powerful heave of his right arm and lifted her slender body over his right shoulder.

  After two strides, he lurched forward off the far edge of the podium, landed on his feet, and pressed the second detonator button.

  The next blast shook the ground and obliterated the podium, knocking Reed to his knees amid a new deafening roar. Splinters of wood and metal pelted the bulletproof shield and hurtled into the air only inches over his head. He pulled Trousdale closer and dropped the detonator, pushing himself back to his feet and rushing forward. Smoke clouded his way as he slammed between running, screaming protestors, while somebody shouted about blood and sirens screamed in the distance. He could barely see, and his throat was on fire as he crashed between two troopers, took a hard left on the sidewalk, and dashed for the BMW.

  Twenty-Five

  Somewhere outside of New Orleans

  Louisiana

  Gambit leaned closer to the monitor and held his breath as Governor Maggie Trousdale vanished into the first blast. As smoke filled the space behind the bulletproof shield and the governor disappeared from view, a flood of confusion and panic surged through his body. What the hell just happened? Was this part of Montgomery’s plan? Why hadn’t Montgomery taken the shot yet?

  Gambit’s hands shook with tension as he turned to another screen and tapped on a keyboard. Montgomery’s tracker still signaled from the edge of the crowd, providing an updated location every five seconds. For two blips, it didn’t move, and then Montgomery began to track eastward, away from the governor.

  What the hell? Was he going to shoot at all? Was Trousdale dead?

  Another thunderous blast ripped his attention back to the TV. The news media’s camera shook, and the reporter screamed as fire and fury blasted into the air behind the shield. This explosion was far more vicious than the first, obliterating the podium and flooding the air with more smoke than a burning stack of tires. Gambit couldn’t see anything—not the governor, not her security detail, not Montgomery. The camera fell to the ground, and nothing but dashing feet filled the screen.

  “Fuck!” he shouted, slamming his hand onto the table. Gambit checked the monitor again and saw that Montgomery was now almost a full block from the port, still moving east. He was gone, slipping away without being caught or verifying that Trousdale was even dead.

  Gambit redialed a recent number on his phone, and it rang five times before going to voicemail. He dialed again and once more waited five rings. Montgomery didn’t answer.

  He forced himself to set the phone down gently. Calm down, he thought. She’s probably dead. Who could have survived that blast?

  The phone rang, and Gambit’s heart lurched, but it wasn’t Montgomery. It was Aiden.

  The sick feeling in his stomach deepened, leaving him unsteady on his feet. He crashed into his chair and swallowed as the phone rang a second time. Pure animal fear surged into his body, and he hit the answer button.

  “Gambit.”

  “What’s happening?” Aiden’s voice was unnaturally calm, with no hint of panic slipped into it, and that was somehow even more unnerving than a shout would’ve been.

  “A bomb went off,” Gambit said. “Two bombs.”

  “I know that. The whole world knows that. I’m asking you if she’s dead.”

  There was still no emotion in Aiden’s tone, but Gambit felt the bite nonetheless.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m working on it.”

  “Where is Montgomery?”

  “He’s tracking east. Seems to be fleeing. I can’t get him on the phone.”

  “Give him half an hour. Keep tracking him, then call again
. Once you’ve confirmed her death, call in the tip to the FBI.”

  Gambit drew a slow breath and nodded twice. “Of course. I will.”

  “Gambit?” Aiden’s voice assumed a subtle, almost imperceptible edge. It was the edge Gambit had already felt, but now he could hear it.

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t fail me again.”

  Twenty-Six

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  The BMW’s turbocharged engine roared, launching the car out of the parking lot and onto the street. Reed coughed, his throat still ragged on the C4 smoke as he ran a hand through sweaty hair. He lost the trooper hat during the second blast.

  Trousdale sat buckled in the seat next to him, her hands wrapped in duct tape. Another strip of tape covered her mouth, just below panic-filled eyes.

  Reed shifted into third and powered through a yellow light, taking another two tight turns and working his way out of downtown. Sirens rang through the air on all sides, but nobody blocked his way. The tinted windows protected them from casual surveillance, but they wouldn’t be safe until they were far outside the city.

  The BMW hopped onto the highway, and Reed depressed the accelerator, pushing past seventy miles per hour and settling into the left lane. He flipped the cruise control on and leaned back, wiping sweat from his face before taking a gulp of water from a bottle in the cup holder. He turned to Trousdale and held up a finger.

  “Don’t scream. Do you understand me? If you scream, I’ll knock you out.”

  Trousdale held his gaze for a moment, then nodded. Reed ripped the tape off her mouth, and she winced but didn’t scream. He handed her the bottle, and she cradled it between her tied hands and drained it, spilling a few swallows over her smoke-blasted blouse.

  The bottle fell onto the floorboard, and she gasped for air. “Who . . . who the hell are you?”