I shake my head. “Nah... it's nothing you girls need to worry about. Listen, I'm gonna go catch a swim or something. Feel free to stay as long as you want, play if you want. I know I got you two all heated up and there's no payoff.”
Allie looks over at Tiffany, and I can see the look in her eyes. She's still ready to go, and while playtime with just the two of them might not have been her first choice, she'll still take it. She looks like she wants to push me on the issue, but she also knows I'm nobody to be trifled with. “Well, okay... but if you're feeling up for it later, maybe we can still have a little fun?” she asks. “We don't even have to have the costumes.”
I reach out and stroke her cheek and nod. She's cute. “Maybe, baby. But don't get your hopes up too much.”
I get off the bed, making sure my shorts are okay before glancing back. Tiffany's already got Allie pinned to the mattress and is kissing her, the two of them quickly getting into it. Any other night I'd be up for at least watching, but I'm just not interested right now. I leave the spare bedroom and go out into the hallway, making sure to close the door behind me.
The problem's clear. I can't get Kat off my mind. Not only am I pissed at her still, but the way she touched me, the way she looked, the way her dress clung to her body... great, now my cock twitches and wakes up again.
“Face it, you dumb fuck, you want her,” I whisper, sighing. I go out onto the back patio that overlooks the garden, which leads to the rest of the old plantation lands. Ten acres is all that's left of one of the biggest indigo plantations of the pre-American days that once covered an area larger than the French Quarter, but it's a beautiful ten acres. I lean against the hundred-year-old red brick wall that lines the patio, and look out into the sky. After days of cloudiness and some rain, the weather finally broke just around sunset today, and now I can look up to see a mostly full moon shining down on the property, stars glittering around it. “Ten years.”
It's the part that's bothered me the most this past week. Nathan's question of if I had feelings for Katrina continues to dance around in my head, because the honest truth is... I probably did. There's never been a lot of love in my family, and even Andrea I can't call anything other than a close acquaintance. Mom... ha. Pops has always treated me like an annoying little insect to be paid off more than anything else. At least I've lived comfortably this entire time, I guess. Hell, more than comfortably.
But Katrina... from the first time we hung out together, we just clicked. Her father had brought her by on one of his visits to see Pops. We liked the same games and even had the same hobbies. When I went through a phase where I was into building plastic car models, she was right there with me. She'd help me cut out all the parts from the tree and sand the edges, making sure each piece fit perfectly. Her hands were steadier than mine, so she'd always paint the individual pieces before the two of us would work together on the final assembly. Going to the same school meant that we got a decent amount of facetime together, but we were pretty much inseparable even outside class. Riding bikes, doing homework... all of it. She got me through my times tables, and I helped her with learning how to swim in our pool.
I'd almost grown out of the plastic model phase when she dropped out of my life, and yeah, it left a hole inside me. Now she's back... and she's pissed. Considering what Nathan told me, I can understand. I don't like Pops either. In fact, the only person in my family I even respect is Andrea. But Pops... fine. He's scum. But how am I supposed to break away? Andrea talks about it, but the only step she’s taken toward it is getting her MBA. I've never even thought about college, and my only skill is knowing how to party. That's good for about fifty cents above minimum wage if it weren't for Pops' money.
I shake my head and go inside, leaving the door to the garden open. I head back toward the guest bedrooms, when a cough behind me catches my attention.
“Nathan,” I say after I turn. “Didn't think you'd still be dressed in your suit.”
Nathan looks down at his black linen suit and brushes a bit of lint off his lapel. “I didn't think I'd find you... dressed,” he replies. Nathan looks pointedly at the door where I’d just been with the two girls, then shrugs.
“Wasn't feeling it tonight. What can I help you with?”
Nathan reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a slip of paper. “An address. You were looking for it. She lives in a warehouse over on Market Street.”
I look down at the numbers written on the paper. “And you haven't told Pops?”
Nathan shakes his head. “Not until you find your answers. I told you, Jackson, I've got some debts to balance out. Or maybe in my mind I just keep seeing the little girl that Katrina Grammercy was when I first met her. I've done a lot of nasty things in my day, Jackson... but I don't touch kids.”
I nod and fold the paper up, putting it in the pocket of my shorts. “I see. Thank you, Nathan. And sometime... perhaps we can have a cup of tea again.”
Nathan, who's already turned to go back down the hallway, stops and looks back. “I'd like that. Have a good night, Jackson.”
Chapter 7
Kat
I'm inverted, my feet pointing straight in the air as I lower myself on the two steel bars which let my head dip lower until my hands are next to my ears before pushing up, locking out. Seven. Three more and I can kick back down and let my shoulders rest a little bit.
I lower myself, sweat dripping off my nose to soak into the wooden floor below me, and push again. Eight.
I focus on the pain, tasting the metallic tang on my tongue and savoring the electric fire that runs up from my elbows to my spine. Soon enough, I may not feel anything at all except the eternal satisfaction of vengeance before Peter's men tear me apart. Nine.
One more. I can do this. My elbows are shaking, but I can make it. Don't cheat yourself, there's nothing that can bring defeat faster than cheating yourself... now PUSH! I push, and in my mind I see the fire rolling across the concrete ceiling of the parking garage, hungry and reaching for me after it's already taken my parents' lives. It's coming, ten years later now to claim me, but claim me it will...
Ten. I kick over and land on my feet, shaking out my arms. I don't need my pills yet, in fact since the night with Jackson I've only had to take them once. Still, the image of the explosion is hot in my brain, and I have to do something constructive before the anger morphs into depression. I know the pattern, but I'm going to fight it this time.
I grab the sandbag next to my handstand bars and lift it, whipping the forty-five-pound bag up and onto my shoulders. I start crossing the floor of my loft with long, lunging strides. Each one brings me nearly to the floor before I force myself to rise and take the next long step.
I'm on my second trip back across the loft when my computer beeps from the corner. Darcy's little setup on the shipping company she wants me to crack is tougher than I thought it'd be, and I wonder if she's calling me on time. I still have thirty-six hours left on the deadline that she gave me though, even if my tools are still barely chipping away at the firewall, still searching for that elusive crack. I know one has to be there, so it's just a matter of patience, processing power, and tools.
I set my sandbag down and see that I have an IRC chat window up on my screen. Only Darcy and a few others have my IRC handle, although it's not that hard to figure out if you know my hacker name. I mean, CDGrace and Coup De Grace aren't really all that different, after all.
But I don't know this IRC handle at all. Blue Sakura... intriguing. Maybe it's one of Darcy's Japanese contacts?
CDG- Hello.
BS- You're a hard woman to find.
CDG- I prefer my privacy. Who are you?
BS- An ally.
CDG- An ally? In what? I can count my allies on one hand.
BS- An ally who agrees with your vendetta against Peter DeLaCoeur.
I'm tempted to close the window now and reset my router. It'll cost me Darcy's contract, and six thousand dollars because of it, but this person knows who I am
. I'm reaching for the power button when Blue Sakura pops up again.
BS- Please don't shut me off. I'm really not trying to expose you or hurt you. I messaged you to warn you.
I pause, my finger hovering over my power button, and go back to my keyboard.
CDG- About?
BS- Nathan Black has found out where you live. He's passed along that information. You need to get out of there.
CDG- If they want to come here, they can. Makes my job easier. Little messier, but a lot easier.
BS- Please watch your back, in any case. You deserve closure.
CDG- What do you know about closure?
BS- You're not the only one who's lost a parent because of Peter DeLaCoeur. Be careful.
The IRC window says that Blue Sakura has left the room, and I consider what just happened. Blue Sakura, huh? Makes sense... Andrea. That you found me at all online tells me that you've got some skills yourself. I run a backtrace on her IP and see that she's also using at least one signal relay, as the address says that Blue Sakura is currently on the Ross Ice Shelf, Antarctica. Doubtful at best.
I could use my tools to continue running the backtrace, but I don't need to. It'd be easier just to get Andrea's phone number if I really want or need to contact her again. I've had access to that particular database for years. Instead, I go back to my workout, not letting myself get distracted. I've still got three hundred pushups to do, and then I'll go into my form training. Without a lot of partners, I have to keep my skills up as best I can, and that means lots and lots of mental imagery while I drill on poor substitutes for real people.
I wonder if Andrea can be a resource? There are so many things I can't verify yet, the things that can really take my campaign against Peter DeLaCoeur from just harassment to putting him behind bars. Not that I want it to stop there, but it's a start. The dirty cops, the mob connections, the bodies dropped off in the swamps or somewhere in the Mississippi... if I can verify those, I can really put the pressure on him. Maybe not enough to get him into a court of law, but certainly enough that his allies would move to distance themselves. Without their support, the walls he's carefully built over the years would surely start to crumble. If I can take down enough of those walls, maybe I can get him out of his fortress.
As I start my first set of fifty pushups, I think about the juiciest case I'd like to connect Peter to. He's no longer in office, but Dutch Landry is from one of the two biggest political families in this city. The Landrys and the Morrels have traded the mayor's office back and forth in five of the last six administrations. His son is currently on the city council and has a good shot of running for mayor himself in three years.
But Dutch... Dutch Landry was the type of mayor loved by the press, and hated by the underclass. Virginia and Darcy showed me the evidence firsthand, but hell, I grew up seeing it often enough in Virginia's foster care. I saw the drugs, the street crime that was only checked when the police rolled through in paramilitary fashion. I saw classmates show up with wounds from both police and gang bullets, and I know that a lot of the guns were bought through Dutch Landry's connections. The drugs for sure came in with his authorization. Of course, someone had to arrange transport for all of that, and wouldn't you know, Peter DeLaCoeur knew some friends among the longshoremen who were willing to look the other way as the shipments flooded the Port of New Orleans.
It's how Peter's stayed in business so long. He doesn't directly touch anything. Instead, he makes introductions, facilitates communication between interested parties, and collects his middleman's percentage regardless. He's the ultimate in one-stop criminal shopping. You want it, he knows a guy.
He's completely crooked, but there's no hard evidence. His business dealings are done face to face with cash on the table most of the time, and the IRS thinks he gets his money through renting residential properties in the Lower Ninth Ward. Hell, in their estimation the man's a saint, owning so many Section 8 properties. He's not looking out for anyone but himself, though—he filters his money through those houses.
Say you have a house that you're renting for a thousand dollars a month. Sometimes housing assistance provides full credit for rentals, and sometimes they only provide partial credit. Peter DeLaCoeur only rents to those with partial credit. The government gives him between three hundred and five hundred a month... and the rest of the thousand comes out of his illegal business. He makes friends with the IRS and HUD, who think his fifty houses are all rented out to families in need. Meanwhile, the families think he's renting to them cheap on the down low.
He's just using those same poor families as a cover, since the funds he's filtering are in fact coming from the same drugs and guns that are killing the neighborhoods he owns. He makes even more profit from the Section 8 money. I have to admit, it's a smooth scam, but it's just one of half a dozen that he runs.
If I could just prove it... maybe Andrea can help with that. It'd damage him more than just exposing an embarrassing affair. I don't know. In the meantime, I keep doing my pushups, even though my chest and shoulders are screaming at me at this point.
Someone knocks on my door and I pull my right leg up, bounding to my feet. I approach the door slowly, since it's one of only two entrances to my loft. The other entrance is the old freight elevator that connects to the boxing gym downstairs. Unlike the door, I can control the elevator entrance fully.
Next to the door is one of my home defense weapons. After all the years of martial arts training, you'd think that I'd have something exotic like sai or a wakizashi sword. Maybe a hundred years ago, but what I have instead is a Glock 18. They're highly illegal since they're fully automatic, but since I don't officially exist as far as the law's concerned, I'm not worried about illegally owning this gun. If I need to, I can fire all fifteen rounds through the door in less than a second, and whoever's unlucky enough to be on the other side is going to get turned into Swiss cheese.
I pick up the Glock and flick the fire selector switch from safe to semi-auto, and look through my peephole. I really should invest in a higher tech security system, but it hasn't been a priority.
Whoever it is knocks again as I open the cover on my peephole, and my fingers go numb when I see who it is. I'm only dimly aware that I drop the cover on the peephole. Jackson?
“Open the door please, Kat. I'm alone, and we need to talk.”
“What are you doing here, Jackson?” I yell through the door. “Don't try and knock the thing down either, it's steel core.”
Actually, my door isn't steel core, it's just a plain hollow metal door, but that's beside the point. If Jackson is alone, then just what the hell is he doing here?
“Please Kat, open the door,” Jackson repeats. “It's just me... I want to talk, that's all. Come on Kat, it's been ten years. If our friendship meant anything to you... I just want to talk.”
Against my better judgment, I lower my Glock for a moment and unlock the door, stepping back before raising my gun again. “It's open.”
Chapter 8
Jackson
The first thing I see when I open the door to Kat's loft is the pistol pointed at my chest. Her hands are completely steady, and she keeps the gun solidly trained on me as I approach her. I don't know what type of pistol it is, except that it's not the same as Nathan's 1911, and that the whole damn thing is black.
Next, I see Kat, sweat glistening on her skin as she stares at me with killer's eyes. She's wearing a dark gray sports bra and what looks like martial arts pants, plus a pair of black Nike Frees, and that's it. Her eyes flicker over my body for a moment before she jerks her head to the side, and I get the message. I go deeper inside her loft while she checks to make sure that I was telling the truth about being alone. She reaches out and jerks her door shut, throwing the bar lock that's at the top as soon as the door's closed.
“How'd you find me?” she asks, spinning around. She's still got the gun pointed at my chest, and to be honest, it's pissing me off.
“Think you can lower the fucki
ng hand cannon first?” I ask, keeping my hands out. “Seriously, I know you're pissed at my family, but I'm unarmed and alone. And the longer you keep that thing pointed at me, the more you're pissing me off.”
Kat considers it for a moment, then lowers her gun slowly, flicking a switch on the side and tucking it into the back of her pants. She smirks, and for a moment I see my old friend in her eyes. “Fine. Would you like a drink of water, Jackson?”
“Uhhh... sure,” I mutter, caught off guard again. Seriously, she was just pointing a gun at me five seconds ago, and now she's asking if I want a drink. “Actually, beer if you've got it.”
“I never touch alcohol except to treat wounds,” Kat says tersely as she passes by me. I reach out to grab her shoulders to get her to stop, but before I can even touch her she's grabbed my wrist and flipped me over her hip like I weigh nothing, sending me crashing to the floor. She twists my hand and my left arm is in immense pain, and twisted in ways I didn't think arms were supposed to go. Her gun's suddenly in her hand again, and the momentary friendliness in her eyes has completely vanished, replaced by the look of a stone-cold killer. “And I have a thing about personal space. As in... don't try and breach mine.”
“Goddammit Kat, I'm not your enemy!” I hiss. She steps back and puts her pistol down on a small table. I glance at it, then see her eyes. The message is clear. I reach for it, and regardless of what I might say, I'm leaving this room in a body bag.
Instead, I roll away and get to my feet, shaking my wrist. “Where the fuck did you learn that?”
“Tamura-sensei,” Kat says simply. “I learned from him after my foster mother got done teaching me what she knew. He taught me aikijujutsu.”
I look around and really look at the loft that Kat's living in. To be honest, calling it Spartan would be an insult to the Spartans. Her bed looks like it's some kind of reject from a military surplus store with only a thin mattress on top of the cheap metal frame. My eyes drift over to a cheap Formica dresser that looks like it doubles as one of her tables, then to a couple of wooden folding chairs. Her kitchen... well, I've seen office break rooms better equipped. A hotplate, a mini fridge, a cheap sink with a single cupboard above it... I don't even see a shower, although most of the loft is dimly lit, so I guess it could be on the far side of this huge space. “Love the decoration style. What do you call it? Goodwill Chic? Haute Homeless?”
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