by Nobody, Joe
It took Ketchum longer than normal to gather his things and prepare to leave his glamorous high-rise. In fact, it was the only time he could recall when his two female companions were the first to be ready.
As before, Blackjack’s wounds led to his tardiness. The stabbing pain prompted him to make slow, calculated, careful movements.
Today, however, it was Jones’ racing mind that really threatened his attempt at punctuality. The neurons in his brain were firing like they were on steroids as he sought to ferret out his backstabber. Over and again he wondered which of his inner circle had betrayed him. Furthermore, how was the traitor passing along information to the authorities? Local police officers in the Big Easy didn’t exist or worked for him. The Louisiana government at the state level was a joke. The local federal footprint was restricted to a dozen Coast Guard crewmen and one officer on the Industrial Canal, and they kept to themselves.
As he thought about it, Ketchum realized that he wouldn’t know how to get a message to Washington even if he wanted to. His people used radios… walkie-talkies really, scavenged from the New Orleans Police Department. Those units, however, didn’t have enough range to cover the city proper, let alone transmit long distances. For all practical purposes, communication in the Big Easy no longer existed. There was no mail, or package delivery, or cell service. How would someone rat him out? Smoke signal? Perhaps there was a spy in his ranks? Maybe an undercover agent had infiltrated his organization, pretending to be a biker, cartel muscle, or dirty cop?
Determining the reason why someone would turn against him required very little brain power. In the case of the cops or an FBI agent, ratting him out was their job. On the other hand, Blackjack could easily envision any one of his top aides jockeying for a chance to replace Jones at the head of the organizational chart. It is lonely, and dangerous at the top, he observed.
Ready to bug out, Blackjack called two of his security detail back inside his condo and motioned for them to carry out four, heavy duffel bags that constituted his luggage. “I’ll be right down,” he stated, watching the heavily armed bellhops heft his possessions.
After everyone had left the room, Ketchum then hustled for his master closet. He quickly manipulated a hidden latch that exposed an electronic keypad. Each number chirped as he punched in his secret code. A heavy thud signaled the successful combination, as the thick steel bolts disengaged.
Before the collapse, at the height of his underworld empire, Ketchum had been wise enough to invest in several legitimate businesses. One such endeavor had been a locksmith company. Aside from being a profitable venture, Jones considered it wise to keep his finger on the pulse of that industry. After all, what criminal wouldn’t want to know the who, what, when, and where of specialized home safes and high-end security systems?
Reaching inside the hidden vault, Blackjack retrieved two medium-sized bags. One was filled with cash, over $40 thousand in US currency. The other, a more recent addition to his personal stash, was brimming with gold. Everything from Rolex watches to rare coins rattled as he hefted the weighty sack.
When it was clear the police were no longer responding to burglar alarms, Ketchum and Voodoo had dispatched their henchmen to seize pharmacies, warehouses, fuel depots, and other critical locations. Once his well-armed teams were spreading out across the parishes, the two leaders had made a beeline for a local coin shop and gold buyer. Both men sensed that precious metals would eventually become the new currency of the land if society continued to slide. They had, again, been correct.
Ketchum had always planned for the day when his empire would be toppled. Originally, he had believed it would happen when law enforcement chased him out of New Orleans. There were also strong odds that a bold competitor might emerge, and of course, the always-present threat of a rebellion. Knowing he needed a contingency plan, he had purchased property in Belize years ago.
Taking his just-in-case stash out into the hallway, Ketchum verified everyone was ready. “Are the trucks here yet?”
“They just pulled up,” one of the bodyguards announced, offering to take the heavy bags from his boss.
“I got these,” Ketchum nodded, only the briefest flash of appreciation crossing his face.
They hurried down a stairwell and into the building’s covered parking area. There, they found two 4x4 pickups that were splattered with rust, mud, and at least a year’s worth of grime. The two “junkers” wouldn’t attract much attention, and definitely weren’t the type of ride typically employed by Blackjack Jones.
Standing beside the filthy wrecks lurked Grinder, Ketchum’s new second in command. He, like Voodoo, had an extensive military resume. And in his spare time, he had risen through the ranks of the famous New Orleans Headhunters Motorcycle Club.
Nodding his approval of Grinder’s taste in bug-out buggies, Ketchum threw his sacks into the second unit and climbed into the passenger seat. “Let’s roll. We can’t be sure how much information the Army has on our operation. They may know where I live. They might be on their way here right now.”
With the lead vehicle full of his security team and Ketchum riding shotgun in the rear unit, the two-car parade raced away from the building.
Ketchum breathed easier as each city block passed. Distance was life in this situation. Within twenty minutes, the tiny convoy was winding its way through the side streets of the French Quarter.
Always leery of drones or other forms on high-tech observation, Ketchum’s men pulled into a three-story parking garage that had been constructed to host the thousands of tourists flocking to the famous metro area. There was an abundance of cover here, two floors of rebar and concrete blocking the view of any airborne spy.
Hustling to unload, Blackjack’s posse moved to a rear exit and then proceeded down a covered walkway, the awning designed to protect guests from the southern sun and occasional thunderstorms.
Ahead, a door opened as the small party approached. Quickly racing inside, Ketchum was greeted by two more of his security guards, each wielding a sub-machine gun at his chest. “We’ve swept the top floor, boss. We’ve got a generator running on the roof and have installed two window air conditioners. Everything is good to go.”
Nodding his thanks, Ketchum stepped toward the stairwell. The Royal Hotel was old, small in comparison to the national chains, family-owned, and luxurious. While only three stories in height, its Presidential Suite had hosted numerous VIPs and assorted dignitaries. Now, its top floor would serve as the new headquarters for his organization. The stronghold was defendable and plush… its location known to only a handful of his most trusted men.
Turning to one of his leggy, female companions, he pointed toward the sizable and elaborate oil paintings adorning the lobby walls. Smiling for the first time that morning, Ketchum whispered, “Things could be worse.”
They continued down a long corridor, eventually approaching a stairwell. The elevators required more electricity than portable generators could muster. The hotel’s newest guests would have to take the stairs.
More cushy comfort was under their shoes as Blackjack’s entourage entered the top floor. The hallway sported tasteful artwork, a small fountain made of marble mosaic, and ornate trim all around.
The double doors leading to Ketchum’s new digs were open, a cool breeze brushing his face as the window air conditioner fought the Gulf’s humidity. He could barely detect the hum of the generators above.
He inspected the ensuite bath, luxurious tiles and textures beckoning him to relax in comfort. The vanity’s fixtures appeared to be crafted from solid gold. The grand establishment’s complimentary silk robe still hung behind the door.
“This will work,” Ketchum stated after receiving a smiling nod from his favorite girl. “Being on the lam isn’t so bad.”
The detainee sitting across from Captain Holt was about the saddest excuse for a human being the officer had ever seen. Unshaven and unwashed for what smelled like years, his grimy clothing had been ripped in numerous plac
es and appeared to be several sizes too big. His ‘guest’ wore multiple layers of mismatched shirts, probably an attempt at environment control, an adaption required while living a life void of central air conditioning or gas furnaces. In a way, the gent reminded the captain of the homeless people he had encountered before the downfall.
His skin was more than just dirty, his pores stained dark from months and months of constant exposure to filth. His hair was stringy, long, and disheveled… and at one point the captain was sure he had seen lice crawling along one of the oily strands. The man’s unkempt beard was likely the home of a second infestation.
“How old are you?” Holt demanded, somewhat surprised by his own question.
“I will be thirty-five years old in August,” the man replied.
The captain was stunned, having previously estimated the guy at middle age, at least 50 years old. Life must be tough on the streets. The Big Easy should be renamed to the Big Suck , he thought.
“What did you do before the downfall?”
“I used to be a petroleum engineer. I was in New Orleans for a professional conference when the electricity went out. I couldn’t get back to my home to Los Angeles… the airport never reopened. There was a riot at the bus station, and my leg was broken during the violence. My belongings were stolen, and I was left for dead. I’ve been living off the streets ever since.”
As he watched the engineer devour the third MRE since his men had brought him in, Holt’s thoughts turned to those dark days right before the grid collapsed. Los Angeles had been one of three cities attacked with the terrorists’ nerve agent. More than a million souls had perished there. For a second, he wondered if the man across from him knew about the mass murder that had occurred on LA’s highways… Or if the guy’s family might have somehow survived?
Deciding not to broach the subject, the captain returned to his line of questioning. “Do you know Ketchum Jones… a.k.a. Blackjack Jones?”
“Sure, I’ve heard the name. Who hasn’t? He runs things around here,” the famished informant replied, barely chewing before swallowing another mouthful of the government-issued calories.
“Do you know where I can find him?” Holt asked in the softest tone he could manage.
Shaking his head, the vagabond responded, “No, I have no idea. I have managed to stay alive by clinging to the shadows, keeping under the radar. I see his people driving by every now and then, smoking cigarettes, flashing muscle, and hot babes on their arms. For a few months, I slept in an alley behind one of the buildings they used to sell black market liquor. The folks inside ate well and threw out tasty scraps of food every day. It was a nightly feast – until they caught me digging around in their dumpster. They kicked me around a little, threatened to shoot me, and then told me to hit the road. And Mister… that’s exactly what I did.”
Sighing, Holt leaned back in his chair. His men had found nothing but bums and homeless beggars since taking control of the barge. Blackjack’s security team had melted into the woodwork, scurrying away like a bunch of cockroaches fleeing the light.
“I will give you, or anybody else, a case of MREs for information leading to Blackjack Jones’ whereabouts,” the captain offered.
“Tempting,” the engineer replied through a mouthful of corn, his table manners having gone the way of his hygiene. “I can show you where their old hangout is, but it hasn’t been used in months. They’ve probably moved on to bigger and better accommodations. You know, they control the entire city… or what’s left of it.”
For a second, Holt considered taking the man up on his offer. The problem was, he had only two hours before sundown. His ride home would be landing at the pier in 90 minutes. He didn’t want to spend the night in New Orleans unless there was a high probability of accomplishing the remainder of his mission. Chasing criminal breadcrumbs didn’t engender a high level of confidence. Besides, every person he had interviewed so far smelled to high heaven. His nose couldn’t take much more.
Looking up at the burley trooper standing guard by the door, Holt made eye contact with the private. “Take him outside and let him go. He can keep the rest of the MRE.”
As he stood to leave the makeshift interrogation facility, Holt initially felt a sense of disappointment at not having found Ketchum Jones. “We’re not a police force,” the officer mumbled, trying to justify his lack of results. “We achieved the primary objective,” he continued, wondering for a moment if the tugboat from Baton Rouge had arrived to tow off their confiscated bounty of fuel.
“We’re not miracle workers either; we’re combat troops,” he continued, grunting to no one. “Four rifle squads can’t be expected to execute a dragnet over a city this size. The assignment was unrealistic.”
Shaking it off, Captain Holt left the warehouse and motioned to his radioman. “Tell everyone to rally back at the wharf. Our birds will be arriving soon, and I don’t want anybody getting lost in this god-forsaken place.”
Chapter 3
Bishop spotted the dust trail long before he laid eyes on the Humvee rolling down the ranch’s dirt lane. “That would be Nick,” he whispered, saying a silent prayer that his friend was bringing good news.
His focus shot to the box canyon below, zeroing in on his wife. Terri was down there, standing next to their contractor, a set of blueprints spread over the hood of a pickup. They were surrounded by an army of tradesmen, the sounds of hammering, sawing, and machinery filling his ears. The foundation had been finished yesterday. He had climbed to his current perch to get a bird’s-eye view of the layout of his future home.
Wanting to be there when Nick arrived, Bishop rushed toward the path that would lead him off the ridge.
He reached the canyon’s floor just as Nick’s ride pulled in beside the fleet of pickups belonging to the workers. As soon as he made eye contact with his friend, Bishop knew Nick didn’t have anything good to say.
The bulky bandage still covering Nick’s ear and the constant hammering made conversation tough. “Even though they confiscated a barge full of gasoline, they still didn’t manage to capture Mr. Jones,” Nick reported against the background of the construction’s racket.
A quick glance proved that Terri was still unaware of his buddy’s arrival. Bishop leaned in close to get a private, detailed report, “Any new intelligence on Blackjack? Any word on whether or not the asshole is still alive?”
Half hearing and half lip reading, Nick processed the question before responding. “According to the report I received about an hour ago, there were men guarding the barge, but they vanished in thin air when the military rolled in. They interviewed five different people found in the area, but no one would admit to having seen Ketchum Jones in a long time, nor did anyone seem to know his whereabouts.”
Gazing off toward the horizon in disappointment, Bishop seemed lost in thought. Finally, he announced, “Okay. Thanks. I’ll tell Terri. She’s not going to take this well.”
“How is she doing?” Nick asked, subconsciously rubbing his ever-throbbing earlobe.
“She’s okay; just a little jumpy is all. This isn’t the news she wanted to hear, but she’ll be fine. I’ll let her know what happened in New Orleans.”
“I’ll go with you,” Nick offered and then with a sly smile, added, “if she’s not armed, that is.”
Grunting, Bishop motioned for his friend to come along, mumbling, “Trouble likes company.”
Sensing their approach, Terri held up a hand to subdue the contractor’s explanation for why he couldn’t adjust the configuration of the kitchen island. Turning, she knew in an instant that Nick wasn’t there to deliver the type of message she would welcome. “You didn’t find Ketchum Jones,” she blurted out without a greeting.
Before anyone could respond, Terri staggered as if her legs were giving out. Only the pickup’s bumper saved her from falling. Rushing to her side, Bishop and Nick nearly knocked each other over trying to help.
Terri’s eyes still held her question, begging for confi
rmation. Both men shook their heads no, her husband quickly adding, “No one in New Orleans has seen Ketchum since the confrontation in Forest Mist. I still think he’s dead.”
Studying her face, Nick watched as a parade of emotions rushed behind Terri’s eyes. He noted fear, terror, frustration, and then withdrawal. The odd spectacle passed in seconds, and then she regrouped.
Steadying herself and shaking free of the two rescuers, her voice changed to a controlled monotone. “And his threat to burn down the Great Piney Woods?”
“Well, the Army has confiscated his barge of gasoline. Our people in East Texas are still on alert, but I’m fairly convinced that the threat has passed,” Nick answered.
At first, Bishop thought his wife’s inquiry was a positive sign. His mate was worried about the Alliance. That was the old Terri shining through. She was still in there.
His hopes were quickly dashed, however, by her next statement. “So that means the hunt for Ketchum Jones is over. That animal is still going to be walking around, free to put other people through hell, just like he did to me… err… Forest Mist.”
“We don’t know that he’s still alive, Terri. In fact, all the evidence points to the contrary. We’ve gone through this a dozen times, sweetie,” Bishop offered.
“He’s alive,” she replied, her eyes burning hot with hatred. “I know he is.”
“He won’t make it far if he decides to come back to the Lone Star Nation,” Nick offered. “Sheriff Watts and the military are on the lookout. He wouldn’t dare step foot in the Alliance.”
Shaking her head, Terri’s voice was barely a whisper, “I wish I could believe that. Now, if you two gentlemen don’t mind, I’ve got a house to build. Thanks for coming out personally, Nick. Give Diana my love.”
