by BJ Bourg
“According to the feds, Shannon has been involved in terror operations around the world,” I continued. “Including the bombing of an oil refinery out east that killed thirty-seven people.” I shook my head. “I’ve always said killers are like books—you can slap a great cover on a horrible book, but you’ll never know it’s bad until it’s too late.”
Dawn chewed on her lower lip for a few seconds. “If Anthony Browning was so careful, how’d you figure out it was him?”
I told her about the receipt I found outside her house and the photograph of the thumb injury.
“And the polygraph examiner?” Dawn asked. “Did they take his family hostage, too?”
I shook my head. “He was one of Shannon’s boys who’d been working on the inside for years. There were some eco terrorist plants in the crowd who were supposed to stampede and disguise Myers’ actions if he was forced to do the shooting, but Abraham took him out before the shooting could take place.”
Dawn was about to ask another question when a doctor walked into the lobby. Priscilla and Darby jumped up from the far corner of the room where they’d been nervously waiting and rushed to the doctor. He began talking before Dawn and I walked up, but we reached them in time to hear him say Evan Luke was out of surgery and was going to be okay.
With the good news in hand, I kissed Dawn goodbye and walked outside to meet Ben in the parking lot. We had recovered Patrick’s body after local detectives had finished working the scene out at the Chism homestead and Ben had flown it to the county coroner’s office to be autopsied.
“Did they find any family for Patrick?” I asked.
“They got in touch with his ex-wife and she gave them the address for his dad.”
I nodded and turned to lean against a post, watching Dawn through the window. Even with a swollen nose and raccoon eyes she was beautiful. Not only was she beautiful, but she was tough and intelligent and everything I could ever want in a woman. “If things work out the way I want them to,” I said in a low voice, “I’m going to marry her.”
“Well,” Ben said, rubbing his sweaty hands on his potbelly. “Nothing ever works out the way we want them to.”
Book Six:
BLOOD RISE
CHAPTER 1
Fifteen years earlier…
Bourbon Street, New Orleans
Virgil Brunner loved his wife, Skylar, but he didn’t like her anymore. They’d only been married two years and she’d already stopped being the fun-loving girl he’d fallen in love with several years ago. Had they met in a library or a church, he might’ve had different expectations and wouldn’t have gone forward with the marriage, but she had advertised one thing and delivered something else. So, here he was, out on Bourbon Street—or Sin City—alone, because she refused to go out with him anymore.
Virgil grinned as he stared down into the glassy eyes of the young blonde who was grinding against him on the dance floor. Not exactly alone, he thought. If he remembered right, this beauty’s name was Amber and she was from Alabama. He thought she said something about being in college, but he didn’t really care. He didn’t want her number and he didn’t want to see her again. He simply wanted someone to hang out with tonight.
“Are you having fun, Amber?” he asked, yelling to be heard over the loud music and raucous crowd in the tight bar.
She bobbed her head up and down, her long hair plastered to the side of her sweaty pale face. “It’s the best Mardi Gras ever!”
He placed his hand firmly against the small of her back and pulled her closer, smiling with anticipation when he felt the firmness of her breasts against his chest. “Want to get out of here?”
Her eyes twinkling, she nodded and shoved her cold hands up under the back of his shirt. “What do you have in mind, Cajun Man?”
“Where’s the craziest place you ever had sex?” It was a bold move, he knew, but Virgil thought she was ready for it. She’d complimented him on his dark and toned frame and had been running her fingers through his dark hair all night, and they’d even made out on the dance floor three or four times. She also hadn’t protested when he cupped one of her breasts during a slow song.
She giggled. “I don’t know…in the forest, maybe?”
“Well, I’m going to take you to the jungle!” Virgil grabbed her hand and gently led her toward the door. She didn’t resist and even ran ahead of him as they busted out onto the crowded streets. The parade was making its way down Bourbon and they stopped to watch an approaching float. People were jockeying for position and a few fights broke out every time something cool flew from the hands of one of the crew members on the floats. Sirens screamed from somewhere toward the back of the floats and Amber had to lean close to him.
“I want a bead!” she screamed into Virgil’s ear. “Help me get something cool to take back home!”
Virgil pushed his way through the drunken crowd, making a hole for Amber. Once they were standing beside the large float, which was lumbering by and rocking back and forth to the beat of its dancing crew, Virgil began yelling up at them. “Throw me something, mister!”
Amber began yelling with him and they waved their hands in the air, but they were invisible amongst the legions of other parade-goers.
“There’s one trick that’s always guaranteed to work,” Virgil shouted in Amber’s ear. “Want to try it?”
“Sure!” she shouted back, her breath warm on his ear.
Virgil slipped behind Amber and reached for the bottom of her shirt. He felt her stomach quiver as his fingers brushed against her soft and smooth skin. “Are you ready?” he asked.
She took a deep breath and looked up over her shoulder at him. He saw her bite her lower lip and nod, a mischievous grin playing at the corners of her mouth.
Virgil jerked her shirt upward, snagging his fingers against her bra on his way up, exposing her plump breasts for the world to see. It immediately got the attention of several crew members. They broke out exotic beads, stuffed bears, and roses, allowing them to rain down on Amber and Virgil.
Amber shrieked in joy and quickly pulled her shirt back down, taking a second to adjust her bra before collecting a stuffed bear and a rose from the wet pavement. Promising Amber they’d return for more loot, Virgil guided her away from the parade and toward the back of the crowd. He led the way down the sidewalk and then hooked a right onto St. Peter Street. As they walked farther down the street, the sounds of the parade grew lighter behind them.
“Where are you taking me?” Amber asked, bumping playfully into Virgil.
“To a special place,” he said, wrapping his arm around her waist. As they continued walking down the dark street, lights from a doorway loomed ahead and Virgil realized they were approaching the bar where he’d proposed to Skylar four years ago. It had been their third date and he was certain she was the one. He frowned as he remembered how they had hit it off when they’d first met, and how different he thought his life would be with her.
He’d met her in a local bar while visiting his dad back home. They’d spent about thirty minutes talking before he asked if she wanted to ditch her friends and go someplace quiet. She’d readily agreed and they ended up at his dad’s shop, where he convinced her to go for a boat ride. They rode around on the water until he found a stretch of bayou that was dark and secluded, and they had sex on the hard bottom of the boat. From that moment on, they were hooked on having sex outdoors.
Their third date, which was the night they got engaged, had been one of the best, albeit not the most adventurous. They’d spent the night on Bourbon Street before stumbling into a little dive on a side street where he’d gotten up on the bar and proposed to her in front of God and everyone. Immediately afterward, they’d found a nearby alley where they stripped off their clothes and began having sex against some boxes—until a New Orleans cop shined his bright light in their direction.
The cop had been cool and kept walking, but it ruined the moment. They later found a quiet and dark spot down by the Mississippi Riv
er to finish their love-making session and to celebrate their engagement. Drunk and tired, they’d passed out under the stars and woke up naked in each other’s arms early the next morning, a group of tourists laughing and pointing at them from the River Walk above.
That was the beginning of what he thought the rest of his life would look like, but he was wrong.
While their relationship centered around sex mostly, they also enjoyed doing other things together, like bar-hopping, dancing, and hosting parties. It didn’t matter the occasion, they always made up a reason to party and they often left their guests behind to find a place to have sex. Well, that was until about a year ago when Skylar started talking about having kids and moving back home to be closer to their parents. She suddenly didn’t want to have friends over to party, she didn’t want to drink as much, and she didn’t think it was appropriate to have daredevil sex everywhere they went. She talked about conceiving a child in a loving and healthy environment, and she started nagging Virgil anytime he smoked cigarettes or had a drink.
“Drinking alcohol lowers your sperm count,” Skylar would complain, “and smoking reduces the quality of sperm. I want our baby to be healthy and happy.”
CHAPTER 2
“Hey, why aren’t you talking anymore?” Amber asked, her Alabama accent breaking through Virgil’s thoughts. “Are you too old to keep up with me?”
Shaking off the guilt that began tugging at his chest, Virgil grunted and pulled on Amber’s hand, nearly dragging her down the street. “We’re almost there.”
When they reached the narrow alley where he and Skylar had engaged in proposal sex, he looked up and down the street to make sure no one would see them ducking into it. Other than the spooky glow from the street lamps and the distant drone of the rocking parade, nothing moved.
Virgil nodded and stepped into the deep shadows between the two buildings and picked his way toward the far end, which opened up onto Pinewood Street. They were halfway down the alley when he heard some voices up ahead. He felt Amber’s nails dig into the flesh of his forearm.
“Do you hear that?” she asked, hissing her words. “We’re not alone.”
Virgil peered through the darkness and—against the glow from Pinewood Street—could see the shadows of two men standing near the far opening to the alley. They were leaning forward, as though they were looking down at something, and movement at the men’s feet confirmed for Virgil that there was a man hunched over.
“Stay here,” he whispered to Amber.
“Why? What are you going to do?”
“I just want to get closer to see what’s going on.”
Virgil stepped silently forward and finally got close enough to hear what was happening.
“…know you got the loot,” the man closest to Virgil was saying. “Now hand it over before I beat your ass.”
“I don’t have anything,” a weak and tired voice said. “I swear…I didn’t get anything all day.”
“That’s bullshit,” said the man farthest from Virgil, kicking the homeless man in the ribs. The homeless man folded over with a grunt. “I saw people throw money in your box—now hand it over!”
Virgil sighed. He worked as a detective in a neighboring parish and had pounded his share of assholes, but he preferred to spend his off-duty time loving rather than fighting. He stole a glance into the darkness behind him, where Amber was waiting. He could see her porcelain skin glowing in the night, and thought about returning to her.
“I’m not going to say it again,” hollered one of the men. “Give…me…the…money.”
With each word, Virgil heard a sickening thump and the homeless man wailed in pain. He cursed silently. There were two of them and one of him, which meant he could pull his gun—if he had it. He didn’t believe in mixing alcohol and firearms, so he never took his pistol out partying, but he was wishing for it now. Still, he stood a better chance against two thugs than some helpless homeless guy, so he sighed and stepped forward. When he had moved close enough to be seen in the dim light, he whistled sharply.
The man nearest him spun around and took up a fighting stance. The man wore an oversized red T-shirt, baggy jeans, and orange shoes. His hands were clenched into fists and Virgil could see a row of tattoos down his forearms. One was a middle finger followed by the words, All of you.
“Who the hell are you?” Middle Finger asked, his voice low and menacing.
“That’s my boy you’re kicking.” Virgil tried not to sound too aggressive. “Why don’t you get the hell out of here before you piss off me and my friends?”
The second man, who wore a green long sleeved shirt, tight jeans, and white sneakers, also turned to face Virgil. Virgil scowled when the light illuminated the man’s face, wondering what he’d just stumbled upon. Atop the second man’s head, there was a baseball cap displaying a New Orleans Police Department badge.
“What friends?” asked the Badge, tilting his head to see beyond Virgil. “I see nothing but a scared little girl.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Virgil could see the homeless man scooting toward the opening to the alley, dragging his body one inch at a time. If he made it out the alley, Virgil could disengage and everything should be fine. He just needed to buy some time.
“My buddies are right behind me,” Virgil said, “and they don’t play around.”
Middle Finger suddenly sprang forward and hit Virgil right in the face. The move was so sudden and unexpected, it caught him off guard, and he stumbled backward. His upper lip burned something awful and blood poured down his face. Before he could regain his balance, the Badge closed in on him and hit him in the stomach. Virgil had been punched in the stomach many times in his life, but he’d never felt the air leave his lungs like it did just then.
He struck out blindly, trying to suck air through his mouth as he did. He managed only to choke on his own blood. Shadows and flashes of light whirled around as he moved frantically in the tight quarters. His right hand, which was his strong hand, connected with someone’s face and he heard an angry grunt. He felt contact against his torso and a burning pain seared through his flesh.
“Help! Help me!” called a voice from somewhere ahead of him. “My friend’s being stabbed!”
It was only then that Virgil fully understood the source of his pain and shortness of breath. I’m being stabbed!
As people began to shout from the sidewalk, Badge and Middle Finger quickly backed away and disappeared around the corner. Virgil stepped toward Pinewood Street, where a crowd of onlookers had gathered to see the commotion. He couldn’t get air into his lungs and felt drowsy. He glanced down and saw blood all over his shirt. He lifted the shirt and dabbed at the hole on the left side of his chest. Blood and bubbles sprayed from the hole with each breath he took.
A figure suddenly appeared by his side and steadied him. “You need to lie down.”
Virgil recognized the voice as that of the homeless man who’d been getting his ass beat.
“Dear Lord, is he going to be okay?” Amber asked from the alley behind him.
Virgil allowed himself to be lowered to the ground. As panic began to set in, he felt around with his hands. The concrete was wet and sticky. He didn’t know if it was from his blood or the stale beer and rancid urine that tortured his nostrils.
“Help me,” he said, wheezing. “I don’t want to die like this.”
“Take off your bra and press it firmly against that cut,” the homeless man said to Amber, pointing to the wound he wanted her to address. Virgil thought he saw a tattoo on the homeless man’s inner forearm that looked like a doctor’s symbol—two serpents wrapped around a stick with wings—and that confused him even more.
This guy must be an angel, he thought. God’s giving me a second chance!
The homeless man hollered at someone in the crowd to hand him a plastic bag or a rain coat. When they did, he pressed it against the sucking wound in Virgil’s chest and he began to breathe a little better.
Scared and des
perate, Virgil looked around until he found Amber’s eyes. He clutched at her arm. “Please…take my phone and…and call…please call my wife.” He stopped to take a breath. “Tell her I love her…and that…and that I’m sorry.”
“You have a wife?” Amber jerked her arm away from Virgil and jumped to her feet. “You’re an asshole!”
CHAPTER 3
7:35 a.m., Saturday, August 16
Present day Magnolia Parish
“Blue Summit Mountain Rentals,” answered a lady in a Tennessee mountain twang. “How can I help you?”
“Yes, ma’am, this is London Carter,” I said over the phone, keeping my voice low so Dawn couldn’t hear me. “I reserved a cabin for seven nights and I just wanted to confirm that I’ll be arriving tomorrow afternoon at three.”
The woman on the other end paused for a few seconds and I could hear some papers rustling. When she got back on the phone, she said, “I have you right here…London Carter, checking in August seventeenth, checking out August twenty-fourth. I see you’re coming from Louisiana. Don’t forget we’re in a different time zone, so you’ll lose an hour once you get through Georgia. If you’re not here by four-thirty, we’ll text you a code to retrieve your key in the night locker.”
After asking a few more questions, I thanked her and hung up. I then peeked through the kitchen window. Dawn was sitting at the table cleaning her pistol. All she knew was that we were going on vacation where there’d be bears—hence the readying of her pistol—and we’d have to drive for eleven hours. It had been fourteen months since the attempt on the vice president’s life and, thankfully, everything had returned to normal in Magnolia Parish. While we still carried heavy case loads at work, the year had been filled with burglaries and thefts mostly, with a few armed robberies, two kidnappings, and one domestic murder. All in all, it had been a typical year in our southern Louisiana parish, but we both needed a vacation.
