by Juno Rushdan
The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee wafted through the space. He knew that it was painful for her to operate in the morning without a cup of hot black java.
She ran her palm across the sheet, where he had slept snuggled up against her, and found the spot cold, as though he’d been gone awhile. Much longer than to dash out to get breakfast from Henri. Charlie buried her face in his pillow and smelled him on it.
The scent was comforting and made her ache for the feel of his warmth at her back, the weight of his arm draped over her.
They were neck-deep in a disaster, gambling everything on the choices and actions they made today, and she had never slept better in her entire life than she had last night with Aiden curled around her.
Home. Aiden was her home. Her constant that would never change. No matter how horribly the world fell apart, as long as they were together, she’d be able to deal with it.
Footsteps thudded up the exterior stairs. Aiden.
He unlocked the door and swept inside carrying two plates of food covered in aluminum foil. “Good morning. I have breakfast casserole with andouille sausage, eggs and potatoes, and bananas Foster French toast.”
“Mmm. It smells delicious. If Aunt Henri keeps this up, we’ll never want to leave.”
He set the plates on the counter and unwrapped them.
“You were gone a long time.” She slipped a shirt on and padded over to him. “Where were you?”
Leaning over, he cupped the back of her head and kissed her gently. Tenderly. “I went to Jackson Square to put things in position while it was still dark, before the FBI sets up.”
“You should’ve woken me. I would’ve gone with you.”
“It only required one of us to take care of it and I wanted to let you sleep.”
He was amazing, beautiful, impossibly sweet and so much more than she deserved.
Rising on the balls of her feet, she threw her arm around his neck and kissed him again. “Thanks. But we should stick together.”
He poured two cups of coffee and handed her one. “Hurry up and eat, then get dressed. Junior is waiting downstairs to give us a ride so we can check out locations.”
She dug into the breakfast and silently sang Henri’s praises.
“Which one of us is going to call Enzo and get him in play?” Aiden asked.
“You’re better at sweet-talking than I am.”
“Sweet won’t work on him. I think he needs the way you talk.”
Charlie shrugged. “If you think so.”
Aiden picked up her jeans and pulled out the business card Enzo had given her with his personal cell number. He dialed using one of the new burners and put the call on speaker.
“Who is this?” Enzo snapped over the line.
“Someone looking to make a deal.” She waited, letting his brain wake up and register what she’d said. “If you want what I have on you, then you’ll do what I say.”
“Listen, sugar. You don’t realize who you’re speaking to. Nobody tells me what to do.”
“Welcome to your new reality. Let’s get something straight. I’m not your sugar, your babe or your sweetie.” She kept her tone sharp as a switchblade. “I’m your guardian angel. If you’re smart enough to want to stay out of prison, you’ll do exactly as I say.”
A breath of hesitation. “Go on.”
“You’re going to hit Big Bill where it’ll hurt. His brothels. Where he processes his drugs. You’re going to make it loud and ugly so Bill has to take notice. The strike happens at two thirty this afternoon. Don’t be early. Don’t be late.”
“Are you trying to start a war?” Enzo asked. “I haven’t been sanctioned to take that kind of action.”
“Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission. Two thirty. Do this and Bill will no longer be a factor in New Orleans.”
* * *
THE BELLS OF the St. Louis Cathedral finished clanging, marking the hour. Noon.
With a red hat on and matching T-shirt, Garcia stood in Jackson Square next to the tree marked on the postcard. It had multiple trunks and wasn’t much taller than her five feet ten inches. The offbeat pulse of the French Quarter vibrated around the square.
Adrenaline was the only thing keeping her upright. She was exhausted from spending the night searching for Big Bill Walsh and Tommy Guillory, reviewing security footage of the casino and cross-referencing it with CCTV coverage. She’d only discerned that Walsh had sneaked out in the back of one of the delivery trucks at the casino. The normal schedule had been changed. Deliveries had been deliberately stacked to occur at the same time. The chaos had been too much for two agents to properly monitor.
Walsh and Guillory had slipped through their fingers. They were up to something and it wasn’t good. She knew it deep down.
Every chance she had, she’d slogged through more of the audio recording from the restaurant, but there were four more hours to go and she still had no idea where Big Bill was squirreled away.
Garcia scanned her surroundings. Her agents had been in place, rotating positions for the past two hours in various disguises. A homeless man, shuffling around the square. A psychic seated at a small card table on the fringe. Jensen and the agent from Hattiesburg were camped out on a bench fifty feet away, pretending to be a couple, chatting and drinking coffee. The one from Pascagoula pushed a baby stroller with a doll inside and the other from Gulfport was dressed as a jogger, earbuds in, hanging around the vicinity.
A shiver slid down her spine and she sensed she was being watched. And not by one of her own. That spark of awareness every woman got when unwanted eyes were on her.
It was Aiden Yazzie and Charlotte Killinger. Garcia sensed it in her bones.
Their prints came back first thing this morning with a positive ID on both, and she’d picked up the alert notification that had gone through the FQ Task Force app, placing them in this area yesterday afternoon. None of it was coincidence.
Dirty marshals on the lam contacting the FBI was a first. Maybe they wanted to work out a plea deal in exchange for the evidence they had. Better to make arrangements to be taken into custody unharmed than catch an accidental bullet on the run.
Garcia and her people were prepared to apprehend them without incident. She kept her head on a swivel, surveying the area.
They were out there somewhere and could be in a dozen different places blending in. The Washington Artillery Park. St. Louis Cathedral. Watching from a shop on St. Ann Street or St. Peter.
Garcia glanced at her watch. Two minutes past noon.
A cell phone rang, but it wasn’t hers. The ringtone was the song “Bad Boys” by Inner Circle. Loud and close and designed to draw attention.
She followed the sound, tracking it to the palm tree with a cluster of trunks that had been circled on the postcard. The ringing cell phone had been duct-taped to the inner side of one of the trunks in the bunch near the fronds. She hopped up and ripped it off.
There was a flash drive taped to the phone.
She separated the drive and answered. “This is Assistant Special Agent in Charge Ava Garcia.”
“I take it you know who I am,” a smooth male voice said.
“You’re Aiden Yazzie.” She looked around, trying to pinpoint him or Killinger. “You know, this conversation would be easier to have face-to-face.”
“I can see your face,” he said in a friendly, conversational tone. “Do you have the drive?”
“I do. It would be best if you came out now, with your hands above your head. I promise no harm will come to either of you as long as you don’t resist arrest.”
“We’re not turning ourselves in. Not until we’ve rescued the witness we lost.”
Edgar Plinski. “You were the ones who gunned down fellow law enforcement officers and allowed Albatross to be taken.” After reading the despicable details of the case, she’d
found out the witness’s code name.
“We’re innocent,” he said. “We were set up by the crew who ambushed us. They’re crooked NOPD SWAT officers out of the Fifth District, hired by Bill Walsh. They’re led by Frank Devlin.”
Garcia knew the name. She’d suspected Devlin was dirty for a while, and when he turned out to be the only eyewitness accusing Yazzie and Killinger, it had struck her as fishy. Too convenient.
“If you dig,” Yazzie said, “you’ll find that Devlin and three other owners of The Merry Men bar were out of town Friday.”
The FBI’s top criminal investigative priority was public corruption. Any violations of federal law by public officials at the federal, state and local levels of government. She’d heard rumors about rotten apples in the Fifth District reaching the highest branches of power, but no one had been able to prove anything. One dead end after another. Sometimes literally, with witnesses having accidents or disappearing.
However, a fugitive’s say-so wasn’t going to cut the mustard. Even if Devlin and his buddies had been out of town, it wasn’t proof. It was circumstantial at best.
“We’ve promised Walsh that he can have the flash drive you’re holding,” Yazzie said, “in exchange for giving us back Albatross, alive and unharmed.”
Garcia scoffed. “And how do you see that playing out?”
“I foresee you using the information on the drive to put away Walsh and Enzo Romero. That evidence along with more has been sent to the DOJ. At the meet, Walsh will have his men try to kill us.”
“What’s to stop them from doing that?”
“Hopefully, you.”
“Come again?”
“We’re asking for your help. Call it interagency cooperation. The rendezvous will take place at three o’clock. In a public place that’s less than one mile from where you’re standing.”
The FBI had achieved great success in combating corruption thanks in large part to working with other agencies on a federal, state, local and tribal law enforcement level, including the Department of Justice and by extension the US Marshals Service, but what Yazzie proposed was well outside of legal bounds.
“Give me the location now,” Garcia said.
“I can’t do that.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.”
Provided he was telling the truth, her people would be able to respond quickly if the location was less than a mile away, but she preferred going in early ahead of time. “If you truly want to cooperate with the FBI, you wouldn’t stonewall. Full disclosure.”
“Proof of our cooperation is on the flash drive you’re holding.”
“Why not share the site of the meet?”
“I’ll give you six reasons. The vagrant, the two sitting on the bench chitchatting like they’re a couple, the tarot reader in blue with sunglasses, jogger wearing track pants, woman pushing a stroller on your left. All six are yours. If I tell you where, you’ll scare off Walsh. He and Devlin will spot your agents.”
“Then how am I supposed to help you?”
“Keep the phone in your hand close. We’ll call again from a different number when the time is right.”
The call ended.
Slapping the flip phone closed, Garcia grunted in frustration and slid it into her pocket.
Jensen stared at her, waiting. When she shook her head that the marshals turning themselves in was a no-go, he came over. “Anything useful?”
“Maybe.” Hopefully. “According to them, Walsh has Albatross. They claim they’re innocent and are meeting Walsh to get their witness back. Supposedly this drive,” she said, holding it up, “has everything we need to put away Walsh and Romero.”
“Why would they give it to you when they could use it as leverage?”
Leverage? Hell, it was probably worth millions. “They say they’re innocent. That they were set up by the people who kidnapped Albatross.”
“Do they know who?”
“Aiden Yazzie swears it was Frank Devlin and several other SWAT officers.”
Jensen’s brow furrowed and he looked down like something had occurred to him. “Devlin was at Avido’s yesterday afternoon.”
“What?” Garcia rocked back on her heels. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“He was there during regular business hours. It could’ve been just to eat, and once Walsh disappeared, finding him was our only focus.”
Didn’t it occur to Jensen that the two incidents could’ve been related?
If what Yazzie had told her was true, Devlin probably went to Avido’s to coordinate payment and the drop-off of Albatross.
Garcia shoved the flash drive in Jensen’s hand. “Have everyone stay close by for the next couple of hours and I want you to verify the contents of the drive.” She turned and took off.
“Where are you going?” he called after her.
“To check the end of the recording from Avido’s. See if we got the conversation.”
Chapter Eighteen
After Bill had waited twenty-one hours, the burner phone on his side table in the small passenger cabin buzzed.
Audubon Aquarium. Send a picture of Edgar Plinski standing in front of the aquarium sign, Canal Street side, by three o’clock, or the deal is off. No Devlin.
Bill chuckled. The gumption of those marshals to think they could dictate to him. Bill would be crazy not to show up with Devlin, the most merciless monster on his payroll, to finish this.
With only thirty minutes to be at the aquarium, they needed to get going.
Stretching, he held his hands up and stared at the bloodstains under his nails. He should’ve worn gloves before he ripped out a few of Edgar’s teeth.
Out of all the ways he’d tortured Edgar, for hours, none had brought Bill more than a modicum of the satisfaction that he sought.
He sighed but was comforted by the knowledge that soon the marshals would be dead, and Edgar would be his to do with as Bill pleased.
Then he’d work through his pain and grief with his fists.
Someone pounded on his cabin door. “Uncle Bill! Open up!”
Bill threw on his suit jacket, slicked back his hair and hit the lever, opening the door. “What is it?”
“Enzo. He’s making a play.”
“For the brothels?’
“No. For everything! His men are at both the apartment buildings, rounding up the girls, kicking out the johns, taking the money, and they’re also at the processing plant. He’s stealing our dope.”
Had the whole world gone mad? An hour ago, Bill had been on the precipice of ruling New Orleans again. Now he was being threatened on all fronts.
“We’ve got to get over there and stop him,” Tommy said.
“I can’t. I have to head out for the meet.” Bill left his room and walked with Tommy down the narrow corridor. “If I’m not there, I’ll lose the drive.”
“You’re losing everything else right this minute.”
Bill cursed the bad timing of things. Enzo must’ve noticed that he wasn’t around and decided it was the perfect time to make his move. Damn vulture.
“You go handle it, Tommy.” Bill knocked on Devlin’s door and said, “It’s time. We’ve got twenty-seven minutes. Grab Edgar and let’s go.”
“You want me to handle it?” Tommy asked, following Bill as he pushed through the outer door into the sunlight.
“Yeah, you. This will all be yours someday. You’ve got just as much of a stake in it as I do, and I trust you to deal with it.” He clasped his nephew’s shoulder and that seemed to calm him. “Take the boys with you.”
“Are you sure? Who’s gonna cover your back?”
“I’ve got Devlin and his crew. They’re more than enough. After we’re finished, I’ll come help you get back what’s ours.”
* * *
WEARING THEIR
WIGS and sunglasses, Charlie and Aiden leisurely finished their snack at the eatery, blending in. Once done, they strolled from the Café du Monde, where they’d observed Special Agent Garcia during their phone call, down by the river toward the Audubon Aquarium. They were both armed: tactical knives, suppressed firearms, and her telescoping baton was hooked to her belt loop and covered by her button-up shirt that she wore open over her tee.
If they could use nonlethal means, they would. Limiting collateral damage was a huge concern. They’d do everything in their power to protect innocent lives.
As they crossed through a playground, laughter from the kids playing there filled the air. Without meaning to, she looked over at the children whooshing down a slide.
She thought of the sacrifice Aiden was making by choosing to be with her.
The guilt she’d been trying so damn hard to ignore sank into her chest, an ache flaring sudden and sharp behind her breastbone.
But she had to shift focus, stay on target. On the mission. On getting Albatross back from those crooked cops who’d ambushed them, taken out their tires, sprayed paint on the windows, faked a bomb, used smoke and thermal scopes.
That fired her up, pushing the sadness aside.
Passing the sandbox, Charlie bent down, scooped up two healthy palmfuls of grains and put them into her pocket.
“What’s that for?” Aiden asked, hiking the backpack up on his shoulder.
“To fight dirty.” If given the chance. “Like them,” she said, anger resonating in her voice.
“Don’t worry. We’re going to give them a dose of their own medicine.”
They had a plan to do precisely that.
They entered the aquarium flashing the handstamp they’d received earlier when they’d paid and scoped out the place. Once again, the backpack hadn’t been searched. Good thing, too, because Aiden had more than duct tape inside.
The main exhibits were emptying, as parents with kids and others were making their way to the Entergy Giant Screen Theater. The IMAX theater was connected to and run by the aquarium but had a separate entrance outside.
The 3D larger-than-life movies explored nature, shown with the most advanced motion picture technology, and were a huge draw. They timed the meet to coincide around a show to reduce the number of civilians that would be inside the aquarium.
