windows, I glimpse a faint purple glow coming from inside.
A cold tremor runs through my body, head to toe.
Someone’s in there.
Chapter 67
I PULL over down the block and cut the engine.
Keeping my palm on the grip of my pistol, tucked into my jeans, I crouch low and creep back toward the vacant house.
Here we go.
I tiptoe across the crackly dried brown lawn and up to the window with the light inside. I lean in and try to squint through the cracks.
But I can’t see shit.
So I put my ear up to it.
And hear some muffled voices.
My pulse practically doubles as I slowly back away from the window and move around the rear of the house now.
I’m looking for the best way to make a stealth entry, but I don’t see any side doors. Guess I only have one option.
When I reach the front porch, I hurry up its rickety wooden steps and lean my back against the wall next to the door—which I see is slightly ajar.
I draw my pistol. Keep it pointed at the ground. And try to steady my nerves.
I’ve made tactical entries like this a million times before. But always as part of a team. Usually wearing a Kevlar vest. And never with stakes this high.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment to silence those noisy thoughts. Before they can return, I nudge the door open a few more inches and steal a peek inside.
The entryway looks clear. No suspects. No trip wires or cameras, either.
Just a hint of that indigo light emanating from somewhere farther inside.
Raising my gun, I push the door open all the way and “slice the pie”—a police technique for spinning while entering a hostile space to maximize cover and visibility.
The moment I step inside, a harsh stench burns my nostrils.
It’s not mold or drugs or a rotting body, the stuff you’d expect to find inside a vacant home. It’s some kind of industrial-strength chemicals. God only knows what for.
Keeping my sidearm aimed high and my senses sharp, I pad down the dark, claustrophobically narrow hallway. With every step, the wood floor creaks and groans.
I pass by what was once the living room. Empty.
The dining room. Empty.
I round a corner and reach the master bedroom. Empty.
But I can see where the purple light is coming from: the kitchen.
I can hear those garbled voices, too. Sounds like they’re speaking…Spanish?
I edge closer. Closer. Closer. Until I’m standing right by the kitchen doorway.
I brace myself. I slice the pie again.
“Police!” I yell. “Don’t move!”
I’m gut-struck by what I see.
Nothing and nobody.
Huh?
The whole kitchen has a ghostly violet hue—thanks to a portable camping lantern with a tinted bulb resting on one of the counters.
And those Spanish-speakers, it turns out, are just voices from a radio call-in show, wafting from a cheap plastic boom box nearby.
I moan with rage and despair. Deep and guttural.
This place was the safe house! Something was going on in here!
But what?
I glance around the bizarre scene, scanning for any clues.
I realize my fingernails and the threads in my clothes are glowing white, which tells me the tinted bulb is probably a UV black light.
But why? I thought these bastards were building a bomb, not a nightclub.
And how come they just left all this shit in here? Did they rush out in a hurry and forget it? Or was it intentional, some kind of calling card, a cryptic message for whoever found it?
None of it makes any sense.
Any goddamn sense at all.
In a fit of fury, I sweep the radio off the counter and stomp on it. It shatters into pieces, making the voices sound garbled and distorted. I hit it again with my foot and the voices stop.
My head starts to throb. My knees begin to wobble.
I sink to the filthy linoleum floor. Drowning in helplessness and desperation.
My investigation just hit another dead end.
The trail has run bone-dry.
I can’t move. I can’t think. I can’t even stand.
I’ve got nothing.
Nothing at all.
And Mardi Gras is just hours away.
Chapter 68
“SORRY, SIR, we’re closed.”
The valet is waving his hands at me as I step out of my car.
I’m parked in front of Petite Amie, the Garden District saloon-turned-bistro owned by Billy Needham, David’s cousin. He’s the guy who comped me that incredible meal a week ago.
He’s also the one who told me about all the strife and discord tearing his family apart. About David’s paranoia. His threats of violence.
Billy’s the reason I tumbled down this rabbit hole in the first place. Coming here tonight is