seat and settle in—for the most unsettling ninety minutes of my life.
Agent Morgan glares at me one more time, and then his team proceed to walk us through, in meticulous detail, how the FBI plans to protect the roughly one million people expected to fill the streets for the day-long, city-wide extravaganza.
Morgan is doing his best to project a sense of calm and confidence. But it’s obvious that Cunningham was right.
The feds are clueless. And scared shitless. Just like the rest of us.
In addition to setting up a dedicated inter-agency communication hotline, Morgan explains that seventy-five extra federal agents flew in from DC to assist. They’ll be posted up and down the parade routes, both in uniform and plain clothes.
Infrared CCTV cameras have been temporarily installed around the French Quarter and surrounding areas. The footage will be fed, in real-time, through a state-of-the-art piece of facial recognition software developed by the NSA, known as EnVision.
Tactical drones—civilian versions of the kind used by American soldiers in Afghanistan and Iraq—will also be deployed to provide additional eyes in the sky.
Morgan’s voice has grown hoarse by the time he shares the final, and most chilling, component of the FBI’s security plan.
Eleven highly-sensitive “particle detectors” have also been installed around the city, on loan from Homeland Security. About the size of a loaf of bread, they’re designed to detect airborne radioactive particles.
Just in case—God help us—the terrorists are planning to set off a “dirty bomb.”
“Agent Morgan?” I interrupt, shooting to my feet. “Hang on. You’re really telling us there could be a goddamn nuke here in New Orleans? That—that’s madness!”
The audience grumbles in agreement. Morgan narrows his gaze at me.
“What I’m telling you is, there’s a chance. Slim, but real. And I’d rather us be overcautious than underprepared. Any other questions before we move on?”
I think, that’s it?
That’s all there is?
“Hold on,” I cry out. “That’s it? Morgan”—and I deliberately leave his title out as an insult—“you owe the folks in this room and the citizens of New Orleans the truth.”
“Look, Rooney, there’s no time—”
“Time? You’ve been wasting time! For Christ’s sake, what about Ibrahim Farzat, the Syrian refugee who was tortured to death? Who was with an Islamic-based charity group that’s a cover for a terrorist organization? An organization supported by a local businessman? Hell, yesterday I caught an Aryan Brotherhood member involved in the plot and practically dropped him in your useless lap!”
Morgan looks both exhausted and infuriated, and before I can announce David Needham’s connection, Superintendent Fontaine steps up next to Morgan like a baseball manager protecting his star pitcher.
“Rooney, that’s it,” he bellows. “You shouldn’t be here, not at all, despite what your former boss says.”
“But I—”
Fontaine holds up a hand, like a traffic cop trying to stop an out-of-control vehicle—me!—coming his way. “Special Agent Morgan has kept us all briefed on their investigation, including the little bits of confusion and misdirection you’ve come up with…which hasn’t been corroborated or found to have any merit. So before you slander a prominent member of our business community and waste additional time, I suggest you sit down and keep your mouth shut.”
There’s a murmur of disapproval from my former comrades-in-arms, and I feel a savage sense of contentment that at least they’re backing me up.
Fontaine adds, “Anything else…Rooney?”
“More of a suggestion,” I say grimly, sitting down. “Maybe we should move this briefing to a church. It’s going to take a miracle to get us through Mardi Gras without blood in the streets.”
Chapter 73
“HURRY UP on those waddles! And gimme more crunchies, quacks, and meows!”
I do my best to obey Marlene and pick up the pace. But hunched over the sizzling-hot stove, I’m already working faster than I ever have in my life.
My knife and spatula are a blur as I whip up sautéed gator sausages, fried shrimp po’boys, seared duck breast, and our ridiculously popular blackened catfish sandwiches. I slide them across the counter conveyor belt–style, nonstop, one after the other.
“You heard the woman, Caleb,” a fresh voice says. “Quit slacking off.”
I feel a friendly elbow to the ribs from Killer Chef’s newest employee: an accomplished fine-dining restaurant manager with many years of experience and impeccable credentials, who was looking to make a mid-career change.
Yep, you got it right. Vanessa.
Wearing a Killer Chef T-shirt cinched at the waist and a red bandana tied around her hair, she’s wrapping sandwiches in wax paper, bundling them with napkins, and helping hand them out to the hordes of hungry revelers swarming our truck. Her early