Forrest glanced at the flickering television as Baltimore put another nail in Green Bay’s coffin. He was waiting for his instinct to tell him something, as it always did during times of danger. Maybe Favre himself was the message. Gifted quarterbacks sometimes stayed in the game too long, and it was looking more and more like Brett should have left the league a couple of years back. Forrest was older than Favre, yet he was only now coming into the prime of his earning potential. His playing field was the state of Louisiana, and he had it wired from Shreveport to New Orleans. About all he really had in common with Favre, other than geography of birth, was being his own worst enemy. Keeping his primal impulses in check chafed Forrest’s spirit. Men with outsized appetites and abilities ought to get some sort of exemption from the rules of common men. In a way, of course, Forrest had exactly that—the badge he wore every day, the mantle of authority that kept most potential troublemakers at arm’s length.

“Call Snake, Al,” he said. “Get it straight from him. All that blood-oath bullshit Daddy started is one big pain in the ass.”

“Any personal message?”

“Tell Snake to stay away from Henry Sexton. I see Henry’s stories within an hour of him drafting them, so Snake should just calm the fuck down. I know Billy’s told him already, but that’s not the same as it coming from me.”

Ozan laughed. “Not by a damn sight, boss. I just hope it’s not too late. Snake’s been wanting to kill that reporter ever since I’ve known him.”

“That is absolutely the last thing we need. I sure wish Billy could control his daddy.”

Alphonse laughed again. “You think if your old man was alive, you could control him?”

Forrest’s mind filled with the forbidding image of his father roused to anger, something no man had ever faced without fear. “You got a point there, Al. How’s that other thing coming? The Mexican run?”

“Unloading in Barataria Bay right now.”

“And the cash?”

“Our runner’s bringing it up to Fort Knox tonight.”

Forrest glanced at his Breitling and calculated how long a stop at Cherie’s might take him. The Valhalla Exotic Hunting Reserve lay fifty miles north of Baton Rouge. “I’m gonna make a cooter stop before we go.”

“Shit. Where?”

“Where do you think?”

Ozan groaned. “Where’s that husband of hers?”

“On patrol over near Lafayette. I had the dispatcher check his twenty.”

“What if he doubles back without reporting in? You been hitting that a little too often for comfort. Not to mention longer than usual.”

“Why you think I’m taking you with me?”

Ozan chuckled. “All right. Just remember, Ricky ain’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but you don’t need that kind of trouble—not with Colonel Mackiever crawling up your backside.”