“The leader was this blond man,” she goes on. “With a tattoo on his arm. Circle with a cross in it. My nephew told me what it means. Not somethin’ you see around here too often.”

No kidding. It sounds like she’s describing a Celtic cross. A common symbol among white supremacists.

“You said this place was on Johnson Street, right?”

She nods.

I thank the woman and start to head off.

“One more thing,” she calls to me. “I put ground nutmeg on my shrimp. Some curry powder for heat. And for sweetness, a splash of 7 Up. You surprised?”

“Ma’am?” I say. “You have no idea how surprised I am.”

CHAPTER 54

I’ve never been so jazzed to check out a former crack house.

I walk back along Galvez Street the same way I came, then turn right at the next corner. I wouldn’t say there’s an actual spring in my step, but I’m feeling a little bounce.

When I reach Johnson Street, I slow down and keep my eyes open.

Which isn’t so easy to do right now. Even though it’s February, the Louisiana sun has me sweating. By habit, I start to remove my cap and sunglasses to mop my brow—but I catch myself.

I forgot. I’m in “disguise.” Showing my face around here could be a death sentence.

At the next intersection, I spot a derelict, single-story house with a detached garage. Both are the color of rotted eggshell, the paint flaking off in big chunks. All the doors and windows are boarded up. The foundation is crumbling. The front yard looks as lush and wild as a bayou swamp.

This has got to be the place the woman was talking about.

But was it really a terrorist safe house raided by the FBI?

I step over a sagging section of the rusty chain-link fence surrounding the property. Then I go to the front door. More accurately, I go to the giant piece of plywood covering the front door.

Getting closer, I realize this wood is much newer than the rotting two-by-fours covering the windows—like it was recently installed. The nails holding it in place are also shiny. And the doorframe is badly cracked on one side, as if the lock had been bashed in with a tactical battering ram.

Yep. The BBQ chef back there definitely got it right.

Earlier I put an eight-inch metal pry bar into my pocket and now I take it out, get to work, jamming one end into the tight crevice between the plywood and doorframe, jimmying them apart.

By the time I get the goddamn board off my pants and shirt are soaked through with sweat. I set the plywood aside and peer into the house.

It’s dark and dusty, like the entrance to an abandoned mineshaft.

Double-checking that my pistol is still tucked in my waistband, I switch on my pocket flashlight and enter.