Then I shift into Reverse, cut the wheel sharply, and jam the gas even harder.

I roar backward—up and over the arched, narrow bridge. I swerve and scrape against the railing—once, twice—until I get control and straighten out.

As soon as I’ve crossed the canal, I make a sloppy J-turn. Then I shift back into Drive and tear out of there. Soon I’m speeding along the potholed service road parallel to the waterway, back in the direction I came.

I’m almost giddy with excitement. But after a couple blocks, that feeling starts to fade. Something’s wrong.

I slow down a bit and listen. I don’t hear any sirens.

I glance in my rearview. I don’t see any SUVs.

Seriously?

I was banking on the agents coming after me! My plan was to lead them on a high-speed chase—right to the safe house’s doorstep. What the hell just happened?

Maybe Morgan was bluffing about my arrest. Or maybe he didn’t think it was worth the effort to go after me, with his resources stretched so thin. I don’t know whether to be relieved that he called off the pursuit … or terrified to be on my own.

Screw it. I’ve made it this far by myself. If Angus was telling the truth—and I sincerely believe that he was—I’m hitting that safe house.

Apparently, with no support. No backup.

Which means no mistakes.

And no second chances.

CHAPTER 66

Flood street. Not the smartest name for a road in New Orleans. Like having an “Earthquake Avenue” in San Francisco. Or a “Tornado Boulevard” in Kansas.

But based on Angus’s tip, that’s where I am. And I’ve made it here in just thirteen minutes.

I’m still a little unsettled that the feds aren’t on my tail. And I’m really starting to wish somebody had my back as I drive through this eerily quiet neighborhood. Earlier I tried calling my old boss Cunningham, but my calls go straight to voicemail, and I briefly considered dialing 911 for an NOPD response, but I can’t stand the thought of wasted minutes explaining to a dispatcher what I had learned and what was going on.

Like most of the Lower Ninth Ward, Katrina beat Holy Cross to shit. Its namesake—the old Holy Cross School building, built in 1879—was so damaged by the flooding it had to be razed. All these years later, the site is still an empty lot. However, the neighborhood’s other architectural landmark, its famous Doullut “steamboat houses,” a pair of homes that look like old ships, are still standing proudly near the river.

Many of the other homes I drive past, though, aren’t doing that well at all. Some are freshly painted and well maintained, with manicured lawns and glowing porch lights. Others look like crumbling mausoleums, ramshackle and dark.