God bless her. I couldn’t say no.

I take a break from my frenzied cooking for a few seconds to wipe my brow, pop a fiery jalapeño down my throat, and steal a glance out the service window.

We’re parked on Bienville Street, in the heart of the French Quarter, just a few blocks away from the parade route along Canal. With live jazz blaring from every direction, the scene is a mix of total debauchery and utter joy.

Thousands of people have jammed the narrow streets wearing colorful, crazy costumes. Beads swinging from their necks, boozy beverages sloshing in their hands, they’re dancing, clapping, singing, laughing—having the time of their lives.

The energy is electric. The city is pulsing with life.

Mardi Gras in New Orleans is the greatest damn party on earth, hands-down. And if this were any other year, I’d be joining in the fun. Sipping a fluorescent hurricane while I worked, to get a little buzz going. Grooving along with the music. Feeding my dear customers, either old-timers or lucky tourists tasting my special food for the very first time.

But today, I’m tenser than a guitar string. I feel jumpy. Nervous. On edge.

I’ve been trying to put on a brave face. For Vanessa, for Marlene, for our happy customers crowding in front of our service window. Trying to force the bad thoughts out of my head by focusing on my food.

But it’s just for show.

All I can think about is David Needham and his attack. And the utter ignorance and incompetence of Special Agent Morgan and NOPD Superintendent Fontaine.

It’s barely noon; the day is just getting started. Anything could still happen. Anywhere. To anyone. At any moment.

“You okay, Caleb?” Vanessa asks, resting a hand on my shoulder. “You look—”

“Yeah. I … yeah, I’m fine. I need a little air.”

Without waiting for a snarky comeback from Marlene, I hang up my apron. I check that my pistol is still tucked into my belt. And I hustle out of the truck.

I just couldn’t stay cooped up in there any longer.

Not when the fate of my city is hanging by a colorful thread.

CHAPTER 74

Munching nervously on my jalapeños, I make my way into the teeming crowds.

I turn and head north on Bienville. The noise and music are getting louder. The mobs are getting even wilder. The partying even more super-extreme.

I pass people wearing flashy wigs. Funky hats. Flowing capes.

Dressed in togas. In Saints jerseys. In drag.

I see people break-dancing. Making out. Throwing up.

Men and women, young and old, of every race and creed on earth, all united by a love of drink and song and life.

All packed together like sardines, flesh pressed against drunken flesh.

Good God, I think. This is a tinderbox just waiting to explode.