Anybody around me could be hiding a weapon or suicide vest under their costume—and no one would have any idea.

I hook a left onto Bourbon Street, ground zero for Mardi Gras.

At least I try to. The two short blocks from here to Canal Street look like one gigantic mosh pit. It’s a sea of purple, green, and gold, with people jammed together so tightly, they can barely move.

But I’m not turning back. I nudge folks aside and start weaving my way through, toward the parade.

In the distance, I begin to make out some passing floats—most pulled by big-wheeled tractors like the kind in the St. Roch safe house garage.

Again, why in hell were Agent Morgan and Supervisor Fontaine being so stubborn in pooh-poohing the evidence I’ve uncovered? Is it because of the way I left the NOPD? Because I’m “just” a chef now?

Each of the slow-moving, grumbling floats is a giant, multileveled, elaborately decorated creation that could easily be packed with hundreds of pounds of explosives, stuffed with a deadly mix of screws, nails, and other scrap metal.

And each float is carrying a dozen or so crazy-costumed performers, hurling beads and trinkets at the exuberant crowds.

The performers are all wearing masks, too. It’s actually illegal in New Orleans to ride a float without one. That strange law is a holdover from a different time, meant to encourage people to let loose on Mardi Gras by covering their faces.

Today, it just makes it easier for terrorists to hide their identities.

I finally reach the sidewalk along Canal Street and get my best view of the parade yet. I take out the pair of collapsible field binoculars I brought with me and start inspecting every tractor, float, and character that passes by.

I scan the crowds, too. As many of them as I can.

I even give a once-over to the NOPD cops dotted along the street, just in case.

So far, nothing suspicious.

True, I don’t know what I’m looking for.

But I’ll know it when I see it.

Minutes go by. Nothing.

More minutes pass. Still nothing.

The binoculars are getting damp in my clammy hands.

I can feel my heart beating a little bit faster, my breath getting shallow.

My cop instincts are kicking in.

But why? What for?

I see something yellow up ahead, and then something else. And again.

Three guys, wearing the colors of the Franklin Avenue Soldiers, taking a break from dealing drugs and shooting their rivals to enjoy the day. Oh, great, I think. With everything that’s going on, do I need to hide now from these revenge-minded gangbangers?

I almost feel like going up to them and saying, “Take a number, fellas!” when the crowd surges, surrounds them, and then they disappear.

Good.

Suddenly, I feel a hard shove from behind. My binoculars slip from my grip and clatter to the sidewalk.