“Ohhhh, shit, sorry,” says a bottle-blonde in skintight jeans and a stained Saints T-shirt who just stumbled into me and spilled her beer on my jeans. “I’m a little trunk. I mean, drunk,” she giggles.

“It’s okay,” I answer, picking up my binoculars and giving my wet pants a pat. “Don’t worry about it. Happy Mardi … ”

I jump as something starts vibrating in my pocket.

My phone, set on vibrate. With all the music, shouting, and tractor noise, there’s no way I would have heard it ringing.

I turn from the drunk woman and look at the screen.

My PI friend, Gordon Andrews.

I shove a finger into my left ear, bring the phone up to my right.

“Hello!” I shout.

“ … him.”

“What? Gordon, I can’t hear you!”

I close my eyes, trying to focus on what he’s saying.

The message comes in clearer this time as he shouts at me. “I said, I found him! Corner of Canal and Iberville.”

Less than fifty feet away from where I’m standing among the happy chaos.

“How? Did you hack his phone?”

Even among the horns and music, I hear him laugh. “The narcissistic son of a bitch just posted a selfie on Facebook. Go, Caleb, go!”

I slide the phone back into my pocket, push and shove, and—

I don’t believe it. But there he is.

David Needham.

Standing in the crowd about thirty feet away, right where Gordon told me he’d be.

Flanked by two Israeli bodyguards.

Watching the parade with the icy smile of a shark about to attack.

CHAPTER 75

The sight of Needham makes my fists clench—and my mind race.

What the hell is he doing here?

Maybe he’s come to direct the attack from the ground, like a general.

Or maybe he wants to watch the carnage in person. Like a psychopath.

Doesn’t matter. If I can get to him, maybe I can still stop him.

Maybe it’s not too late after all.

I start elbowing my way through the rowdy horde of spectators standing between us. Despite all the commotion, I’m still careful not to draw too much attention to myself. Like a hummingbird flying through a hurricane, I get shoved and jostled with every step. But I keep going, gaze fixed on Needham like a spotlight.

I’m just a few yards away from him and his two bodyguards when I see him check his Rolex. He shuts his eyes. Then takes out his phone.

No! He could be about to call in the attack, or remote-detonate a bomb himself.

I have to make my move. Now.

I pick up my pace and start to charge toward him from behind. I’m practically shoving people out of my way as I go.

Just as his bodyguards realize I’m closing in, I lunge at one and stomp the back of his kneecap, hard. His leg buckles; he collapses to the sidewalk.