I keep on trotting, the MP5 bouncing around on my shoulder, and I try my phone again. From the Contacts list I dial the emergency inter-agency hotline Special Agent Morgan gave out at the security briefing. I hold the phone to my ear and listen.

The line beeps. Once. Twice.

A recorded announcement tells me that my call cannot be completed at this time.

No shit, I think.

I hang up and try again. Then again. Again.

On the fourth try, the call goes through. The hotline starts to ring.

I brake to a halt.

Success!

And ring. And ring.

I count ten rings and still no answer. No voicemail, either. Nothing.

I curse Morgan’s name and incompetence and stuff my phone back into my pocket.

Now what?

I think back to the briefing Morgan gave us. To all the security measures he said the feds were putting in place. The aerial drones. The nuclear particle detectors. The infrared cameras monitored by a dedicated team of specialists.

Cameras.

I look up and down the sidewalk for something that—in this part of town—shouldn’t be hard to find: a folding chalkboard sign sitting in front of a restaurant or bar.

I spot one. A few doors away. Outside a quaint French Quarter watering hole called Dupré’s, advertising their three-for-one Mardi Gras drink specials all week long.

I rush over. Hurriedly wipe the board clean with my sleeve. I don’t have any chalk—so a stray white pebble off the sidewalk will have to do.

In big capital letters, I scratch out:

AGENT MORGAN!!!

USE RED-GREEN LENSED EYEGLASSES

TO I.D. HIDDEN SHOOTERS!!!

Then I look up, searching the awnings, rafters, and lampposts for one of those just-installed special cameras. Bourbon and Conti is an important intersection. There has to be one somewhere!

Over there. On the underside of a second-story terrace. A small, sleek, black lens with a wireless antenna, bolted to the building with new, shiny silver screws.

I pick up the chalkboard sign and rush over. I hold it up, wave it around, pointing and gesturing like a meth addict needing a fix. I feel a little crazy, but that’s the point. There probably aren’t a lot of other folks dancing a jig in the middle of a terrorist attack. If the FBI really has a team of agents watching these cameras, they should notice me straight away.

I just hope they take me seriously. Read my message. Take it seriously. Then pass it along to the folks in charge.

After thirty seconds or so, I start to hear more gunfire nearby. So I drop the sign, take cover, pull out my cell again, and dial Cunningham to try to warn him and the NOPD about the sunglasses and secret shooters, too.

Damnit! The call won’t go through. I try twice more. Still no luck.

Then, my phone starts ringing. Weirdly, I’m getting an incoming call.