And the food truck is the best place to start looking.

I still have so many damn questions. What are Billy’s true motives? What’s his end game? Why does he carry so much vitriol, so much pain?

Most of all, what other horrors does he still have tucked up his sleeve?

But that can wait.

Sprinting through the deserted streets of the French Quarter, all I can think about are the two I hold dearest.

But I see and hear some encouraging signs, like the first green colors of spring.

More helicopters overhead.

National Guard Humvees roaring by.

State police and NOPD cruisers screaming in the distance as well.

And I’m hearing the flat, sharp crack! of rifle fire in the distance, from what seems to be upper stories.

Not the rapid fire from automatic machine guns, but the carefully aimed and discharged .308 bolt-action rifle rounds, the ones used by SWAT team snipers.

Meaning my message did get through, and the good guys—now able to identify the bad guys—are taking them out, one by one, even with their body armor.

Finally, I round the corner onto Bienville Street.

I see Killer Chef parked just up the block, right where I left it.

I start shouting, “Vanessa? Marlene? I’m back! You guys all right?”

No response.

I race up to the truck—and see it’s boarded up tight.

The service windows are shut, the metal security grating closed and latched. I can hear the generator running, so they’re either hiding inside … or left in a hurry.

I bang on the truck’s side—hard—as the sound of nearby sirens gets louder.

“Marlene?” I yell. “Vanessa?”

Still no reply.

With a Black Hawk helicopter hovering overhead, I go around to the back.

The truck’s rear doors are shut and locked, too. And of course I left my keys inside when I left.

All I can do is pound on the doors. Frantically. Desperately. Feverishly.

“Vanessa, Marlene, open up! It’s Caleb! Please!”

After a few more painful, futile seconds of this, I frantically look around. I had the crazy thought of shooting off the lock, but that only works in Hollywood. Chances are, it wouldn’t work, or the ricochet could wound or kill me.

There.

Part of a shattered metal police barricade. I wrestle off a length of pipe-shaped metal, about two feet long, and go back to the rear of the truck.

I start hammering the handle.

Again and again. With all my focus and might.

It takes a solid ninety seconds, but at last the handle snaps.

I pry it off and push open the doors.

“Vanessa, Marlene, are you—”

A gunshot rocks the inside of the truck.

Buckshot sails over my head, missing me by mere inches.

I yell and duck back, and then I look in, past the gray cloud of gun smoke.