My chest feels like an elephant has stood on it with all four legs, like some deranged circus act, and I flicker my eyes open.

Oh shit, does it hurt.

I’m flat on the finely carpeted floor of Emily’s sitting room, trying to take a breath, failing.

Distantly I hear Billy rustling some papers and muttering to himself, and then footsteps and the slam of the door closing behind him.

I close my eyes. So tempting just to keep my eyes closed, let the inviting darkness come forth and take me away, and let somebody else take care of things.

The police tried to screw me, the FBI wouldn’t listen to me … so to hell with them all.

And then it comes to me, saves me right there.

Vanessa.

She and Marlene … they’re at the Fair Grounds.

Right now.

With tens of thousands of others.

I grind out the words, “Man up, Rooney. Get moving.”

I push myself up from the floor, breathing hard, flopping back against the same couch where Emily’s body is resting.

I paw at my jacket and shirt, tear it open, revealing—

The Kevlar vest I’m wearing. Good enough for the terrorists, good enough for me.

I rub at the deep dimple where the round hit me—probably a .357 Magnum round—and there’s broken bones, bruises, and maybe even a shattered sternum under there.

I breathe in, nearly faint from the pain. I still have the fractured rib from when Ty Grant attacked me, which isn’t helping anything.

God!

I’m on my feet.

I glance down.

There.

I pick up my pistol, nearly passing out again.

I stumble toward the door, like one of the many drunks I’ve seen in my life, traipsing through the happy streets of New Orleans.

Outside.

The Audi is gone.

My Impala is there.

I go down the steps, nearly falling. Step closer to my car.

I hear the slight sound of an engine, look way off to the distance where two other low stables squat, and see the tiny shape of the Audi come to a halt.

There.

I go to my car.

Breathe in.

Reach in my pocket for the keys.

No keys.

Other pocket.

Still no keys.

Damnit!

What now?

The other stable is close.

I blink my eyes.

Now it seems far, far away.

I stagger toward it, forcing my legs, easing my breathing so the sharp knife points digging into my lungs ease off, and when I get into the wide barn, with the smell and sounds of the horses, I feel slightly better.

Just a bit.

Some horses poke their heads out of their stables, looking at me with equine curiosity, and I know in the movies and the TV shows, this is where the hero would gallantly leap on one of the handsome steeds and trot to the rescue.

Not this hero.