Oh man, a gamble, but that’s what my life and New Orleans is based on.

Gambling that a city can live and grow among the swamps and mangroves, and that the people from all different stations and walks of life can grow and thrive and love there.

Vanessa, I think.

Vanessa.

Finally breaking away from her abusive husband, finding a new life, a new love, finding happiness after such a long time …

And to die within the next few minutes?

No!

I spin the ATV around, facing the aircraft.

One following another following the other …

The lead aircraft increases its speed.

Starts coming in my direction.

I crank the throttle wide, speeding down the grassy strip.

Aiming right at the propeller.

Going faster.

We’re coming at each other.

The propeller a blur. The Cessna bouncing along on its three tires.

Bouncing.

Starting to gain altitude.

Starting to fly off.

With its three accomplices lining up right behind it.

I lean down, hoping with head and torso flat against the ATV that I can reduce the wind drag, gain just a bit more speed, that’s all I need, just a bit more speed ….

I leap off, crying out as I hit the ground, and I force myself to look at what happens next, like a movie slowing down, frame-by-frame, and—

The ATV roars ahead, going straight to the spinning propeller, and it—

—misses.

Slides under the wing without striking a damn thing, and—

“No!” I scream, and the ATV, with no driver and buffeted by the propeller wash, flips over, again and again, smashing into the elevators on the tail of the airplane.

The lead Cessna makes a sharp, digging turn, the propeller striking the grass and pasture, and it tilts and—

The second Cessna crashes into the first.

The third makes a sudden swerve but it doesn’t move in time, and collides with the second aircraft.

The fourth tries to avoid the pileup, the tangle of wings, tires, fuselage, and breaking propellers before it, and it starts to fly up and over the tangled mess, when a roaring, blasting, fiery explosion blows it to pieces.

CHAPTER 98

I wait a couple of minutes before I get up, and then I limp and stumble my way to the burning and scattered piles of wrecked aircraft. As I get closer, the stench of petroleum assaults me, and I know I guessed right: each aircraft was carrying chemicals—something to burn the already bleeding and shattered survivors of the Fair Grounds.

Then I spot the shrapnel, the screws, bolts, and nails, scattered all over the runway, ready to—

Ready to—

I stop, lean over, and vomit, again and again … like a rookie cop, looking at his first dead body.