I’m only a few yards away from him when he makes a sharp left into the covered driveway of a parking garage. I follow him, thinking maybe he has a car or truck parked inside.

He heads up the darkened ramp then comes to a stop up against a gated partition. There’s nowhere left for him to run.

“Put your hands where I can see them!” I shout, slowly stepping toward him.

I sure do wish I had my old gun and badge on me right about now—instead of just an apron with a meat thermometer tucked in the pocket. Or even a radio so I could call for backup. “Put down the purse, get on your knees, and—”

I feel a sharp whack against the back of my skull, which sends me tumbling forward.

I grunt as I hit the garage floor, and grunt again as another impact strikes me on my right ribs. I hear a crunch, and the pain comes sharp and hot and steals the breath right out of me.

Moaning in agony, I roll to my side and look up. My vision is a little blurry, but I can make out three figures standing over me.

Franklin Avenue Soldiers. Each one, even inside the poorly lit parking garage, is clearly wearing a yellow article of clothing. One is holding a metal baseball bat: Ty Grant.

“‘Put your hands where I can see ’em,’” he parrots. “Shit, Rooney … is that what you say to every gangbanger before you shoot ’em? Including my brother?”

He takes another swing at me, straight for my head. I flinch and reflexively block it with my left hand—which almost goes numb from the impact.

“Jesus Christ, Ty!” I yell. “Are you crazy? You’re gonna kill a cop in the middle of the French Quarter during Carnival?”

Ty laughs, snorts, then hocks a wad of spit and mucus right at my face.

“I ain’t gonna kill you,” he says, smiling. “But you ain’t a cop no more, neither.”

He gives my unprotected gut one final, brutal blow. Then he nods to his goons, and the four of them—including the alleged purse-snatcher—scram.

As I watch them scuttle down the ramp and back outside on the street, my pain peaks and then throbs away as I black out.

CHAPTER 11

“And are we celebrating anything this evening, monsieur et madame?” the voice says.

I’m sitting at a table with a crisp white tablecloth and clusters of plates, silverware, and glassware. Marlene is sitting next to me, and turns to the stuffy maître d’, whose head is as round and bald as a ping-pong ball, and gives him a mischievous smirk.