And stuffed into any marching band member’s hollow instrument could be an atomized chemical or biological agent, drifting out in an invisible yet deadly cloud, ready to start killing hundreds within minutes.

On any rooftop, a trained sniper could be crouching, ready to fire into the crowd.

A sniper wouldn’t even have to be trained! Any fool with a few minutes of experience with a military-style assault rifle with piles of cartridge-filled magazines up on top of one of those roofs could kill hundreds just aiming down and pulling the trigger, over and over again, just firing into the screaming crowd.

Hell, the dusted sugar on any plate of beignets could be anthrax!

God almighty. I shiver at the endless, chilling possibilities. With the right equipment, the proper planning, and enough dedication, a determined band of evil men could cause enormous casualties at an event like this in seconds.

And like Cunningham observed earlier, hard-core terrorists are always thinking ahead, looking to use common, everyday objects and turn them into weapons of killing and destruction. Like plastic explosives in shoes, to be detonated aboard an aircraft, right above the fuel tanks!

What could these bastards be planning that no one’s ever thought of before?

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. What the hell was I thinking coming to this parade in the first place? What did I really think I’d learn? All it’s done is show me how vulnerable Mardi Gras really is. And make me even more worried.

Then it hits me.

Literally.

I feel something strike the top of my head and skitter to the ground. I open my eyes—and realize it was just a necklace of plastic beads. It was tossed at me by a man wearing a colorful court jester costume in a passing float, doing a silly little jig.

“Be merry, good sir!” he calls in an awful English accent. “Here cometh the king!”

He’s pointing behind him to an approaching float: the biggest and most elaborate of all, decorated to look like a giant castle. On a “throne” toward the rear is a matronly looking woman wearing a large white robe, a dazzling gold crown, and giant reflective sunglasses. She’s “King Arthur,” the parade’s star—even though that “real” legendary monarch probably wasn’t a middle-aged lady in aviator sunglasses.

But that’s part of the fun of Mardi Gras, I think, as I politely push my way back through the crowds to leave. Anybody can be anyone. Nothing is as it seems.

And unless I do something to stop it, anything horrific can happen.

CHAPTER 19

I park on Freret Street and cut the engine. Used to be, this was a strip of shuttered storefronts and abandoned buildings. You didn’t dare come near here after sundown—unless you were in the market for a new wallet and phone with few questions asked.