Prologue
The sun was an hour from rising in Baton Rouge. All those gathered in the small ready room were anxious. Well not all, Captain Marcus Adam mused; there were those who enjoyed this sort of thing. They enjoy the thrill of the hunt and despite his best efforts the young captain could never find the sense behind actually enjoying the task currently ahead of his unit. As he saw it, his was grim work; work that should befall one whose willingness to serve makes him all but ignore the mortal danger he puts himself in everyday. This was not something to be enjoyed, but chief among those he felt enjoyed this part of the job the most was his second in command, Bryan Meaux.
Special Agent Meaux was born on the West Bank in New Orleans and speaks with the type of lilt that seems to be void of the correct pronunciation of words beginning with ‘th’ and removes every letter after an apostrophe in a contraction. But, Marcus knows the man’s temperament and accent better than anyone and Mo is anxious. Mo doesn’t get anxious.
“Don’ like ‘dis’!”
“Don’t like what?” Asked Marcus. “You know better than to hold out on me if something doesn’t feel right.”
“Das’ jus it, ‘tings ‘dey feel a lil’ too right for me being happy, cap.”
Mo was born into a situation that Marcus guessed was very unfortunate. He didn’t know if the man had a family or was simply spawned from some carnal Voodoo ceremony forty-three years ago surrounded by naked dancing priestesses drinking blood from a cup forged from the bones of their ancestors. Marcus didn’t know because Mo never talked about anything concerning Mo, and he knew even less about Voodoo practices. The only reason Marcus knew the Cajun’s age and where he was born was because he had access to personnel records. Forcing himself back into the moment, Marcus suddenly remembered the current conversation and pressed his oldest friend for more insight.
“What do you mean this feels too right?”
“Cap, how many ‘dese bad guys we don’ brought in?”
Mo liked to accentuate his thoughts with a look that he gathered to be wisdom. Marcus always chose to simply avoid eye contact during these moments of thought. Mo liked to hide how intelligent he was and this glamour he added to his thinking was part of the act. Marcus never liked nor truly understood his friend’s reasons for the deception.
“More than I can bear to remember, old friend. What does all that scum have to do with this scum?”
“Well”, Mo drew out the expression longer than needed in an attempt to heighten the drama of the situation. An attempt that was as subtle as a sledge hammer, Marcus thought. But, Mo’s “Don’ like ‘dis” has saved both of them and their crew more times than, well, it has always saved them. Mo had an uncanny ability to know when shit was about to become very bad, and Marcus knew full well to listen to the man when he had a bad feeling. Not that this bad feeling was news to him, though, because Marcus did not like this raid either.
“Well, Ah jus’ got me ta’ ‘tinking about if Ah was ‘dis man. Not ‘dat Ah would be, mind you. Ah get to have all mah fun when Ah’m bringin’ ‘em in”, Mo flashed that wolfish grin that marked him as a man who enjoys the havoc and chaos that comes with his job. “Why on eart’ would Ah be sittin’ in mah house sleepin’ wit’ my pretty wife when Ah know ‘dat we must be comin’ for me?”
“Maybe she is just too pretty to ever think of leaving her side”, Marcus joked.
“Mais, Ah ‘tink ‘dat might be it, Ah done seen her pictures, ‘dat one. She got some famly’ up from Ville Platte an’ ‘dey say ‘dat ‘dose pussies actually taste like cayenne ‘demselves”.
Any hopes Marcus still held for keeping a composed, straight face in front of his men evaporated with his friend’s comment. As per usual, his decision to sip his coffee while Mo was getting into his tirade cost him a second of panic as he successfully managed to not choke. A mistake that he seemed to make many times but never learned his lesson. Mo flashed his toothy grin around to the gathered team, who by this time had lost their own battles for composure.
They also started gathering their gear because they were experienced enough to know that their second in command had just given them the order to move out. Mo always led the mission with a prayer. His prayers usually consisted of female anatomy and his desires with it. Mo had a lot of desires and seemingly endless stories of female anatomy.
As the prepping was finalized and everyone was fully dressed out in their tactical armor Mo stopped his leader by grabbing his shoulder dramatically.
“Cap, I always wanted ta’ know if ‘dey really does tas’e like ‘de red pepper.”
“I suppose you can ask Mr. Weathers when we wake him up in about five minutes”, Marcus said.
“Ah ‘tink Ah will, cap, Ah ‘tink Ah will.
“Maybe you can also ask him why he is being so stupid and sitting around waiting for us. You’re right, Mo, this is going to be more complicated than simply arresting a man that we have mountains of hard evidence on. Something stinks, and for once it isn’t you.”
Marcus’ tactical DEA unit left their motel room come ready room at around 5:45 AM on an autumn morning that was just beginning to show signs that the fall was losing its eternal fight to winter once again. No frost was on their unit’s windshield and Marcus was very grateful for at least that bit of good news. He had men posted outside the ready room whose only orders were to watch for and remove frost from all the windows of their units. Even though they were ultimately very bored watching the morning dew deciding to not coalesce into ice; Marcus did not feel their time was wasted. He was of the type who believed no effort to plan ahead was ever wasted. “Chance always favors the prepared”, a voice spoke into his head. Marcus just simply nodded his agreement.
“Why you always nod an’ look like you some deer trapt in mah spotlight ever time we goin’ bad guy nabbin’?”
“Why do you joke about female anatomy every time we are seconds from leaving? You do know Gonzales is a girl, right?” Marcus motioned towards the back seat of the unit. “I mean, she has tits that she doesn’t mind everyone seeing at least.”
“’Cause ‘de crew, ’dey look at me for spiritual guidance.”
“Don’t listen to him Mo” a dusky feminine voice chimed in from behind them. Then added, “and they all said…”
“Amen!” The two occupants of the unit not named Marcus Adam said in unison.
“An’ itsa very nice set o’ tits she has indeed!” Mo winked into the backseat.
“Quiet you! You’re only here because we have to bring in a woman” Marcus lied as he looked in his rear view mirror at the diminutive special agent who grinned at Mo and made the sign of the cross on her chest. He accepted full defeat and smiled because his team was lightening the grim mood. Mo turned back towards the windshield and grinned with a primal look that showed a complete lack of all the anxiety he previously had. Mo was on his hunt and this was his domain. He was very likely to hurt someone very soon.
“This is supposed to feel right”, Marcus thought aloud, “why doesn’t it?”
“Das’ not our job, boyo. We jus’ bringin’ him for someone ‘dat get paid to sort ‘dis kinda’ ‘ting out.” Marcus could not refute his friend and partner’s sound, if ill spoken, logic.
That’s when his com chirped once.
Team zeta was composed of Michael O’leary and Justin Markel. Mike was from a small town in North Louisiana. Rumor has it the mayor of his hometown was mentioned by name when the state legislature was debating adding a tax to all speeding citations written over ten miles over the limit. Marcus had to drive up one weekend to help Mike get out of a situation that involved him punching a portly traffic officer after he refused to concede Mike was a DEA special agent and wrote him a citation for nine miles per hour over the limit. He has the fiery red hair and face full of freckles that his name would suggest, but Marcus secretly suspected that no living relative of his would even be able to find Ireland on a map. He speaks with such a harsh southern drawl that Captain Marcus has ordered all communicating from team zeta be done by agent Markel.
“Go ahead, zeta”, responded Marcus. “The child is secure, sir. We observed them walking into the father’s building at 1832 and they have not left the premises. The father is up and stirring. He walked into the child’s room at 530 and walked out with no distress. She’s home sir.”
“Good work zeta, alpha out.” Marcus grimaced and looked angrily at the person sitting next to him. “Next time we aren’t using this stupid Greek thing. We sound like a bloody group of ragtag amateurs and it’s a wonder we haven’t been made yet”.
Mo was laughing as he replied, “but ah like ‘em, cap. ‘Dey make me feel like ah’m official”.
“Well, you are official. What else do you need to do to coddle your self esteem?”.
“Ya’ wound me, cap.” If Mo was wounded, he had an odd way of expressing his torture.
Agents O’Leary and Markel occupied a small rented room across the street from the apartment owned by the child’s father. They signed off and went back to their duties on a large monitor in a dark room.
*****
Captain Marcus’ com chirped twice. “Go ahead Orion”, he scowled at a grinning Mo.
“Sir, we have secured our position in the neighbor’s house. They are swearing up and down that we have the wrong guy, you know, the usual. Their phone lines have been cut and we have seized all mobile phones. It appears our mark is still dreaming of the sweet things yet to come.”
“Roger that orion. On my mark you are to leave your current location and secure any exits in the rear of the target’s home.” Marcus received two chirps in confirmation.
Marcus’ nerves were close to detonating as he drove his unit through the quiet suburban neighborhood; the very affluent and well manicured quiet suburban neighborhood. The primary reason Marcus bought a home in this neighborhood was because the very thought of three black DEA SUV units closely trailing each other with their headlights off here would be ludicrous only five minutes ago.
“You ‘tink we gonna’ hurt your property value, cap?” Mo laughed.
“At least we aren’t on my street, and let’s get in and out before anyone knows we were here”.
“Yah, Ah don’ been meanin’ to get by your house and see mah lady anyhow. Let’s get about nabbin’ ‘dis bad guy and have Angie make us some Community.” Mo didn’t refer to anything but Community Coffee as coffee. Everything else was just dirty brown water for ‘de egrets to choke on’. As with many instances in their history Marcus asked Mo what an egret was too quickly for his experience to warn him otherwise. “A egret” he said “is a bird ‘dat sits in ‘da field wit’ ‘da cows an’ eats bits from ‘da shit. If ‘da egret won’t eat it, it don’ need eatin’”. The ‘e’ in egret seemed to stretch forever in Mo’s accent.
“You know you’re too pretty for Angie, Mo. She’s not even in your league so she settled for me.”
“Yah but, she a ton better ‘dan ‘dat las’ one you don’ had.”
Visions flashed through his mind causing Marcus to wince, but his training and experience helped him clamp down the the sudden sensation of his heart falling through an endless abyss at near light speed. He chirped his com five times to order silence.
They had come within two blocks of the home. Marcus prohibits all radio chatter during the entry phase of his missions. Every team has a job to do and once it is done they acknowledge success with their com chirps. Failures are another story, but a story Marcus has not heard because his team refuses to fail. For that he loves them, but not in the hollow way some people say it in front of a preacher and their family. He winced again. He loves his team as someone loves his right arm. The way Marcus sees it; lovers come and go, but he’ll never have a reason to be without his right arm willingly.
Mo had gone quiet and focused. Marcus always envied his friend’s ability to shut the rest of the world out and drill into the task at hand. But, Mo was ultimately not responsible for the lives of the eight agents that would be storming into this very serene, almost picturesque home. The front yard was meticulously maintained and the shy magnolias seemed to be dropping the perfect amount of fall foliage. This home should be on the cover of magazines. Then Marcus had a distressing thought; it will be on the cover of magazines.
In the lead unit, Marcus drove into the front yard to block any escape opportunities from the home’s garage. Right behind him, unit two pulled into the southern recess between the homes. Germ popped out with his lady. Germ’s name was really Jeremy. A point he made on an hourly basis when anyone called him by his nickname. As adept as he was with his battering ram, and he was very adept at handling a lady, as he called it; he was not really intuitive enough to understand that the more he fought a nickname the more it would stick. All six foot one of Germ’s corded body ran full out towards the house and he didn’t even appear to slow as he barreled his way through the wooden door of the home.
Marcus had already keyed the go command into his com and orion was penetrating the home through the rear windows. Years of training and dozens of successful missions could not prepare them for what awaited as they stormed into the Weathers’ bedroom. The black armor clad agents made a semi-circle protective formation around the bed and Marcus hurriedly ran in with Mo to find a very scared couple looking up at them from their bed.
By the smell and the rapidly growing spot on the bed sheets he gauged that Mr. Weathers had soiled himself quite thoroughly. This dangerous man had grabbed his wife and soiled his bed as a team of DEA agents stormed his home. He made no attempt to resist or even blink so Marcus gestured for his men to slightly lower their assault rifles. Mo’s disappointed look confirmed his wariness. This did not feel right at all.
“Timothy Weathers”, Marcus began to speak. “You are under arrest. You have–“
Marcus was suddenly cut off by Weathers producing a weapon in a motion that defied speed any human should be able to accomplish. In fact, Marcus had no real memory of the time period between Weathers being a whining pile of piss and having a firearm in his hand. Within a fraction of a heartbeat he had the handgun out and fired it directly at them. Germ quickly fired the stun gun attached to his rifle because he never lowered his weapon. Germ never lowers his weapon, and every member of his team knew that Weathers must be taken alive with no excuses.
After his heart decided it would beat a couple of times; Marcus looked over to Mo to order a status report. Mo’s head lolled slightly toward him and Marcus noted grimly that his friend’s goggles revealed the answer to his unspoken question. Bryan Meaux had an expression that held both anger and confusion, but that didn’t matter now. Mo would never be angry or confused again. All two hundred fifteen pounds of what used to be Marcus’ best friend slammed into the Weathers’ bedroom floor with an eerie silence.
And then, all he could hear was screaming.
Mrs Weathers was screaming with the voracity that only a woman whose bedroom had been infiltrated by armored DEA agents, and whose husband had just seemed to materialize a gun from thin air to shoot and kill one of them, and then subsequently got stunned by four black clad figures could muster. Her husband was still writhing next to her in his full piss stained glory when she did what any refined woman would do in her situation.
She fainted.
“Thank God for that”, Isa Gonzales growled. “I was about four seconds from tazing her too.” Everything had happened so quickly that even after about ten seconds she had not quite accepted the reality of Mo’s sudden and unfortunate departure from the ranks of the living.
Marcus immediately darted to his friend’s side. He pulled off his head gear and saw the bullet’s entrance wound occupying the space that was until very recently occupied by Mo’s left eye. The round Weathers magically fired did not have the velocity to penetrate both the hardened plastic of Mo’s goggles and the extremely hard bone at the back of his head. There was no exit wound so the bullet just rattled around inside poor Mo’s head until it lost all its energy; decimating his deceptively brilliant brain in the process. Marcus closed his friend’s right eye and tried in vain to correct the dumbfounded look on Mo’s face.
With tears of agony in his eyes Marcus Adam retrieved his rifle and began to aim it at Weathers’ now unconscious head.
It was Jason Manning who moved to intercept him. Jason had only joined the team three months earlier and Marcus didn’t know him well. The most he knew about Jason was that he grew up in Baton Rouge and graduated near the top of his class with a degree in business. Rumor around the office is he turned his back on his father’s business to enter law enforcement. He seemed like a good kid and always followed orders without question. “Think about this, boss” he said. “Don’t let this piece of shit get off this easy. We love you and will back any story you want to give, but just breathe and think about this.”
He was right. Marcus knew he was right, but his finger would not leave the trigger of his assault rifle. He needed to die. He took what Marcus loved. Tears were now beginning to fill his own goggles and his finger was quivering near the trigger.
They all needed to die.
*****
The sun was now fully above the eastern horizon and glimmering its cosmic luster across the sleepy little downtown area of Baton Rouge. By metropolitan standards she is tiny, but far from inconsequential in the minds of her inhabitants.
The chilly late autumn air had done very little to dissuade the runners from putting in their morning miles along the riverfront area. They went about their routines up and down a maintained historic district that has actively participated in both civil and world wars. What Baton Rouge lacks in size she more than makes back up with culture, history, and personality.
The state’s first capital building stretched the shadows of her crenellations across the dew laden front lawn. Always displaying their flare for the dramatic; Louisianans built their very first capitol building as a Neo-Gothic medieval castle.
James Bruce smiled over his first cup of coffee as he did every morning looking down from his apartment at the old state house. The shining white building seemed to personify the very reason so many people seemed to fall in love with this city. “We are just a different sort here” he would always tell his colleagues from other areas of the world.
James was standing at the ceiling to floor length window of his apartment that also served as the southern wall of his home. The apartment was designed with a minimalistic, Spartan theme. Square inlaid panels stretched from floor to ceiling and alternated between gray and a slightly lighter gray on the walls that weren’t transparent to the outside world. The kitchen and dining area occupied the eastern section of the home and were left open with only a small bar marking the transition between rooms. In the southern section of the kitchen there was a crescent shaped four person dining table situated close to the glass wall to allow diners a breathtaking view of the city.
Of interior walls, there were few. The master bedroom shared the southern glass wall overlooking the city while the secondary bedrooms followed a more traditional four wall scheme. In this land of history and culture the Bruce home was a testament to mankind’s need to live with technology and minimalism.
James looked into his small personal telescope mounted next to the sofa in the living room. He first looked out at the football stadium that was only now starting to recover from the revelry it housed the previous night. He loved when his team won of course, and he watched the games somewhat religiously. But, he always found it foolish to invest too much emotion into an event he had absolutely no control over.
He was glad he ultimately chose the unit facing the south. It was a hard choice when he was in the process of buying his home and lab. The development company had two units available that were two-storied; one facing the river to the west and one facing south. Never one to be able to make such a decision easily, he simply wrote a small program that would flip a coin five hundred million times. After a full day of processing his request the program reported that heads had squeezed out a small victory over tails by only six flips so he bought the unit facing south.
Panning the telescope back towards the river, he passed over the courthouse and felt the all too familiar knot of intense pain forming in his stomach. He was going to have to learn how to not visibly flinch when this pain set on him. He didn’t have to suffer long, though, because he heard a soft rustling coming from behind. Alisha Bruce stepped out of her bedroom still holding the small stuffed rabbit she often slept with.
She doesn’t know that her gentle groggy presence is enough to wash all pain and sorrow from her father completely. James looked at his own face looking back at him through sleep filled eyes and smiled as though he owned every smile in the world. She carried his strong jaw line and symmetrical cheek bones with her mother’s almond shaped eyes and angular features. At only six years old she was already well above four feet tall and was, by all means of human evaluation, beautiful.
“Why are you up so early on a Sunday, sweetheart?”
“Why are you up so early on a Sunday, Daddy?”
“That is a very good question darling, but I asked you first” James said as he lifted her up and put her on his lap after he sat on the sofa.
“Well, I woke up and wanted to go lie down by you, but I saw you standing by the window. What were you looking at through the telescope?” Alisha was now burying her head down into his chest and he softly put his hand on the top of her head and said, “I was just looking at the stadium. They won last night, you know. You fell asleep on the sofa before the game was over”.
“Yeah, I was sleepy I guess. I don’t really like football anyway” she said.
“Well, I think that you will probably like the experience more when you’re older. Mommy and Tim are big boosters and go to every game” he told his daughter.
“The tiger is fun and the songs they play, but that’s it” she said in a tone meant to end the conversation. She didn’t like to talk about her mother and stepfather around him.
He grabbed her under her arms and flung her down onto the sofa.
She started to laugh as he tickled her. “What’s wrong?” He asked with a mock serious face as he continued the tickling onslaught. “Ally, what’s wrong? Why are you jumping up and down and laughing?”
“You’re… tickling… me..!” She gasped between two strong bouts of laughter.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot I was doing that” he said disingenuously.
She jumped up, hugged his neck and said, “I love you, Daddy”.
“I love you too, Angel. Are you hungry yet? I was thinking maybe some pancakes and bacon.”
Her eyes lit up at the prospect, but before she could answer a small alert chimed from a device built into the sofa’s end table. They both knew the sound the lobby level intercom made when they had a visitor.