CHAPTER THIRTY

“ Listen up. We’ve got reports of someone walking through the casino with a switchblade slashing at people’s hands, thighs, anything where skin is exposed. No deaths, but at least seven injured. Security thinks the man had a stocking cap on but left the building onto Canal.”

“Got it, Code. Thanks, brother. Keep an eye on the street cameras and see if anyone fits the bill. We’re going to hunt this asshole down if it’s the last thing we do,” said Ghost.

They could hear the music, laughter, and chaos happening just a few blocks from where they stood. It was surprising, considering the noise happening along the levee and her storefronts. People were dancing in Jackson Square, laughing and eating at the local restaurants and pubs, and enjoying café au lait and beignets at Coffee Call.

“Just another night in New Orleans,” muttered Nine. Gaspar nodded at his friends, the others doing the same. “Do you remember when we were just joining one another, one team, one group, and had the office above the building over there?”

He pointed to the old brick building across from the coffee shop, and Gaspar laughed, nodding at him.

“Dare I say, the good old days?”

“Maybe they were. Maybe they weren’t. For some reason, all of this is reminding me that we’re right where we were when we started. We’re still chasing killers, rapists, thieves, traffickers, and all the other sickos. We’re still fighting evil here and abroad.”

“What’s your point, brother?” asked Ian.

“Have we made a difference?” asked Nine, staring at the men. “Maybe it’s the dawning of the new year that’s making me rethink everything. I don’t know.”

“A difference?” scoffed Gaspar. “Why don’t you ask my kids if we made a difference? Ask Keith and Robin. Ask my wife, your wife, hell, Ian and Ghost’s wives. Brother, we make a difference every fucking day. Some days it’s small shit. Some days it’s big shit. But we make it, nevertheless. Our kids are doing it now. Fuck, our kids and grandkids!”

“What you have to ask yourself, Nine, is if we didn’t do it, if our family didn’t do it, what would the world look like?” said Ghost. “Think of all the shit that would be in the world if we hadn’t done what we did. I admit that we go overboard sometimes. When we say eliminate the trash, we mean it literally. But I’ve never heard anyone complain.”

Nine looked out at the crowds, the laughing, happy people who had no clue of the evil in their midst. Nodding, he stared at his friends.

“You’re right. The world would be more fucked up than it is now if it weren’t for us. I don’t regret a damn thing I’ve done in my life. Nothing. And I’ll say this only once, so every bastard on comms hears me. If I had to do it all over again, I would choose to do it with all of you. Every fucking last one of you. You’re the finest warriors I know. None better, and I’m damn proud of all of us.”

“Same brother,” smirked Ian.

“Couldn’t agree more,” nodded Gaspar.

“Enough of the sappy shit,” smirked Ghost. “We’ve got ourselves a bonafide nut job to catch.”

“Hey, there’s something happening at Bourbon and St. Louis.”

“On our way,” said Gaspar. “Let’s go, brothers. Time to save the world.”

“Again,” came the echo of voices.

Sizemore turned the corner onto Bourbon Street and couldn’t help the happiness that filled his chest, the giddiness oozing from his body. He would have his pick of playthings tonight. Every person on this street was a gift made just for him.

He started to walk past the Bourbon House restaurant and noticed the line of motorcycles parked outside. The ultimate sinners. Men who smoked, drank, drove too fast, and used women like most men use toilet paper.

As he got closer, for the first time in a long time, he was unsure of himself. Many of these men were big. Really big and wouldn’t easily be drawn away. Even then, he could easily be overpowered by them.

But the motorcycles, that was something different. If he could damage the bikes, that would be as bad as touching their women. It made him smile.

Noticing that locals and tourists alike swarmed toward the motorcycles for photos and to ask stupid questions, he pretended to be in with the crowd. As he passed each one, he’d slash out at the leather of the seat or the saddlebags. It was delightfully fulfilling!

As he neared the end of the row, he heard one of the men screaming at a tourist about the tear on his seat.

“This should be fun,” he whispered to himself.

The bikers swarmed the tourists as women screamed, running away from the foray. Within moments, the police were there and breaking up the fights, taking statements.

“What a shame,” he muttered. “That could have turned out to be wonderful.”

He continued to push his way through the crowds, seeing the lines to get into all the usual bars and strip clubs. The line for Pat O’Brien’s was around the block, and he stared at the drunken tourists and underage college kids.

Then he smiled to himself. It would be so easy, and he could easily pull two or three away from the line.

“Hi,” he said, walking toward three young women, “is this line to get in?”

“Yeah, it sucks,” said one of the girls.

“Well, only if you don’t know the back way,” he grinned. “I have a friend who works the back entrance for VIPs.”

“No shit,” said one of the girls. “Could you get us in?”

“Well, it’s pretty exclusive,” he smiled.

“Hey, we’d do anything,” laughed the other girl.

“Anything?” he smirked. “Well, how could I turn that down.”