3. Brooks
Louis Armstrong Airport was just as white as I remembered.
No, not like that. I mean the whole fucking place was painted in white so bright it hurt your eyes. I’d always thought that whoever built the place was trying to make your first taste of New Orleans clean because they knew what you were going to see when you got outside: roads that were half cobblestone and all dirty. Buildings and walls that dripped with moisture even when it hadn’t been raining. Rot and mildew and moss covering everything it could find, and a constant smell of both dampness and something cooking.
Of course that wasn’t all you got to see in the city. The architecture put New York to shame and the city was always blooming, flowers overflowing their pots and gardens and climbing up the closest tree or building. The food was otherworldly and the people...
Well, if New York was full of people who were always busy, New Orleans was full of people who wanted to tell you a story or cast a spell on you. Sometimes both.
The brightness of the airport, though...
I ducked down, narrowing my eyes against the glare, and hustled forward, my mind mapping the place out and finding the quickest way to the rental counters. I wasn’t here on family business—at least not officially—and that meant I hadn’t been able to send for a driver. I was on my own. Which suited me just fine.
I didn’t particularly want the Landry family to know I was heading their way until I was busting through the front doors and confronting the man who ran the place.
* * *
“Hello, gorgeous,” I murmured, running a finger over the lines of the Ducati Streetfighter. It was red, just like I liked, and gorgeous. Wicked.
Definitely dangerous.
And probably not street legal, if I was being honest. I’d never even seen one in New York and hadn’t known they were available for rent until I’d called a friend of a friend and had them do some research for me. Turned out they were available to rent if you knew the right people.
Hey, I said I didn’t want the Landry family to know I was coming. I wasn’t above using my other contacts to get a set of wheels.
Especially when I was going to need to get places quickly.
“You sure you don’t want a car instead?” a voice suddenly asked from behind me.
I turned and found the man from the counter gesturing behind us at a row of cars, and let my eyes turn to them for a moment. Then I snorted. They had some nice ones—even a Porsche—but I’d never seen the allure. Sloane would go insane for a nice car, but me?
I turned back to the bike, a grin growing on my face. I liked bikes. They were faster and easier to maneuver.
Easier to hide.
“I’m good,” I said shortly. “Run along. I’m sure you have other customers waiting.”
I heard him start to answer me—probably to lecture me about how rude that was—but the sound of revving engines and squealing tires interrupted him.
My eyes shot to the road on the other side of the parking lot, panic already rushing through me. I knew those sounds too well to write them off. And I’d been involved with the New York mob long enough to have a quick trigger finger when it came to taking them seriously. People didn’t drive like that unless they were running from something.
Or after someone.
A line of cars raced through the gates into the parking lot, smoke coming up off tires that were turning too quickly, and I ducked automatically. Shit, shit, shit. I didn’t know who they were or what they wanted, but my initial assessment was right.
They were either running from someone or after something, and given my last name and the fact that I’d just shown up in New Orleans for the first time in ten years, I didn’t have to think twice to know that they were probably here for me.
This wasn’t part of my plan.
I slid quickly onto the bike, pressed the ignition, and ducked down, getting as close to the handlebars as I could and wishing like hell I’d worn a bulletproof vest. Whoever that was might not be shooting at me—yet—but that didn’t mean they weren’t going to, and those vests made it a whole lot less dangerous to crash, if that was what this came to. I slammed my hand down on the gas of the bike, revved it to get a feel for it, and then let off the clutch. The back tire squealed against the asphalt, making one hell of a racket, then finally found purchase and bit down, sending me skidding out of the parking space and into the alley behind the rental building.
I folded even lower and tried to get the measure of the machine underneath me, taking the bike around a quick bend and then into a straightaway and hitting the gas again. Right, this baby was extremely responsive. And very fast.
Good.
I could hear the cars coming up behind me already—they must have seen me take off—and didn’t exactly want to run into them. They were definitely following me, and I was here alone. I racked my brain for my internal map of New Orleans, trying desperately to get past the map of New York I normally kept in my mental navigation system. I didn’t need Brooklyn or Midtown right now; I needed New Orleans. I needed the Esplanade district and the quickest way from here to there. I ground out a curse when the map was slow to load, but then finally remembered.
Esplanade wasn’t where most of the rich families lived in New Orleans. It wasn’t trendy unless you were a tourist. But it had two distinct benefits: First, the cops never went there looking for crime families. Second, it was very close to the airport.
It would only take me ten minutes to get to where I needed to go.
I hit the gas, sped around a turn, and looked for the onramp to 10 East. The streets would have given me better cover, but the highway was a whole lot faster, and right now I’d take speed over hiding. The ramp up to the 10 appeared moments later and I hit it going about 60, swerving around traffic as I went and coming far too close to clipping too many cars.
Once I hit the straightaway, though, I congratulated myself on my choices. Traffic wasn’t bad here, courtesy of it being nearly dark out, so I wasn’t going to have places to hide. But I’d be able to get out of here quickly.
Unfortunately, the guys in the cars chasing me were going to do the same thing.
The sound of spinning tires and roaring engines got louder behind me and I cursed. In my need for a quick route I hadn’t considered the fact that the lack of traffic would make it easier for anyone following me. If cars had been stopped in a jam, the guys behind me would have had to stop as well, while I sped between everyone else. As it was, I was a sitting duck.
Only they weren’t shooting.
Which seemed odd.
I wondered fleetingly who they were and why they were following me. Whether they knew who I was and what they wanted. And then I realized I didn’t have time to wonder about those things. They were definitely following me and therefore trouble, and nothing beyond that really mattered.
I swerved back and forth, avoiding the few cars on the road and trying to put more distance between me and my pursuers, and then saw the exit I needed. A quick jerk to the right and I was flying down it, and now I finally did find traffic. Cars were stacked up down here, waiting for the light to turn green.
Perfect.
I flew past them all, revved the engine again, and shot through the intersection, narrowly avoiding the cross traffic as I went. Leaning over the handlebars, I sped for the next street. Esplanade went both right and left from here, but I only needed one direction. A quick right, then another at the first street, and I found myself in front of the gates I’d been aiming for.
I jumped off the bike, threw them open, and then remounted it and hauled ass up the driveway toward a mansion I hadn’t seen in ten years and never thought I’d be coming back to.
And those fucking cars came skidding in right after me.