Bond of Darkness (32 page)

The truck turned onto Canal Street, immediately identifiable by the smoother pavement and faster pace. A few minutes later, it turned again, sweeping through a one-eighty, and stopped. A fist pounded from the cab and they tumbled out to form up. The other truck pulled up on the casino's other side, its team just visible by that entrance.

Bacchus's Temple loomed over them from above the cobblestones, four stories of purple and gold monstrosity, edged by streetlamps. The back showed the original bricks' outlines, especially where windows had been filled in. A narrow porch stood just above the street, sheltering heavy brass double doors used for bank deliveries, supposedly a re-creation of something from ancient Rome.

Twan tried not to think about the multitude of surveillance cameras rotating regularly back and forth. But why no outside guards? Had the fire at Rosemeade confused their leadership that much? Who gave a damn, if it meant an easier time serving the warrant?

Was Big Sis watching as they'd planned?

He scanned the high-rise overlooking the Temple and the Mississippi River beyond. She loved her view, especially in the summer, but if she was using her secretary's office tonight instead of her own… Nope, there was her flashlight, a little pinprick of light against the blinds.

"Now, Eldridge," Roberts hissed.

He saluted her with two fingers.

An instant later, every light vanished, collapsing the block into velvety blackness. Twan's old man and Jamal's grandfather had taken the Eldridge family's first piece of revenge.

Twan's night vision goggles automatically compensated.

Roberts ran up the steps to the porch, with Templeton at his heels, ballistic shield at the ready. Twan matched strides with them, determined not to shame New Orleans' rep. The others pelted behind in a deadly chorus.

Arriving at the top, they leaned against the narrow columns for an instant, listening for any bullets singing an unfriendly welcome.

Nothing.

Roberts glanced at him, the movement marked by moonlight glinting on his NVGs until he seemed a creature from a Mardi Gras allegory.

Twan nodded fiercely. Dear God, how many years had he been stoked for this? He quietly flicked off his shotgun's safety and all but purred at its near-silent smoothness. Time to show those bastards who the man really was.

Templeton chuckled softly.

Roberts pounded on the brass doors. "FBI!" he bellowed, providing the knock-and-announce so they could legally enter. But as brief as possible, to give those murderous dawgs little time to form up.

Two cameras hissed and swiveled, pointing their silver eyes at him.

Crap. The insiders had taken manual control of the surveillance system. They were definitely on the alert.

Roberts sprang back and Eldridge lunged forward. He settled the shotgun against his shoulder, aimed it—and blew out the first hinge in an extremely satisfying
whump
!

An instant later, the second hinge also vanished in another
whump
!

Templeton sprang at the brass door, slamming it open as if it were plywood. It collapsed backward into the casino and he raced forward. Hennessy followed an instant later, his black hair lifting, and their men fanned out around them. Shots rang out, lacing the darkness in massive fireworks.

Payback had finally started.

The kid shoved another shotgun into Twan's hands and grabbed the first.

Twan grinned his thanks. Riot gun time, just like he'd learned on the streets so many years ago. He racked it happily and headed inside.

He had a rectangular tower to climb, built of old bricks and framed in wrought iron. The stairs were also iron but modern and harshly sturdy, with an equally efficient heavy metal door leading to the casino on each floor. If he craned his neck a bit, he could see the occasional chair or stool, maybe a battered wooden door cut into the wall at an odd angle. Just an antebellum warehouse, with plenty of space to cause trouble. All the windows had definitely been bricked up, becoming deeper splotches of shadow. Given the power failure, it would have been darker than a voodoo queen's tomb without his NVGs.

Five flights up to the watch center and his head wasn't even throbbing.

Twan grinned and started running, the white kid at his side.

A man jumped at him from behind a door and he blew him away, the fellow's lungs evaporating into a red mist.

Another popped up from behind a stair rail only to have the young agent beside Twan put two rounds into his skull. The dawg went down like a puppet, limbs slack and eyes staring.

Another bastard burst out of a hidden doorway, gun blazing, and Twan instinctively fired—tearing out a chunk of wall but no enemy. The agent spun, getting off a single shot. The bastard dropped, a fist-sized hole in his chest—but the kid was writhing on the floor, holding his leg.

Twan knelt next to him. Gunshots were firing so hard and fast around them, that the stairwell itself was shaking. Cordite's acrid stench burned his lungs and feet drummed on the stairs.

"No, sir, you go on." The young man's face was ashen but his eyes were resolute. "You've got to make it to the watch center. Medics will pick me up."

Twan hesitated before nodding. He lunged to his feet and ran, reminding himself his body armor hadn't been out of warranty more than a few years. Surely it'd hold up to pistol rounds or a glancing hit.

He racked his shotgun again, fiercely thankful for his hours on the range. Man could never spend too much time practicing with a good piece.

Four more flights.

There was blood on the stairs and the walls, plus bits of flesh. He kept his gun at the ready, more than willing to pull the trigger. This was the payoff for all those hours in the gym and on the range, when he'd thought he was cursing his bosses.

Three more flights.

He'd run out of FBI dudes in front of him on the stairs. The ones he'd seen were either fighting to keep the casino doors closed, or wounded.

Firing was heavier now, an almost continuous blur of sound that jarred his bones and rolled his teeth together. It came from everywhere, above and below him, echoing through the stairs and the old warehouse's bricks.

How were Templeton and his boys doing?

There weren't quite enough bodies on the next landing, given the number of shots being fired. Good news, maybe.

Shooting was even louder after the next corner and Twan slowed down. He twisted cautiously around the landing, careful to keep his shotgun ready.

A great bank vault door stood at the top of the next flight, gleaming under recessed lights, its latch blatantly uncocked.

The dormitory's armory. What else could it be, given the damn big door, unlike that on any other floor?

Two men fought hand to hand in front of it. Full contact karate was a sissy sport compared to how they went at each other, fast and bloodthirsty like angry wolves.

One of them was Hennessy—and he wasn't winning.

How the hell could Twan help?

The latch turned, lifted up—and the door swung abruptly open, shoving Hennessy against the wall. For a moment, he was separated from his opponent—and Twan put two solid loads of double-ought buckshot into the dawg. BOOM! BOOM!

The bastard dropped—and crumpled into dust, disappearing within seconds into little more than a fist-high pile of chalky powder.

Twan's pulse lurched.
What the hell? Who the fuck had that been
?

The armory door opened farther and two more bastards edged through. Hennessy's silver eyes met Twan's, fierce enough to hurl knives. "Get on with you, boyo. I'll hold 'em here."

Twan nodded and ran. Not the time to deal with a man's injured pride—or find out too much about what had been going on. As long he had bullets, he was good to go.

Two more flights.

Another dawg popped up from behind a pile of bodies.

Twan pulled his shotgun's trigger—and it clicked on an empty chamber.

Shit. How the hell could he reach his backup piece?

His attacker grinned and jauntily flaunted his pistol.

Someone else's feet appeared on the stairs above, clad in superb cowboy boots. Templeton?

The bastard spun to face the newcomer and spat a string of feral curses.

"You idiot," Templeton remarked calmly. Why the hell was he distracting the guy? Never mind that; use it!

Twan grabbed his beloved Colt and fired.

The dawg collapsed onto the stairs, the top of his head blown off.

Templeton took a few more steps, careful not to get his boots dirty.

"Why the hell did you do that?" Twan demanded. "Asshole could have killed you."

"No, he wouldn't. You'd have fucked him over first." Templeton pointed out, calm as if they were talking football plays. "Come on up. We've secured the watch center, although the other staircase is still pretty lively."

"Why the hell didn't you say so?" Twan charged forward.

"Where's Hennessy?" Templeton turned to lead the way.

"One flight back."

Templeton gave him a long look, those hazel eyes seeing beyond the words.

"I helped him out some," Twan admitted and started to grin, remembering Hennessy's ungracious expression.

"You did what?" Templeton chuckled softly, his head swiveling as he scanned the top corridor. This place was modern and high-tech, with every edge polished to a glossy finish unlike the rough brick and wrought iron below. Shots echoed from the staircase at the corridor's far end and a hole gaped beside the heavy bank vault doors, guarded by two hard-eyed men with shotguns.

Judging by the wall, Twan didn't think their pieces were loaded with double-ought buckshot. In fact, he might pity anybody who tried to take them out. Then again, he'd more likely enjoy watching such a stupid dude's funeral.

The watch center's steel door swung loosely on one hinge, its edges curled and blackened. He stepped inside to find a world of crimson-smeared electronics but no shattered glass. It was smaller than he'd expected, allowing no more than three men to work there at a time. Parallel streaks on the carpet showed where at least one corpse had been dragged out.

"Only one man standing watch when we got here," Templeton drawled. "We used knives, not guns. Didn't want to disturb anything if we didn't have to."

"Thanks."

Tinned voices bleated from the radios, bitching about gunshots and ignorance. Chief Broussard, in particular, was whining long and loud about disrespect. His mouth'd be filthier after he saw how many counts the indictment listed against him.

Twan's grin deepened, rising from somewhere he hadn't known could still set fruit. It broadened, flashing white teeth against dark skin, and was reflected back in a fancy computer monitor.

Other monitors above the watch desk showed New Orleans, image after image spilling into each other. His streets, about to start getting clean for the first time in how long?

Twan shoved the chair back and sat down. This deputy chief had a lot of work to do.

When things got a little quieter, he might ask Templeton to explain what the fuck had been a man one minute and dust the next. Didn't want any more like it on his streets—but how the hell was he going to keep them out?