Cut and Run 07 Touch & Geaux (5 page)

It spoke to Ty’s loyalty and love of his friends that he was braving the city at all. Zane couldn’t think of many people he’d head back into Miami for.

Ty was holding all of that in, though, keeping his worries to himself and storing them in the tightness of his jaw and shoulders.

They retrieved their one checked bag, which held a few changes of clothing and two hard cases with their service weapons in them, but Ty was too eager to get to the police station to take the time to get the guns out and strap them on.

“We’ll get them out in the cab,” Ty reasoned. Zane trailed after him, pulling the suitcase along.

When they stepped out of the glass doors and headed for the line of black and white United taxis awaiting fares, the humidity and warmth hit Zane like a physical blow after the long winter in Baltimore.

Ty mumbled under his breath as they walked toward the curb. “Ugh, late April. Never come here after May,” he told Zane. “October to April. Place is uninhabitable otherwise.”

“Good to know.”

The sound of screeching tires drew their attention to the end of the roadway, and a white van came tearing up the loading zone lane. The few people in the crosswalk leaped out of its way as it screamed past the line of taxis.

Ty took a step toward the curb, reaching under his suit coat where his gun usually was as the van’s brakes squealed. It rocked to a halt right in front of them.

Someone hit Zane from behind, wrapping his head up in a black cloth and restraining his arms as he was shoved forward. He could hear Ty shouting as he struggled with his attackers, but they were both overpowered and shoved into the back of the unmarked van.

The van pulled away from the curb as the sliding door slammed shut.

“Stop struggling,” a voice ordered Zane as his hands and feet were held down against a seat that smelled like Febreze. “We’ll be there soon,” the kidnapper promised with a sadistic laugh.

“Garrett, don’t kill anyone,” Ty muttered from another row seat. He sounded calm, and Zane forced himself not to thrash and struggle. They’d have a better chance of escape once the van stopped moving.

Roughly fifteen minutes and a lot of traffic later, the van came to a jarring stop. The door opened, and Zane was dragged out and put on his feet. The hood was yanked off, and Zane blinked a few times as he found himself standing in what was unmistakably the French Quarter. He saw a lamppost with black street signs for Bourbon and St. Philip. The building in front of them was ancient, with timbers and stacked brick showing through the cracking plaster. The second story had no balcony or gallery like most of the French Quarter architecture, just a few dormer windows with light shining through their shutters.

An old wooden plank sign that said Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop was hanging over one of the many open doors. And there were people everywhere. The van pulled away, leaving them standing in the middle of St. Philip with their kidnappers and dozens of drunk revelers staring at them.

The men who’d snatched them were laughing and patting him on the shoulder. He glared at them, recognizing one of the four as he finally got a good look.

Nick O’Flaherty. “You fall for it every time, man,” he said to Ty, a hand on his shoulder as Ty glared at him. If Nick was here, then Zane could only assume the identities of the other three. Their faces matched those of the photos on Ty’s walls. Sidewinder.

“Asshole,” Ty said, voice flat.

Nick grinned and pulled Ty into a hug. “You’re an asshole too,” Ty said to Digger, who gave Ty’s back a pat and stepped away.

Ty was smiling, though he was trying not to, as each of the other men greeted him in turn. Kelly Abbott was there, and Zane was surprised to see Owen Johns present. The last time he’d heard anything about Owen was after Ty had come out to his recon team and Owen had stormed off.

“Zane,” Nick greeted. He held his hand out to Zane. “Sorry about that,” he added, smiling widely.

“You’re an incredible asshole,” Zane said. “What the hell is this?”

Ty glanced at him and shook his head, starting to grin wider. “I can only assume this is a birthday party.”

“For a psychopath?”

Ty gave him a sad smile and nodded.

“Elias Sanchez,” Nick answered, and with the name, the five Marines grew more somber.

Zane inclined his head. Sanchez had lost his life not in battle, but to a serial killer in New York City. The same killer who’d almost taken Ty from them as well, the same one Zane had killed.

“Tomorrow would have been his fortieth birthday,” Kelly offered.

“No it wouldn’t,” Ty said.

“But tomorrow’s his birthday.”

“Kelly, man, he was the same age as me and Nick,” Ty said with an exasperated wave of his hand. Nick covered his mouth.

Kelly frowned and glanced around. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-seven.”

Digger pursed his lips. “Anyway. Tomorrow’s Sanchez’s birthday. Ty’s always refused to come party in NOLA, so we knew we’d have to bait-and-switch you down here.”

“Wow,” Zane grunted. He had a feeling the Recon boys had no idea
why
Ty refused to come to New Orleans. They didn’t know luring him here could have put him in danger, and knowing Ty, he wouldn’t tell them now. Zane decided to keep his mouth shut.

Digger leaned toward Ty, raising his eyebrows. “And we can’t celebrate anywhere else because why?”

Ty rolled his eyes and looked at his feet, shuffling. “Because Digger isn’t allowed to leave the state for another year.”

“Because why?”

“Because we sent a CIA kill team to his bayou and he almost blew them up.”

They all snickered, little boys in the schoolyard talking about a frog they’d stuck in the teacher’s drawer.

Zane looked around, his mouth hanging open. “You’re all insane.”

“Welcome to Recon, baby!” Digger said with a slap to Zane’s back that almost knocked him over. The man gave a boisterous laugh and headed off toward a group of women who stood drinking near the entrance to Lafitte’s. Owen drifted away with him, having said nothing to Zane and barely greeting Ty with a nod.

Zane looked around, still stunned by the turn of events. They weren’t here for a rescue. They were here for a party.

“Life with Ty, huh?” Kelly said to him. He was smiling, his hands in his pockets, just as relaxed and laid back as he had sounded the first time Zane had met him. He was an unremarkable-looking man, with hair a shade between brown and blond and eyes that may or may not have been gray. Or blue. Or green. But Zane remembered Ty talking about how capable the team’s medic had been.

Zane nodded, trying to return the smile. “You never know, I guess.”

Ty and Nick were in the middle of the street bickering again. Or rather, Ty had his finger in Nick’s face and Nick was laughing at him.

“Last time I fall for it, O’Flaherty, I swear to God! Next time you call and need help, you’re on your own.”

“Yeah, tell that to my boat!”

“
You
shot the holes in it!”

“Strategically! It still floats!”

“I coughed up glitter for a week after Panama, you prick!”

Nick put up both hands to fend off Ty’s ranting, but he was laughing too hard to respond again.

“Every fucking time!” Ty shouted before he smacked Nick on the side of the head and stormed off.

Nick doubled over laughing.

“So . . . how many times has he fallen for that gag?” Zane asked.

Nick gasped and held up his hand, displaying all five fingers. “This makes five!”

Zane began to chuckle. It was Ty’s one true weakness they could exploit, his loyalty to them. He had come every time they’d called, and would continue to do so no matter what.

Kelly chuckled at Zane’s side as they watched Ty disappear into the bar. They followed after him, and Zane’s mind immediately went to the last time he’d been in New Orleans, to the last time he’d followed someone he loved down one of these streets.

“Where are you taking us?” Zane asked as his wife led him down a series of alleys in the French Quarter that looked like they should be filled with vampires. Or prostitutes.

She looked back at him, her eyes sparkling and her hair cascading down her back in waves.

“I promise you’ll love it.”

Zane smiled and followed, willing to give anything a chance if it got her this excited. New Orleans was their treat to themselves for their tenth anniversary, and Becky had been looking forward to this for months.

“It’s this little dive I heard about. They do a sort of comedy burlesque act. It’s supposed to be one of the hidden gems of the French Quarter.”

“I hate to break it to you honey, but we’re not even in the French Quarter anymore.”

After another thirty yards, Becky paused at a weathered, wooden door set into a stone wall. They were close to the river, heading past the Market and toward the outskirts of the French Quarter. The carved wooden sign that hung perpendicular from the wall named the pitiful little establishment as La Fée Verte.

“I think this is it.”

Zane glanced around and smiled weakly. They were well off the beaten path, the noise of the main thoroughfares dulled by the thick walls and crumbling plaster. “If this isn’t it, we’re going to end the night in jail.”

“You, hush,” Becky muttered as she pushed through the door.

Within was a surprisingly large room. It was ill lit and crowded with scarred chairs and tables, most of which were full. The walls were brick stained by age, with patches covered haphazardly by aging plaster and thick baroque fabric. A long bar lined the far wall, and opposite that was a stage with a single microphone stand and heavy, wine-colored curtains.

There were no windows, and the light in the bar came from antique string lights overhead and sconces along the walls that held real candles flickering within hurricane lamps. Wax dripped onto the tables from many nights of lit candles that had never been cleaned up.

Zane let his eyes adjust to the dim light. He’d seen worse. Better too. But also worse. “Wow, sweetie, you take me to the nicest places,” he drawled.

Becky laughed and led him to a table near the middle of the room. There was a folded card with the name Garrett written on it in beautiful calligraphy.

Zane pulled her chair out for her, then unbuttoned his suit coat and sat.

She leaned toward him, the firelight flickering in her eyes. “I heard the two performers are incredible. And the rumor is that every Friday and Saturday night, they pick out people from the audience to join them afterward.”

“Join them?”

“You know,
join
them.”

“Oh. Oh!” Zane laughed and looked around as Becky giggled. “What have you gotten us into?”

“Oh come on, it’s just a rumor. It’ll be fun,” she said as she slid her hand into his and scooted her chair closer so she could settle against his shoulder.

A woman came to take their drink order just as a man stepped up onto the stage and took the old-fashioned microphone in his hand. The people around them began to applaud, some of them even whistling and hooting.

Zane smiled and sat back, willing to try to enjoy the evening for his wife’s sake. The man on stage wore an old-fashioned suit and eyeliner, and his long hair was slicked back to the point that the candlelight reflected off it. He held a bowler hat in his hand, pressed to his chest. Zane cocked his head as he admired the man. He had wide shoulders and compact, hard muscles that showed through the thin, ruffled shirt he wore.

Becky whistled and began to laugh. “He’s pretty.”

Zane clucked his tongue, mentally echoing her.

The man welcomed them to a night of debauchery and decadence, and almost immediately he began to pick people out of the crowd and insult them. Zane was surprised at first, but the packed audience was eating it up.

The man turned his attention on them with an appreciative whistle. “Well hello, beautiful,” he said in a deep voice as he took a few steps toward their table. “Where have you been all my life? Where are you from, gorgeous?”

Becky laughed and sat forward. “Austin, Texas.”

“Yeah, wait your turn, honey, I’m talking to your boyfriend.”

Becky cackled and covered her mouth with her hands, looking at Zane as the audience laughed.