Bayou Woman

By Ruby Kennard

New Orleans has a special attraction for Jake O'Bryan. At seventeen, his first year in college, he's been fascinated with the history and ambiance of 'The Big Easy.' It was his intense interest in this unique, unchanging culture that drew him into an obsessive relationship with the mystical bayous, and it's traditional people. However, his first encounter with one of the pure blood, Creole, had nearly gotten him killed, in a back alley behind Bourbon Street. -Jolee- Jake had heard the legend, Voodoo, and wishful thinking, mixed with pure superstition..most likely. Even so, Creole and Cajun alike awaited the child's future as Queen of the Creoles. Therein lay Pierre LeBlanc's greed. Already one of Louisiana's king-pin mobsters, it isn't enough. With Jolee as his wife, he would gain more power and total control over the other crime lords until the entire state would fear and respect his demands. But, he has to wait until Jolee grows into adulthood, first. For Jake, it had been an introduction into the dark side of Bayou life and one he never forgot.
After college, he was recruited by the War Commission to participate in a covert operation in Afghanistan. After his tour ends, he returns to the Louisiana Gulf coast. He's hardened and bitter by the senseless slaughter of the desert, throw-away children. Referred as 'sand fleas', the innocents are deemed collateral damage by both governments. To his family's relief, he uses his trust fund to start up his off-shore drilling operation and moves his life forward. Unknown to him, his destiny has already set. Tonight, he's in route to Bluebonnet, Texas for a long overdue, check-in with his parents. He has a couple hour wait time and drops by to relax and beg a meal at his old, all-time hangout, Papa Chas' Blues Bar. Too soon, he feels a change in the atmosphere. He waits for it, isn't even shocked when Pierre LeBlanc, the top man on his ten-year-old 'kill' list parades right past him with his four shotgun-swinging thugs in tow. What did surprise him was the young, red-haired woman trailing in the thug's wake. She'd only been ten years old when he'd last seen her in their haphazard, alley run-in. Through the years he'd heard the whispered rumors, that LeBlanc had kept his little slave caged up with a wolf until she'd become wild as the beast she represented to her people. There was even a tale that she'd knifed a couple of LeBlanc's henchmen, herself. He's relieved that she has survived long enough to grow up.. but she's not a skinny little kid, anymore. She's exotic, beautiful and quite possibly the most dangerous woman he'll ever see, since- it's obvious she still belongs to LeBlanc. Even as he watches, Jolee manages to escape into the crowd and out the side door. With his adrenalin flowing, he accepts a ride from Papa Chas to his awaiting jet. When he climbs on board, he discovers the door lock shows signs of tampering. Suspecting another illicit shipment of contraband has been stashed in his plane, he's no less than amazed to find he has a stow away, Jolee. Whether by Providence or by chance, she's now in his possession and he vows to keep her, even if he has to tame her, himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ruby Kennard
• Release date: May 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311276117

Ruby Kennard

Many of my stories revolve around the familiar environment I experienced growing up in my native Texas surroundings. However, I have visited much of America and expand my locations on impulse, depending on the individual story plots. Since I once lived that particular lifestyle, my knowledge of ranching, the oil-field industry, and South Texas culture enables me to incorporate my views into the stories I write. As a wildlife enthusiast, my critters usually have a Cameo appearance in my stories, as well.Through experience, I've learned we're all flawed creatures, living in an angry world. Therefore, I dig deeply into my characters, find those flaws, add real life issues and watch my hero and heroine resolve them. I've found that even in the most profoundly dramatic scenes, laughter is still good medicine. I write simply because I must. When a story unfolds in my mind, I get no rest until I bring it to completion. My greatest joy is in knowing that none of us are alone. We're each vulnerable to the same circumstances- fly high, to our mountain tops, or grovel in the valleys below. But it's the laughter and love we share, together that determines our endurance and survival. Trust me!.. It's true- What don't kill you, makes you stronger!DIRTY LITTLE SECRETS is my 'come-back' book. After dropping out of the industry for years, I was compelled to write, again. Although I never intended to publish, I did. Ben and Jenna O'Bryan's story was so much fun to write and carried such an important lesson in life that I gave them a legacy in the Bluebonnet, Texas Series. There are presently six individual romance adventures in the series and I'm working on my third mega-romance. I hate Windows 8 and have an ongoing love/hate relationship with Grammarly!

Book preview

Chapter One

Surprisingly enough, Papa Chas’ club wasn’t all that busy tonight. Only a couple streets off Bourbon Street, the famed, House of the Blues, usually kept a steady, loyal patronage year round. But, then- both, Mardi Gras and the summer tourist swarm were the big pull and in a few weeks, even the lingering summer tourists would be gone.

With the exception of only a few loitering college students and a hand full of locals, the New Orleans sidewalks appeared to be unhurried and uncluttered, almost sane, again.

Good. Jake O’Bryan didn’t like crowded places. He’d worked private security guard dog too long to find any leisure or enjoyment in an atmosphere where half the house were packing heat.

Tonight, he didn’t want to concentrate or facilitate any other action besides, kicking back- chilling out. A good meal from Papa’s kitchen, a couple beers and a little friendly conversation would help him unwind from the last two grueling weeks he’d spent hopping from one platform to another on his off-shore drilling rigs.

Inside, he glanced around the front bar area, with its scattered tables. As usual the only table on his left was vacated. It was the norm, rather than the exception. This was Papa’s personal table and with the club owner’s great bulk, space didn’t allow for more than one patron at a time sharing his attention.

Papa was on the small stage, running his fingers down the ivories of a bluesy, Cajun style tune, glanced up, gave him a dark-eyed wink and nodded towards his personal table.

Within moments, Clairemarie bounced into his frontal view, a beer in her hand and a wide smile on her wide, brightly painted lips.

Staying long, Jake, bebe? she inquired with dark, twinkling eyes. Sliding the unopened bottle before him, she gave him a loud, wet smack on his mouth.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out his own church-key, popped the bottle cap off and lifted it halfway to his mouth.

’Fraid not, sugar. The jet leaves with or without me in a couple hours.

Why so? The plane, it belongs to you, yes?

Yeah, but I got a couple hundred reports going to Houston with or without me.

Ah, business, of course. It was a simple statement of fact.

Yep, like always, he said low, taking a swig of the chilled beer.

Ah… too bad. Sighing, she grinned, Maybe… this time, I’d let you play, she wiggled her massive, provocatively displayed bosom, with my ladies.

Jake laughed outright, That’s a damn lie, and we both know it. For ten years, you’ve been promising with no action. You’re a prick tease, Clairemarie but, he grinned, a delicious piece of eye candy, and I’m sure Papa rewards you well for your loyalty.

Oui, Papa Chas takes good care of my ’ladies.'

I just bet he does, he said, still grinning. Let me know when the ’ladies’ need a night out. I’d give ‘em a real good time.

Squealing with laughter, the  buxom blond backed from the table. I will bring your dinner, now. Enjoy the show.

What show? There hadn’t been a billboard outside, announcing a performance. And this was Saturday night. He couldn’t remember any time in the past ten years when he’d been in town that Papa had missed having live performances from Friday until the wee hours of Sunday morning.

Tonight, the quietness of the lone piano music was soothing and just what he needed. As moods went, his was already on the sour side, having dodged the high winds of a hurricane but taken the brunt of the violent tropical storm. He’d had all the havoc and chaos he wanted for a long time.

The door opened behind him as he lifted his beer to his mouth and set the bottle back down slowly. Simultaneously, he felt the atmosphere change. Shit.

Even before the group entered the club, the muscles in his broad neck tightened in anticipation. For just a split second, everyone in the club froze in a time warp, the instant the newcomers crossed the threshold. This couldn’t be good. Though Papa missed a few notes, he continued to hit the ivory keys, retaining a semblance of ordinary.

When the first two thugs strode past his table, his left hand automatically reached beneath his jacket and unsnapped his 9mm holster. By the time the woman passed, his teeth was clenched. A few steps behind her, strutting like he owned the place- the one man he most hated in the world, swaggered past. This was the man responsible for his creating the ’kill’ list he carried even now though he’d quit the Bureau years, ago. After Pierre LeBlanc, another- his tail punk guard sauntered by his table.

Without a noticeable glance at the table just ten feet to his right, he watched LeBlanc sit down and lean back possessively owning the chair. The young woman left standing in the aisle was given permission to sit down, beside him, a full two minutes later.

Both building anger and an alien sense of intense relief filled him. With her softly curling long burgundy locks, even from the back, he recognized Jolee. The fact that she was still alive was a miracle in itself. And she was now, a grown woman, not a ten-year-old child to be dragged and shoved, degraded by LeBlanc and his mobster gang.

It had been nearly eleven years since he’d first seen her.

During his first college semester. He and his new buddy, Leone had been strolling around the French Quarter when out of a side alley, a scraggly little red-haired girl blindly flew right into his path. The slamming impact with his much larger, harder frame had knocked her to the sidewalk.

He’d reached down to help her up, but she’d stopped him with a string of frantic Creole and shoved his hands away. Simultaneously, Leone grabbed his other arm and power-dragged him away just as a dirty white stretch Limo pulled to the curb and two men in long white canvas coats stepped out. One man was directly in front and the other, just at the side of the Limo. Each had a shotgun braced at the hip, leveled at his chest, ready to open fire.

He was equally confused and enraged when the street child jumped up and scampered to the car with her two panting watchdog creeps sprinting from the alley right behind her. A last glimpse over his shoulder, witnessed the girl being tossed, like a rag doll, into the back seat of the mud-splattered, white stretch Limo before it sped away and out of sight.

He’d been haunted by her image, ever since. She’d been so small, and delicate, like a little kitten. With wildly tangled dark red curls flowing like an angry flooding river, nearly to her knees, she’d appeared as a wild, mystical creature. In only those few frozen seconds in time, he had peered into her small heart-shaped face, into eyes- blacker than a midnight forest, sadder than death… yet without a trace of fear. It tormented him, still, that he hadn’t somehow, been able to save her from her grubby captors.

His buddy, Leone, a Creole from one of the back bayous sat with him for hours that evening, trying to cool him down for fear he’d go out and get them both killed. It was then, he learned who and what the little girl represented to the man who owned her and to the Bayou Creole people who awaited her adulthood.

According to an age-old prophesy, a special girl child would someday unite the Creole, swamp and bayou people combine their lands and thus become their queen. It was a foolish tale, originating from a combination of folklore and voodoo, the unique ambiance prevalent throughout New Orleans and South Louisiana.

Unfortunately, the child Jolee, had been targeted to fulfill the mystical legend and, as a result, had been taken from her family by Pierre LeBlanc, subsequently chosen to someday become his bride. LeBlanc already controlled the river rats that utilized both, the wide Mississippi and the busy Gulf of Mexico in transporting their contraband. But it was the Cajuns who controlled most of the bayou areas. With the support of the Creole, LeBlanc would become the kingpin of every criminal organization throughout the entire coastal areas of the state.

As he sat, with his left hand stroking his 9mm, he wondered if the unholy event had already occurred or if she had managed to postpone or delay the forced union. Calculating quickly, he figured she was nearing the age LeBlanc’s guardianship would end. In the state of Louisiana, the legal age of adulthood at the time Jolee had unwillingly become his ward, had been twenty-one.

Unless he was mistaken, she was very nearly that age, now. So- what was LeBlanc doing tonight?… Showing off his captive bride?

Dammit!.. He should be half-way to Houston by now, never should’ve stopped by to see Papa Chas. Blood sports no longer gave him the same adrenaline rush, he’d had in the beginning.

Full contact karate had honed his body into an extreme impact, robotic killing machine. But it was the covert commando training that had reached into the very recesses of his mind and took possession of his identity, his emotions, and finally, his soul. He’d willingly turned his life over to a small group of CIA handlers who had planned, briefed and coordinated his missions in the field.

Between his martial arts training and the Bureau’s spook school, he probably knew ninety-nine ways to kill a man without firing a shot. And he’d used those skills until it’d become harder and harder to differentiate between bad guys and worse guys. The dirty politician or his patriotic assassin? Which deserved to die more? So, he made a change to a newer, deadlier game.

Even in the beginning, working covert intelligence in Afghanistan had been like walking straight into hell, itself. He’d taken a two year assignment and been one of a team of fourteen commandos who’s mission had been to track the Opium trail from the poppy fields of its shadowy objective- the supply of weaponry the insurgent, terrorist groups needed in fighting the American military occupation.

Nineteen months into the drug war, only himself and two others remained as members of the original team who had been sent into the bordering territories to search out and eliminate the cartel’s terrorist operation. After a new change in command, they had received orders to ‘cease’ all actions and return to Washington, thus aborting the mission. For Jake, it was like stirring up a pit full of vipers and pouring them into the small defenseless villages, left in the wake of deadly violence and certain and absolute destruction. The government would downplay the senseless loss of life and property as, unavoidable, ‘collateral damage.’

When his reasoning abilities began swinging towards, ‘kill ’em all and let God sort ’em out,' he felt the cynical feel of burn-out eating his guts. He didn’t ‘re-up‘- his contract. Instead, he walked away.. while he still could.

At twenty-five, he’d taken his trust fund and begun building a new career, upgrading the Double B Drilling into his own company, B&B Offshore. Now, nearly three years later, the only time he pulled a security gig was when his own family needed a professional guard. Since he didn’t trust anyone else to protect his dad or his sister, Molly, on their international business jaunts, he worked close body security while Kip did point and intelligence.

Marcus Kipling, his former bodyguard/trainer/handler, just never knew when to back off. Kip still kept tabs on him, even now, that he no longer needed anyone watching his back. But tell that to Kip!.. and his dad.

But sometimes, like tonight, his sense of justice screwed him over- big time. It happened only rarely, but when it did, he had little control to alter his intentions. His body, mind, and soul just naturally reverted to J.B. Kincaid, spook, weapons expert, commando- shoving Jake O’Bryan- oilman, businessman, entrepreneur, back into a deep, shadowy closet.

Clairemarie came prissing back to his table. Was it his imagination, or was she overdoing her sexy little wiggle?.. And she wasn’t balancing a plate stacked with seafood in one hand and another cold beer in the other, a nervous vee etched between her dark eyes and this time, gave him no sass, not a word.

Not for the first time, he was thankful that he was ambidextrous, could throw a touchdown pass with his left hand as easily as with his right. The 9mm didn’t care which hand he used, nor did his fingers when they caressed its sensitive trigger. As handicaps went- he had none.

When Papa Chas rose from his piano, it wasn’t to join him at his table. He stepped to the front of the stage and took the microphone, informing his patrons how lucky they were to have Miss Jolee in the house. Lifting his big hand in a ‘come on up’ welcome, he invited her onstage.

There was a slight pause before she informed him she was hungry and would have her dinner, first. Papa laughed jovially and promised her his entire kitchen if she’d sing for his humble establishment.

LeBlanc nodded his head, ordering her to do as she was told.

With a petulant frown, she stood and moved toward the stage.

There was a light round of applause but mostly, the club was quietly observant… while he waited.

When he chanced another side glance at LeBlanc’s table, Clairemarie was up close and practically bouncing her ‘ladies’ in LeBlanc’s ugly pock-marked face before he nodded for Jolee to begin.

The lights dimmed as she stepped upon the stage. When Papa Chas began to play, she was spotlighted in a circle of light. Now, he could see her clearly for the first time. Stunned, he couldn’t look away.

Although Jolee had, indeed, reached womanhood as was evident by the curves and fullness displayed in the ‘screw me now’ dress she wore. Naturally, her facial features had also matured from the thin, fragile bone structure of the child she‘d been the last time he‘d seen her.. But the change was staggering. Full lips that pouted midway on her top lip, small, determined chin, straight nose, high cheekbones and eyes with a slight slant. They were eyes that could stare clean through a man, eyes- darker than the devil’s soul, fanned beneath thick black eyelashes, framed with narrow, perfectly arched black brows. Here, her coloring did a complete flip-flop defying DNA ‘s scientific statistics. It was her dark curling red hair that went against all scientific odds.

Beneath the spotlight, her white dress sparkled as if sewn with diamonds. Turning, she spoke quietly to Papa Chas and the contrast of her long burgundy curls, falling past her tiny waist, was starkly emphasized by the bright, sparkling white of her provocative, clinging dress. With only thin straps holding the soft, shiny white material to her slender form, her flesh appeared a luxurious, rich cream. For the first time, his mind entertained the idea that the old Voodoo legend could have some basis, after all. She was, without a doubt, the most fascinating woman he’d ever seen, and quite possibly with her history, the most dangerous.

Lifting his right hand, he took a sip of his beer. Whatever Jolee now was, it was for damn sure, she had an agenda, one that might get him fucked bad before he could get out of this place. Her voice, husky and low began to spill out with an old Blues song while he refocused his attention around the room.

The two goons were standing back, near the end of the bar, one at ten o‘clock, the other at eleven. LeBlanc was at two o’clock. The ten o’clock’s white canvas coat sagged heavily at the left side…a leftie with a shotgun. Mentally, he arranged the kills; straight shot to the right chest for him; eleven o’clock ’s coat hanging right side, long torso- gut shot; LeBlanc- between the eyes; his tail guard pooch at three- easy lung shot. Even now, beneath the table, the 9mm was in his left hand, his finger caressed the trigger, searching for the best firing grip, while he lifted his beer with his right hand and took another sip.

A quick glance to his right surprised him. Clairemarie was fawning and rubbing all over the pig, LeBlanc. One look at her dark eyes and he knew she hated what she was doing…So why?. Unless, she was setting LeBlanc up… For what?

Momentarily, the piano stopped playing, there was a mild, routine sound of applause, and Papa began to run his fingers across the keys, again. This time, from the shadowed end of the bar, a male figure stepped onto the darkened stage and sat down at the drums, another stepped up with an electric guitar. Within seconds, the darkened stage was filled with accompanying musicians.

When Papa lifted his hands from the keys, dead silence filled the club. It was as if even he was holding his breath in anticipation. The drumbeats of voodoo drums began to descend, softly at first, and progressively louder, until Jolee lifted the microphone in her hand and began to sing, again. Only this time, it wasn’t the blues. The lyrics were a mixture of English and Creole. With the accompaniment of the band, her husky voice carried higher as the drums became almost hypnotic.

In his peripheral vision, people began to trickle inside. No doubt, the drums and Jolee’s voice could be heard for blocks, especially since Papa’s bouncer had the front door open, inviting passerby’s to join the party.

As the club began to fill, the dinner crowd in the back of the club began moving forward, closer to the bar and stage. Soon there would be standing room, only.

Hiding a grin, he hoped the little red goose was smart enough, capable enough to pull it off. Expertly, she was setting up her escape.

When the tempo moved up a beat, she began to undulate her slender hips to the slow drum beat. Smiling for all she was worth, she began pulling the crowd even closer as she skipped and hopped, rolling her belly muscles seductively. Damn, but he hated to take his eyes off her, even a second. He was damn near as spellbound as the rest of her excited audience.

’All right, now, baby… position ’em where you want ‘em,’ he ordered with a half grin tugging the corner of his mouth, his left hand firmly fixed on his 9mm. Even as he spoke the words to himself, she hopped down from the stage and did a sensual little skip, bounced up, onto the bar and did a slow, sexy walk down. All the while her voice beckoned and her body, twisted and shimmed to the mesmerizing beat of the drums.

Now, a full crowd lined the bar, some were moving aside, blocking the aisle in front of the powder room and interfering with the service from the back kitchen.

At the end of the bar, she bent forward, saucily interacting with the crowd and the house went wild as the music became louder. He chanced a slow glance at LeBlanc. The fool was so intent on being the first to play with Clairmarie’s famous ‘ladies,’ he was oblivious to anything else.

’Okay, you’ve bought the crowd and the pig’s busy. You gotta move, babe. Find enough cover to slide into the crowd and grab a blind spot.' Even as he subconsciously ordered her tactical movements, she unknowingly followed them, to the letter. ‘Now- create your distraction, and then diversion… and pretty damned quick!’

A few drum beats later; the music ended abruptly, the lights darkened about two seconds and came on, again. Only this time, a well-endowed brunet had the microphone and began singing a slow, Jazzy rock. The crowd picked right up where Jolee left them as she quickly made her way back to LeBlanc’s table

Caught up in Clairemarie’s lap dance, LeBlanc merely nodded when Jolee pointed towards the kitchen. With the music blaring, he couldn’t hear what, if anything, she said before she appeared to stalk angrily off towards the back room kitchen. LeBlanc waved his left hand distractedly, and his tail goon followed a few steps behind her.

Easing up on the trigger, Jake relaxed his finger against its metal ring. He couldn’t get a shot off without risk of hitting a bystander. Shit!.. He couldn’t allow her to fail, now. She’d come too far. Freedom was too, too close!

Even as he watched, the crowd appeared to double inside the club, and he saw only flickers of the sparkly white dress reach the powder room. A patron moved, and he watched Jolee turn to the guard dog and point to the kitchen. The goon looked back over his shoulder but hesitated only briefly before sliding through the crowd toward the kitchen.

Jake glanced at his watch and waited. More customers surrounded the bar, and his vision was severely hampered, glancing at the top of the powder room door, he counted. On the count of five, the door opened just wide enough for a slight body to slip out. His eyes trailed, caught just a few glimpses of sparkly white fabric as she slipped from the powder room and out the club’s fire exit door.

Grinning, he checked his watch. Nearly six minutes later, the fetch dog thug made his way through the crowd and back to LeBlanc’s table. He set two filled plates down and took his previous stance- at two o’clock, same shot, if he could make it clean.

Exactly four minutes later, LeBlanc, came up for air, dumped Clairmarie in the floor and rose, motioning toward the kitchen. This time, it was the two goons at ten and eleven o’clock who did the search, coming back three minutes later with frowns and hunched shoulders.

Red-faced and furious, LeBlanc, himself jumped up, screaming like a wounded pig. It was like the parting of the Red Sea, as newcomers and patrons stepped nervously aside while LeBlanc strutted to the powder room, tried the knob, backed up and kicked the door in.

Again, Jake glanced at his watch. Twelve minutes. Raising his right hand, he finished his beer. She had a twelve minute lead on them. He hoped like hell she had a plan, and this wasn’t just a trial run. No. It wouldn’t be. The precision was too well orchestrated. But she’d missed a crucial step- diversion, something to buy her getaway time.

Enraged, LeBlanc threw back the right side of his long coat, whipped out his short-barreled shotgun and blew a hole in the ceiling, showering the end of the bar with falling plaster.

He was more amused than surprised when, almost instantaneously, a S.W.A.T. team swarmed inside the club’s front door, flanked by New Orleans Police cruisers from both directions. The loud music inside the club had muffled their sirens. Very nearly, the 911 call that had initiated the alarm had almost been too soon. ‘Diversion’ accomplished. Well done, little Jolee. Now, get the hell outta Dodge!’

It was a clear cut situation with no multiple choices. LeBlanc was caught red-handed, holding an illegal sawed-off shotgun up beneath a fog of powdered plaster. He could turn the place into a blood bath before several hundred eye-witnesses, kill half a dozen cops plus bystanders. OR he could suck it up, take the ride, grease a few palms and be back on the street before daylight.

Luckily, even a pig like LeBlanc had enough sense to see the logic in dropping their big, bad weapons. In less than five minutes, they’d been handcuffed and dragged into the waiting S.W.A.T. van.

Now, she had an easy four-hour lead. He hoped like hell, she didn’t head for the bayous. That’s the first place LeBlanc would search. He had enough money and power to buy whatever information he wanted, even from her own people.

Standing, he placed his mink brown Stetson on his dark head, was about to head for the door when Papa slapped him on the shoulder.

Jakko, you leave now?

Turning, he accepted a bear hug from the giant of a man. Yeah, the Big Easy just ain't that easy these days. Glancing at his watch, he added, My pilot’s probably pacing the runway, waiting for me.

Ahh, Oui. That could be the way of it. As I’m leaving, myself. I’d be most happy to drop you off.

Papa’s relief piano player slid onto the bench and began to soothe the crowd with a soft, jazzy tune while Papa followed him out the front door.

Outside, he stood a moment while his eyes scanned the street, noticing at once that LeBlanc’s newest, famous white Limo was missing. So- she also had a mode of escape. Unless she ditched the Limo, she wouldn‘t make it to the county line. He hoped to hell she knew that.

Papa Chas led him towards his own vehicle. "Like old times, eh? How many times, Jakko, we have closed the place down and so I give you a ride to your shiny little bird?

Lotsa times, Papa, but not like tonight. I think this is a first for both of us, don‘t you?

Oui. But it is no problem. For myself, my body wants to go to my house. Too much stress for this big man’s small heart ..too much worry.

In Papa’s Lincoln, there was no talk of Jolee or the ruckus before or after her escape. They talked about business issues, his- Papa’s, nothing quite as personal as a shotgun shootout in his nightclub. They each pretended it was just another Big Easy Saturday night. Until they pulled up to the airport’s curb. Papa hit the trunk button, and they got out.

Reaching into the car’s trunk, Jake retrieved his briefcase and duffle bag, was about to walk away when Papa slapped him on the back, whispering his usual prayer for his safe trip home.

Turning slightly, he looked Papa straight into his chocolate brown eyes. How much chance do you think she has, Papa. Is she gonna make it or not?

Ya know, Jakko, our Jolee’s wedding is planned for tomorrow, just after second mass. With just a hint of a smirk, he added, Me, I think she will be very late.

You think she got cold feet and split? But he knew different. Everyone in the state knew how much she hated LeBlanc. "What do you really think, Papa?" Intently, he studied the older man’s set features.

Me?. I think the Holy Mother watches over our Jolee. She and Mama Destiny, they guide her future. It will be well for her.

I hope to hell you’re right, he mumbled low before tipping his hat to Papa. Watching as the barrel of a man pulled his big Lincoln away from the curb, he picked up his gear and turned, entering the private airstrip terminal.

Chapter Two

Just inside the terminal office, Jake glanced around it’s normally bustling, energized office. Leaving New Orleans shouldn’t take long. Since late summer was winding down, the crowded private terminal was unusually idle- as quiet as a morgue.

Looking up from the desk, only one young man staffed the otherwise busy office. How’s it going, kid? Henri, the young attendant, had been with the private airport for as long as Jake could remember, but he’d never gotten more than a sentence or two from him. Don’t look like you’ve been in much of a bind.

Naa, tourists plumb gone, ‘til next year.

You think the little storm scared ’em out?" Small talk- that’s all the kid could deal with.

Nodding his dark head, the youth unlocked a metal lockbox and tossed him his cabin keys. Yeeeah, Ole' Katrina, she was a monster, oui? Now, the hurricane season, she is always summer time blues. The tourist peoples think only- another big storm like Katrina and scurry like river rats. You done gassed up, good to fly.

My pilot here, yet?" In truth, the quicker he left New Orleans, the better. Tonight wasn’t the time for Logan to be even a few minutes off schedule.

Behind him, the door swung open, and his pilot entered, dragging his wheeled flight bag behind him. Sorry Jake, got hooked on a football ballgame.

Part of Jake’s vetting process was knowing the habits and vices of his closest employees. Logan Woods had a wife, three kids, and a huge addiction to ESPN and the Home Shopping Network. His only drink was diet root beer, and he took all his meals in his room.

Logan held the outside door open for Jake since he was carrying his duffle bag in one hand, briefcase in the other. Yeah, right. A ballgame, huh. You sure you didn’t get a good deal on another vacuum cleaner?

As they walked to his private hangar, Logan ’fessed up, itemizing the half-dozen household gadgets he had purchased and gave a convincing reasoning behind each buy.

As was the routine, Jake climbed the seven steps leading to the Jet’s cabin while Logan stood on the runway, waiting for his boss to clear the jet for takeoff.

Even before he unlocked the cabin, his left arm raised while his fingers ran down the door’s hinge side. "Aww Shit!… not tonight of all nights. He didn’t want to spend hours removing contraband and signing statements. But, for sure, he wasn’t inclined to want to play coyote for the drug cartels, gun runners, or any other low-life bastards. The strip of transparent plastic tape he always pressed on the left edge of the cabin doorway was loose, whipping in the