by K. C. Sivils
Ignoring the players when the teams took the field for pre-game warm-ups, he used their presence as an excuse to get out his binoculars to scan the crowd. As the stadium became increasingly full, his irritation at being forced to be present for the assignment increased. The fact that every fan who passed by him on their way to their seat managed to bump into him, a pair of drunks even spilled their drinks as they passed, did little to ease the anger boiling within him just below the surface.
Adding to the multitude of sensory data assaulting his senses, the public address system began playing a country song the fans seemed compelled to sing along to. Despite his best efforts to ignore the tune, the chorus of Calling Baton Rouge managed to somehow occupy his mind in that annoying way songs can. He found himself humming along to the melody as the tune was now stuck in his mind.
To his relief, he spotted them. As he’d been informed, one of the two targets was quite tall, easily standing a full six feet six inches in height. The other, the one with the beard, was just over six feet tall. It irritated him that the pair were smiling and laughing, clearly enjoying their evening when they should have been somewhere else.
Namely, somewhere where he wasn’t.
The tall target wore a bright gold sweatshirt with LSU's Mike the Tiger logo emblazoned on the chest. Making himself even more conspicuous, the man wore a purple cowboy hat with a gold hatband. At least the shorter target had the good sense to dress simply, a light blue windbreaker over a white shirt.
Having located his targets, he took a quick look at the stadium’s seating chart he carried in his pocket, confirming they would have to use the same gate to exit the stadium as he would. Now it was simply a matter of waiting, something he was very good at.
No longer needing to sit in the crowded section, he stood up and retraced his steps down the twenty-three steps, and pushed his way through the portal to the concourse beneath the seats. Knowing he'd have to wait several hours he braved the stench of stale urine in the restroom to relieve himself.
Forcing himself to relax and not rush, he fought the urge to jog down the ramps and flee the press of the crowd. Of course, to have done so would draw attention to him, and possibly one of the fans might take note of him. That, he could not have. Reaching the final down ramp, he encountered a thick throng of latecomers congregating at the big 180-degree turn on the ramp.
A shrill whistle blast caught his attention, causing him to pause on the ramp, a distance roughly halfway down from his seat on the South End, Upper Deck. Dressed in dark purple and gold jackets with white feathery plumes adorning their covers, the members of LSU’s marching band had formed up in lines, each line perfectly straight, with instruments held at the ready.
The steady beat of a bass drum counted out a cadence: one, two, one, two, three. He watched as the first line smartly stepped to the beat, with the second line following precisely five yards behind. Enthralled with yet another pre-game ritual, the crowd clapped in time to the beat as one line of band members after another took the field, precisely five yards behind the previous line.
When the first line reached the 40-yard line, all seven lines of the band had taken the field. The entire formation came to a halt as one while a dozen or so girls clad in purple and wielding flags continued marching until they reached mid-field. He stood on his toes briefly to take in the golden-clad dancers on the far side of the field. Cool air from a breeze struck his face as he counted six rows of dancers, three to a row.
Turning to leave, he found his path blocked by a tightly packed throng of latecomers, many of whom reeked of fried food and possessed rosy cheeks from drinking too much good cheer. An electronic hiss from the public address system shushed the crowd, who was clearly waiting in anticipation.
The staccato beat of a drum merged with the voice of the stadium's announcer, and the ninety-plus thousands of the faithful drew a deep breath in unison and held it while the announcer bellowed, “Ladies and Gentleman, the Golden Band from Tigerland!" Next, some three hundred musicians executed a quarter turn to their right and began to play the LSU fight song as the crowd sang, “Hold that Tiger!” The process was repeated three more times, allowing the band to repeat the chorus, facing all four quarters of the stadium, each in its own turn.
To his surprise, he felt goosebumps from the performance. The initial part of the ritual now complete, the throng quickly thinned as they hurried and stumbled in the direction of their seats, hoping to arrive before the band finished playing as it marched smartly across the playing field. As he strolled down the ramp, the breeze picked up again, pressing the damp cloth of his shirt against his back.
Eager to be free of the crowd and its smells, he noted the sign clearly stating no re-entry would be allowed once a ticket holder left the stadium. Slowing to scrape a crushed waxed paper cup from his shoe, he couldn't help but notice the dozens of similar cups strewn about along with half-empty boxes of popcorn and peanut shells everywhere. It never failed to amaze him how much waste humans could produce and scatter about in their wake.
Free of the press of other humans, he slowed his pace, enjoying the sudden dip in temperature now that the sun had set, leaving a brilliant pink sky on the horizon over the Mississippi River levy a few short miles away to the west of the stadium. The same breeze that had cooled him briefly on the down ramp offered even more relief from the clinging humidity as he sat down beneath the canopy of an oak tree and leaned against its trunk.
The targets were there. They would be easy to identify and track when the game was over. Now it was merely a matter of waiting for the inevitable.
CHAPTER FOUR
The antacids weren’t working, causing Heat to rub his sternum in frustration. Living in Houston, he'd grown used to the bland food. His boiled crawfish with accompanying potatoes and corn were doing a number on his digestive tract. It didn’t help matters any that he’d overeaten as well, stuffing himself. The two beers he’d had to drink only served to make him feel more bloated.
Despite knowing it would only serve to make matters worse, Heat waved at the high school student hustling to sell soft drinks. He held up two fingers and passed the money down the row of fans. The kid passed two large soft drinks along with the change back, each fan dutifully taking care to pass the drinks without spilling and the accompanying change.
“Here,” Heat grunted, handing Boucher one of the two drinks.
Both men pulled the lid off and took a long swig of the somewhat watery drink, savoring the ice-cold feel of the liquid as it went down their parched throats.
“Heat, dat done hit the spot," Boucher slurred, his Cajun accent returning now that he was among his own kind.
It was late in the third quarter, and the opponent had been browbeaten into submission. With the score well in hand, the faithful would begin to trickle out early in the fourth quarter. Only the die-hards would stay to see the backups and walk-ons play during mop-up time. The opponent would likely score a touchdown or field goal, and the best the reserves would be allowed to do would be to add another touchdown to the already lopsided score.
“Let’s go,” Heat informed Boucher. He finished the last of his drink with one long pull before crushing the cup and shoving it underneath his seat.
“What’s the hurry? We ain’t drivin’ back tonight.” Boucher’s eyes got big. “Tell me you made reservations somewhere. Tell me we ain’t goin’ home tonight.”
“We ain’t going home tonight," Heat promised. Heat planned to sleep in late and stuff himself one last time on a feast of fried catfish and hush puppies. The lone problem Heat had not considered was how to keep Boucher from roaming about the city of Baton Rouge on a Saturday night, on the prowl for female companionship.
“Whew, dat’s a relief,” Boucher informed Heat, grinning from ear-to-ear.
“Give it,” Heat demanded, holding his hand out.
“Give what?”
“Your cell.”
Boucher frowned in response. “What for?” He demanded.
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“So, I can sleep tonight.”
“Use your own phone as an alarm,” Boucher grumbled.
“That ain’t it, and you know it," Heat replied sternly. "Now hand it over, or I'll just leave you here, and you can find your own way back to Houston."
Under his breath, Boucher muttered words Momma Boucher would box his ears for if she heard them. He fished his cell phone out of his pocket and handed it to Heat.
Without a word, Heat entered the security code and pulled up Boucher’s text messages.
“Just what I thought,” Heat said aloud, giving his companion a dirty look.
“Whoa there, partner,” Boucher complained, grabbing for his phone as Heat deleted all of the recent text messages.
"Keep your hands to yourself," Heat ordered. "This is for the best, and you know it."
Watching as Heat's fingers moved quickly, calling up the contacts on the phone, Boucher tried a second time to grab his phone, only for Heat to hold it away from Boucher at arm's length. Scowling, Heat pressed delete and erased the woman's contact information.
“There, I just saved both of us a lot of trouble.”
“Can I have my phone back,” Boucher grumbled.
“No. Because I know you have more numbers in there.”
“Darla ain’t goin’ to speak to me Heat, not with you causing me to stand her up like that.”
“If Darla knew what was good for her, she wouldn’t want to speak to you anyhow.”
Both men glared at each other as the public announcer announced the visiting team had just been penalized fifteen yards and that it was now fourth down.
“Let’s go, Heat.”
As the pair made their way towards the portal, Heat couldn’t help but grin as he listened to his companion grumble and curse in French.
---
He watched as the crowd trickled out. It had started mid-way through the third period as the score became lopsided. Fans more interested in tailgating and drinking left to watch the rest of the game from the air-conditioned comfort of their RVs while they finished off the ice-cold beer waiting for them. By the start of the fourth quarter, the stream of fans grew a bit thicker, causing him to increase his level of awareness.
His targets would be approaching his position soon. He fingered the knife in his right pants pocket, testing the feel of the weapon. With his left hand, he reached into the left pocket of his windbreaker and checked for the small Smith & Wesson. It was a pistol designed and manufactured for women, making it ideal for his purposes. Easy to conceal and hard to see in poorly lit areas, it was the perfect tool for the job.
The crowd roared from inside the stadium, and the band started playing, indicating another touchdown had been scored, further running up the already lopsided score. The targets would be leaving soon. Neither was the type to stay to the bitter end, refusing to go until the final second ticked off the clock. With this in mind, two custom-made leather gloves, never before worn, were pulled from the right pocket of his windbreaker and painstakingly pulled on.
Seven minutes later, he spotted them, the shorter of the two walking on the left side of the taller man. Both were laughing and having a good time. How fitting, he thought. If the two of them had spent a little bit less time having fun and more time being responsible, he would never have been offered the contract that would forever alter the pair's good times.
Taking his time, he maneuvered into the middle of the throng of people making their way towards the South Stadium Parking Lot, easing in behind the pair. The sounds of honking horns and parking attendants trying to control the flow of traffic as those who left early attempted to make a quick getaway and beat the post-game traffic jam.
Lengthening his strides, he pulled to within a single step of the two men. He listened to the sounds of voices around him, sensing the throng had dispersed. Thirty feet ahead, an old live oak sprawled, its thick branches stretching out for dozens of feet, the biggest and lowest of which were a mere eight to ten feet off the ground. Nearing the old tree's colossal trunk, he pulled the knife from his pocket, flicking the blade out with enough force he could feel the click as it locked into place. Acting as if he'd tripped one on the live oak's many roots, he lunged forward, the tip of the knife finding the exact point he'd aimed for.
One quick thrust, and it was done.
Before the taller of the two men could stumble and fall, the barrel of the Smith & Wesson had been jammed into the shorter man’s back.
"Don't stop and don't look back. Your friend is already dead," he whispered. "Just keep moving, and I won't blow a hole in your spine and paralyze you from the waist down."
“Where are we going?”
“South Gate. I’ve got a car waiting there.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Anna's silent reverie was broken by the insistent ring tone of her cell. Without looking, she reached into her purse with her right hand while steering her SUV with her left. A glance at the number caused Anna's heart rate to accelerate. She took her foot off the accelerator and allowed the SUV to coast, bleeding off speed as the next exit drew close. Exiting I-10 onto the service road, Anna pulled into the parking lot of a Whataburger.
With well-practiced speed, her fingers flew over the screen, pulling up the message. Her eyes widened as she first read the text then scanned the image accompanying it. Tears of rage mixed with those of fear as she read the message a second time. Anna gave herself a minute or two to let the long pent-up emotions pour out. Then, momentarily spent, she took a few minutes to repair the damage to her makeup before resuming her drive.
The news changed the distraught woman’s plans. Needing time to think, Anna continued down the service road paralleling I-10 until she came upon a chain motel. Wearing dark sunglasses and a scarf over her long dark hair, Anna checked in for a single night.
Standing in the doorway of her room, Anna sniffed the air in the room. It smelled like cleaner and the room appeared to be clean. Setting her lone travel bag on the table next to the tv set, Anna placed the backpack she carried next to it. Anna sat down at the table and opened the backpack. Her fingers touched the edge of the laptop inside, and she removed the device, setting it on the table. She opened the computer, typed in her username and password, and waited for the computer to boot everything up. In seconds the screensaver of her two children appeared, bringing a faint smile to Anna's lips.
A quick search pulled up the information Anna needed. Unable to print, she fished a notepad from her backpack and wrote down the information she would need. A glance at her watch confirmed it would be several hours until diner time. It was Sunday, and there would be no point in going anywhere. Exhaustion swept over Anna, and she gave in, reclining on the bed for a nap. In seconds she was asleep, her unconscious mind wandering, dreaming up one horrible, terrifying scenario after another.
---
Boucher’s snoring was getting on Heat’s nerves, enough so that he decided it was better to listen to his companion complain about his headache and lack of sexual escapades while visiting Baton Rouge. He nudged the sleeping Boucher who was reclining in the passenger seat, eliciting a grunt mid-snore, breaking the repetitive rhythm of snores. From the corner of his eye, Heat watched as Boucher stirred slightly in the passenger seat, first licking his lips and then loudly smacking them together, further irritating Heat.
“Wake up, I’m making a pit stop,” Heat informed Boucher.
“That’s what you woke me up for,” Boucher complained, turning away from Heat and glancing out the window while stretching his arms. “I guess that’s okay.” Boucher sat up and returned the passenger seat to its normal position.
Boucher looked worse for wear. He hadn’t showered before the two departed late that morning for the return trip to Houston, instead grumbling about leaving at such an awful hour of the day. The clouds parted, allowing the sun to shine directly in Boucher’s bloodshot eyes.
“Oh, Lord, don’t torment your servant Elijah like that,” Boucher exclaimed, covering his
eyes and slumping down in his seat.
“Maybe that’s the Lord’s way of telling you not to get drunk like that,” Heat admonished, a faint grin making an appearance on his lips.
“Like you’ve never tied one on, Heat.”
“Age has given me some traces of wisdom,” Heat replied. “Wisdom gained through experience that has convinced me that the evils of alcohol are just that, evil and largely self-inflicted.”
“Whatever,” Boucher grumbled, looking out at the trees whizzing past.
“Moderation, Elijah, moderation in all things,” Heat preached.
Five minutes passed when Boucher began smacking his lips again. "Mouth's dry, and I got a bad taste too. How long till we stop?"
"Bout five more minutes, and we'll be in Lafayette. I'll stop at a convenience store and get gas. You can go to the john and get something to drink." Heat glanced at Boucher and shook his head. "Get some aspirin and breath mints while you're at it."
---
“How did it go?”
“Leave me alone, Amy.”
Amy sat on the edge of her roommate's bed, looking down at Blondie with concern. In the few months the two had lived together, the pair had bonded, primarily over the shared nightmare experience of their days as sex slaves working as prostitutes in Houston. Amy had been plucked from the trade by Heat and his former partner, Wolf Pfeiffer, who'd been murdered. The pair had cleaned Amy up and put her to work as their receptionist.
Blondie was the most recent stray Heat had saved from the life and taken in. Blondie had been sober for less than a month. She had just started school at the community college in Houston, taking two classes as a part-time student, taking a remedial English class and an introductory computer skills class. At Heat's insistence, Amy had taught her friend how to do the most tedious tasks that were a regular part of her job, namely going to the courthouse and doing research. To everyone's surprise, most of all Blondie herself, she was actually good at finding the needed information and working the, at times, difficult bureaucracy effectively to obtain quick access to the official records.