The Devil's Daughter Box Set

by G A Chase

  To avoid the infuriating obstacles, she leaned over the gas tank, shifted the bike up a gear, and jumped the tires onto a rail of the streetcar line. Like a woman running on a tightrope, she trusted her instincts to keep her balanced as she flew past screaming people and honking horns. At Bordeaux Street, she hopped off the track and turned toward the river.

  I just hope I didn’t spend too much time dealing with Professor Yates. Polly was right. I didn’t have time for such bullshit. I should have just grabbed my bike and torn off after Monty. But had she done that, the professor would likely have succumbed to his wounds before being able to reach his phone. Plus, Monty had her gun. She would have been an easy target following along behind the streetcar.

  Second-guessing herself was becoming a bad habit and one of no practical use while she was in pursuit of a mass murderer. She stopped under the limbs of a live oak that covered the street a block from Mr. Fisher’s house and consulted the CPA’s schedule. Drive home for lunch at 12:15. I own a 2013 black Jeep Cherokee. Her analog wristwatch read 12:25. From where she stood, she could see there wasn’t a car in his driveway. As a man of precision, Mr. Fisher was mostly likely never late for anything. She eased the Triton from its hiding spot and drove down the street at a moderate speed, hoping not to attract attention.

  She stopped cold at the base of the driveway. Fuck. I wonder what the chances are that Mr. Fisher is an aficionado of Ducati Monsters. Sitting alongside the Queen Anne Victorian sat the familiar black bike she’d hoped to never see again. “I suppose there’s no point in hiding now.”

  She pulled the four-barreled shotgun out of her bedroll under the headlight of her bike. Looking like a door-to-door mercenary for hire, she approached the house. “You in there, Bart?”

  The rugged bartender opened the door. “Mr. Fisher is in trouble. His wife is worried sick.”

  “That much, I could figure out on my own. What are you doing here?”

  He stepped out of the entrance and closed the door. “Joe thought you could use backup. I was performing a basic pincer move. With you working your way up from New Orleans and me chasing Monty south, I had hoped we could trap him. Too bad you were late.”

  Sere considered slapping some sense into the muscular dude. “Your plan. Not mine. And it only would have worked if you’d bothered telling me about it.”

  “I’m not standing here arguing with you, especially while you’re swinging that scatter gun. If I’d told you my idea, you just would have objected and probably done something foolish to foil my attempt to help. Going up against an enemy alone when you don’t have to is just stupid.”

  “So now you’re calling me stupid?” She was having trouble controlling the volume of her voice. “Who’s the one standing on the porch with his dick in his hand?”

  He checked the door behind him. “Are we going to argue, or do you want to go find this asshole before he kills your accountant?”

  Sere tensed up, ready for battle. “You know where they went?”

  “When the Jeep sped past me with the masked man in the passenger seat aiming a gun at Mr. Fisher behind the wheel, I rushed up to the house to find out what happened. Mrs. Fisher was desperate for any help. They were quietly having lunch, discussing how they were going to pay for their youngest daughter’s tuition, when the madman burst in, wielding the shotgun, and forced Mr. Fisher out the door.” Bart held up a cell phone. From the picture of puppies on the screensaver, Sere guessed it wasn’t his. “Mrs. Fisher keeps a tracker on her phone for all their cars in case one gets stolen.”

  Peachy. So to find him, I’m at your mercy. Weakness wasn’t something to confess while on the hunt. She took a deep, calming breath. “I suppose it was Joe who told you the Swamp Strangler was after Mr. Fisher.”

  “He was just trying to help. You were pretty emotional when I left you at Riley’s, so I made the run down to Joe’s cabin to make sure I hadn’t made a huge mistake letting you take off on your own. We both thought you could use someone covering your ass.”

  “And you of course appointed yourself as head ass watcher.”

  He hustled down the walkway toward the motorcycles. “This isn’t just about you. Stories of serial killers coming out of the swamps have a way of cutting into my business. People don’t go drinking at night if they think someone with a knife is lurking in the shadows.”

  “So you figured you’d just sit in the bushes, whacking off and watching while I did battle? You could have stopped the asshole before he ever entered the house.”

  He threw his leg over the crotch rocket and lifted his helmet from the handlebars. “If you had let me explain rather than fighting with me, we’d already be on the road. I couldn’t exactly tail the psycho through the swamps, but I figured eventually he’d show up here at the Fisher house. The real question is, where the hell were you? When I saw the murderer sneaking up the street, I figured you had to be slinking through the bushes after him or hiding in the attic for the ambush. I lay back so I wouldn’t get caught in your crossfire. I only took matters into my own hands when they tore off down the street with you nowhere to be seen.”

  Sere gripped the butt of her shotgun. “Was that a cut about my marksmanship?”

  He cranked over the Ducati’s engine. “I was only trying to let you play out whatever plan you were running. I guessed if you weren’t following the murderer, maybe you were hiding in Mr. Fisher’s vehicle. But you’re not running a plan, are you?”

  She couldn’t admit that he was right. “We’re wasting time. I suppose I’ll have to follow you.”

  Sere was steaming mad as she followed Bart’s Ducati, but she knew her irritation at him was only a transference of her self-condemnation. She’d wasted too much time with Kendell and Myles. Had she not taken the familial detour, she wouldn’t have been stabbed by Thomas and lost a whole night to being looked after like a sick child. If she’d stayed focused, she could have been ahead of Bart at figuring out the obvious ploy of lying in wait at the Fisher residence. Even if Monty had found her, the battle would have been between her and him the way it should have been. Hell, if she’d just bolted the moment Polly showed up to take care of the professor, she still might have been able to track Monty the way Bart had assumed she would.

  “How the hell am I supposed to know this stuff? Joe taught me to defend myself and work alone, not coordinate my activities like I belonged to a pack of wolves.” She’d never wanted to stop off at a bar for a shot and a fight more than she did right then.

  When they reached the freeway on-ramp, the Ducati shot ahead as if Bart had fed nitrous into the carburetor. Giving chase redirected Sere’s thoughts from what she should have done to what she needed to do. Monty was headed over the Crescent City Connection toward the Jean Lafitte swamp. Makes sense. Monty would be looking for somewhere to dispose of the body, but he needs Mr. Fisher to do the driving. Monty had to believe he’d given Sere the slip if he was headed to an area she understood so well. Being in cities—with their crowded streets, confining buildings, and lack of vegetation to provide cover—meant she’d had to play a role that didn’t come naturally. Once out in the marshes and rivers, she could slip through the water and plants like a snake slithering after its prey.

  She patted her saddlebag, knowing how much her serpents would enjoy being back in their natural habitat. He was still a step ahead, but he’d misjudged her determination, and—as much as she hated to admit it—Bart’s cleverness. “That hunky fool still should have minded his own business,” she grumbled.

  Sere leaned low over her handlebars to cut down on wind resistance as Bart cut through the freeway traffic. Though the Ducati was more powerful, it was burdened with a bulky rider who relied more on brawn—or in this case horsepower—than smarts. She didn’t have any problems keeping up. When he finally took the off-ramp, however, he didn’t even bother to downshift. “That idiot is going to get us both killed before we even reach the swamp.”

  Weaving around the city traffic gave Sere the clear adv
antage. Bart could only shoot through gaps wide enough to accommodate his beefy arms and shoulders. At the high speeds he was maintaining, he needed to steer a predictable path. She kept her front tire glued to his tail like a quarterback following a linebacker through the opponent’s defensive line.

  When they transitioned from well-maintained city streets to rugged gravel roads winding through dense marshes, Bart finally reduced his speed to a sane pace. Sere checked her watch. Fifteen minutes from front door to bayou’s edge. That must be some kind of record.

  He pulled into a wide turnout and shut down his engine. When he took off his helmet, she wondered how he managed to remove it from his ego-inflated head. “I suppose you think that was clever,” she said, “nearly getting us both killed. Or was that payback for our first ride together where I lost you in my dust?”

  He nodded down the road. “The Jeep is just around that corner. It only arrived a couple of minutes before us. I thought it might be nice if we showed up before Mr. Fisher was killed instead of after.”

  She choked as much on having to admit he was right as on the road dust she’d been swallowing. “What weapons did you bring?”

  He swung his muscular leg off the back of his bike. The first knife he pulled from his hip and set on the seat of his Ducati looked like some adolescent boy’s idea of a cool weapon. “Cold Steel Natchez Bowie knife. This thing will cut through damn near anything, but I hardly ever have to use it. One look at the massive blade, and whoever I’m facing backs down.” The next knife was more her style. “Flat black Ontario MK 3 Navy knife. It’s an inch shorter than your Fairbairn-Sykes, making it easier to wield in tight combat.”

  “I’ll bet that’s the excuse you give all the girls.” Sere couldn’t resist the jibe. His cold stare made it clear he didn’t find the reference to his manhood humorous. Muscular military types and reptiles—exactly the same lack of a sense of humor.

  “If that’s about the size of my cock, I’ll have you know I’m quite well endowed.”

  “I guess I’ll just have to take your word on that for the time being. What other dangerous weapons are you packing?”

  He pulled what looked like an updated mercenary version of a Swiss Army knife out of his boot. “GIGN Glauca B1, developed for France’s counterterrorist unit. I’ve MacGyvered my way out of countless situations with this baby. That’s it for the knives.” He reached around to the small of his back. “I also carry this Smith & Wesson snub nose .38. It’s not pretty, but as a bartender, I’ve found that knives aren’t always the ultimate solution to drunken brawls.” He nodded at her boot. “I’ve shown you mine. Time to fess up with what you’ve got.”

  She pulled her trusty knife from her boot. “You already know about this one. I used to carry a sawed-off single-barrel shotgun on my back, but Monty stole it from my supplies.” She reached under her headlight and pulled the four-barreled blaster from her bedroll. “This is what will ultimately kill Monty. The shells are custom designed for his special vulnerabilities.”

  “You travel light, but then, I’ve seen you fight.”

  She turned the shotgun around and aimed the butt of the gun toward Bart. “Take it. When the time is right, pepper Monty with as much buckshot as you can blast into him.”

  Bart had the standard confused, dumb expression she’d come to expect as he accepted the weapon. “You don’t want to do the deed yourself?”

  She pointed at the seat of his bike. “Give me your Navy knife. Monty is sure to expect some sort of frontal assault. Most of the paths through the swamps are narrow, circuitous routes without any other way in or out.” She unbuttoned her cotton shirt and tossed it onto the seat of her Triton. “What he won’t expect is a water assault.” She gave Bart a suspicious stare. “Since you’re Navy, I would have thought you’d have already guessed my plan.” She kicked off her sneakers and unzipped her jeans then added them to the pile. “I’ll slip around the small island and approach from the back while you do your best not be noticed coming in from the front.”

  He handled the shotgun as if he’d just been handed a trophy for second place. “I’m the Navy SEAL. I’m the one who should be making the water approach.”

  In only her panties, bra, and the knife strapped to her leg, she opened her saddlebags and let the two canebrake rattlers slither up her arms. “Tell you what: take one of these snakes from my arms, and I’ll let you make the manly gesture of shedding your clothes and slipping into the reptile-infested waters.”

  He set the barrel of the gun over his shoulder. “Point taken. This thing looks pretty indiscriminate in what it’ll hit. How do you want to coordinate the attack so you’re not the one being filled with buckshot?”

  Good question. Admitting that she was as susceptible to the custom pellets as Monty, however, would mean divulging more information than she wanted Bart to know. “Get as close to them as you can, and find a good hiding spot. There’s plenty of thick brush, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Monty will be looking for someplace along the shore. He won’t do anything until he’s sure there’s an alligator in the vicinity to devour the body, so we have a few minutes at least. Have the gun ready. Wait until he’s searching the water, then when I signal you, make enough noise to distract him. Once he turns his back on me, I’ll be the one to lunge out of the water—instead of a gator. With the knives, I should be able to calm him down. I need answers before we kill him.”

  “So I’m just your fallback? You could deal with him easily enough with those blades.”

  Sere took his Navy knife from the seat of the Ducati. Holding out her arm, she slit her wrist the way she had as a seven-year-old girl. Blood oozed from the wound but quickly coagulated. By the time she’d wiped the blade off on the seat, the slash had almost disappeared. “I heal quickly. So does Monty. I can kill him with the knives, but it won’t be easy. Even from a distance, though, that buckshot isn’t something his body can tolerate.”

  Bart picked up the rest of his weapons and stashed them back around his body. “Are you two related?”

  “We don’t have time for family genealogy. Just be ready when I come up out of the water. I’ll tell you when to shoot.”

  “Don’t leave me holding my dick again. If it looks like he’s about to kill Mr. Fisher, I’m not going to hesitate.”

  Sere waited until Bart was halfway down the road before snagging a couple of shotgun shells from her saddlebag and securing them in the waistband of her underwear. “Time to call in some reinforcements.” She stepped gingerly through the vines and tree roots to the water’s edge. Spreading out her arms on top of the water, she aimed her snakes toward the welcoming bayou. “Go find Lefty. One way or another, there’s going to be a body to dispose of, and I can’t trust these overfed, practically domesticated tour-group swamp puppies to know how to devour fresh meat.” The two snakes shot off like lightning bolts discharged underwater. Only the slight ripples on the surface of the calm river betrayed their passage.

  Sere checked that her knife was securely strapped to her leg. She then took Bart’s thick blade and clamped it between her teeth. Let’s see how useful you real creatures are compared to the hell beasts I know. She crushed one of the shotgun shells in her hand and flung the pebbles out into the water. When she dove into the murky depths, teeming schools of catfish and river gars were waiting for her. Like personal underwater propulsion jets, they swam so close to her that they pulled her along through the interconnected rivers. They didn’t leave her until the water became so dense with vegetation that their undulating bodies might be noticed above. When they disbanded, she crept along through the stalks until she couldn’t see any light above through the thick mat of water lilies that clung to the shoreline.

  Without disturbing the surrounding plants, she lifted her head under a large leaf, feeling like a combination of the little mermaid and a Navy SEAL. I’d like to have seen Bart do better, she thought, more pleased with herself than was strictly warranted. The river creatures, after all, were her allies, not her s
ubjects.

  Monty screamed at the large pond of open water beyond Sere’s aquatic garden. “Where are you goddamned gators? Show yourselves!”

  But the surface of the water remained as smooth as glass. She lowered her head back underwater and edged closer to the shore. Her fish companions had swum her out so quickly that she wondered if she had gotten to the island before Bart. She didn’t dare make a move until he was in position, but she couldn’t wait around all day. Monty’s patience wasn’t likely to last long. When her eyes again broke the surface, she was staring at the demon’s business loafers. Behind him on the ground, Mr. Fisher cowered before the version of himself so hell tortured as to have become nearly unrecognizable.

  A slight breeze rustled the leaves of the oak saplings beyond the shore. One of the young trees bent down farther than warranted by the breath of air. Bart flashed the okay sign with his fingers, indicating he was in position. How the hell did he see me? I guess his training is better than I suspected. When she gave him the return thumbs-up, he rustled the small bush enough to attract Monty’s attention.

  “What’s back there? Have I finally found an alligator? Come on out and face hell.”

  While Monty was turned away from her, Sere reached out from the swamp, grabbed him by the ankles, and yanked him hard off his feet and halfway into the water. She was on top of him before he had a chance to roll over. With her thin bladed knife, she jabbed him through the back as if pinning him to the shore. She had Bart’s Navy knife against his throat before he’d gathered his wits enough to cry out. “We’re going to get up out of this water nice and slow.”

  Monty struggled under her weight. “If you’re going to kill me, do it. I’ll just regenerate in hell and try again. You don’t have anything to threaten me with.”

  She leaned back and pulled him to his knees with the knife at his carotid artery. “Brave words, but we both know they’re a lie. Even if you do come back, you will have forgotten what you apparently learned. Get up.” By driving the thin knife up toward his lung, she forced him to rise as if operating him via remote control.