Cajun Fire

by Rick Murcer

  Cajun Fire

  By

  RICK MURCER

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Murcer Press, LLC

  Edited by

  Janet Fix, www.thewordverve.com

  Interior book design by

  Bob Houston eBook Formatting

  www.rickmurcer.com

  Cajun Fire © 2016 Rick Murcer

  All rights reserved

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. The book contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, or stored in or introduced into an information storage and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 1539189880

  For all of the storytellers out there.

  Thank you.

  Cajun Fire

  A Novel

  By

  RICK MURCER

  CHAPTER-1

  The two large men flanked the smallish one. They looked like Sequoias as they stood, stoic and erect, hands folded in front of them, impeccably dressed in customized suits that cost thousands.

  The fact that this meeting was taking place in a musty, dank warehouse on New Orleans’s east side at dusk only added to the bizarre contrast of the men’s impeccable appearance and the less-than-desirable surroundings.

  Rhodes crossed his legs and motioned for them to come closer.

  They did, but only after the three exchanged glances. Caution was an understatement regarding this group. Good. That would make what was coming next easier to handle.

  The man in the middle moved exactly one step in front of the other two, as if they’d performed this parade a thousand times before. Rhodes supposed, in this business, precision made sense. He’d been there a time or two.

  None of them were particularly attractive; the two large men had shaved heads, large noses, and shaggy brows.

  They might have been twins in another life.

  Their employer, Mister Smith, as he’d communicated earlier, wore a white fedora with a black band. The hat hung low over his face, but even that couldn’t mask the dark, beady eyes circled by gold wire-rim spectacles.

  Rhodes couldn’t help but think of the old line about makeup and pigs. Yet the two guards were hardly what he’d call swine. More like cobras in suits. Once more proving that money could only mask the man, not change him, at least for men like these.

  The hard-ass, no-nonsense approach revealed something else. They weren’t afraid.

  That in itself was a wonderful trait when hiring men and women with their specialized skill sets. And Rhodes knew of such skills, didn’t he? Had he not traveled a similar path in the wake of his journey to the here and now?

  Pointing to the three chairs on the other side of his worn mahogany desk, he smiled. “Please, sit down. Can I offer you something to drink?”

  The trio stopped about ten feet from the desk.

  “That won’t be necessary, Mister . . . Rhodes, is it? I didn’t come here to drink or socialize, as you might imagine,” said the man with the fedora, his voice surprisingly deep.

  The cold, calculating vein with which he answered was no surprise. A man like him, who did what he did, had no reason to be sociable.

  He nodded. “Mister Rhodes will do. And, no, I don’t suppose you did. Let’s get down to business then, Mister Smith.”

  “That suits me. I have another appointment tomorrow and would like to wrap this up.”

  Standing, Rhodes reached for the single manila folder on his desk and began to walk over to the three men. He was met five feet away by one of the guards.

  The bodyguard reached out his wide hand and took the file from him, motioned for him to stay, and then turned and handed the file to his boss.

  Smith opened it and studied the single sheet inside, then glanced up. “Again, are you positive this is what you want?”

  Excitement coursed through his body like a wave of electricity. His thoughts shot directly toward his desire, his purpose.

  Nothing, since the day he’d finally determined that he would rise like the proverbial Phoenix from the darkest pit of life, had truly prepared him for the accompanying emotion in reaching this point in his pilgrimage.

  Was there anything sweeter than purpose accompanied by a sense of justice?

  “Yes. That’s what I require. Do you have what I need?”

  “I do.”

  “Good.”

  Mister Smith shifted his feet without shifting his eyes. “I don’t usually ask what a client wants with what I sell. But—”

  “Then might I suggest that you don’t ask now. You and I are businessmen. Let’s conduct business and get on with our lives,” Rhodes said.

  The other guard began to reach into his jacket, but his boss stopped him.

  “No need, Klaus. The man is correct. It really isn’t any of our concern.”

  Smith lifted a thin finger in his direction. “Do you have the agreed-upon price in US dollars?”

  “Yes.”

  Walking back to the desk, he pulled two silver hard-shell cases from underneath the desk and placed them on the table.

  “Please count it.”

  “Yes, we will.”

  Five minutes later, Smith closed the cases, put them on the floor, and pulled out his phone. He typed a quick text and replaced the phone inside his blue jacket, then stood still.

  “Now what?”

  “My people will be here momentarily to deliver your order, and we will not see each other again. Clear?”

  He nodded. “Clear. Very clear.”

  Three minutes later, two more tall, husky men, led by a dark-haired woman, entered the open double doors. She was carrying a metallic attaché case in her left hand, striding as if she owned the place.

  Even in the fading light, he could see she was a striking, muscular woman, her long, dark hair framing her high cheekbones.

  Too bad.

  “This is my associate, Miss Jones, and her entourage.” Smith then turned in her direction. “Please put the case on the desk and hand him the key so that he might inspect his purchase and we can be on our way.”

  “Gladly,” she answered.

  He detected a slight Middle-European accent as she spoke, his favorite.

  With great caution, Miss Jones placed the attaché on the desk and handed him the key, their fingers touching.

  She smiled. “You have warm hands. Are you nervous, my friend?”

  He returned her smile. “Excited, Miss Jones, very excited, I would say.”

  Placing the key into the middle lock, he opened the case slowly, his anticipation off the charts.

  The contents seemed to stare back at him like a long-lost friend. His smile grew. He could scarcely believe what was now his.

  This was it, the final ingredient in his complex recipe. The journey had been arduous, but he’d done it. They had done it.

  Closing the case, he locked it and put the key into his khaki slacks.

  “Are you satisfied?” asked Smit
h.

  “I am.”

  “Then we will make our way from you and this place. Per our normal exit protocol, you will wait fifteen minutes after we have left before you leave this building.”

  “I understand. It’s been a pleasure.”

  Smith offered another curious look, a wordless question about what he was going to do with his new treasure. When there was no answer, Smith picked up the money, one case in each hand, and turned for the door.

  Once all six people were directly in front of Rhodes, positioned correctly, he cleared his throat. “Mister Smith, there is one more thing.”

  Smith stopped in midstride. Rhodes swore Smith had read his mind, to no avail or consequence, however.

  The small man dropped the cases, yelled at his guards to move.

  But it was far too late.

  Muffled shots rang from underneath the desk as Miss Jones and her two associates landed hard in successive thumps, bullet holes winking from each of their skulls, the floor around them already changing to a deep red.

  Raising his customized Glock 9mm, Rhodes shot Smith and one of his guards before they could make another move, almost.

  Klaus had managed to get his gun from his holster. Another shot from underneath the desk ended that intention.

  Klaus’s gun clattered against the wooden floor, after the right side of his face had disappeared, his remaining eye wide open with surprise before he tumbled to the floor next to his boss. The two of them lay still, face to face. He couldn’t help but wonder if they were pondering, in death, the hell in which they found themselves.

  Oddly enough, Smith’s glasses were still on his face, albeit a bit crooked, supported by the one ear he still possessed. The cases of money flanking Smith were still standing erect, oblivious to what had happened.

  The silence was tense and relaxing at the same time. All the while, he kept his gun trained on the six bodies some thirty feet away, even though he knew he need not worry. He never missed. Nor did she. Still, it never hurt to use appropriate precaution.

  After another minute, he addressed his accomplice.

  “Come on out. We have things to do and places to see,” he said softly.

  The slight woman crawled gracefully from underneath the desk, the silver suppressor on the end of her resized Beretta 92FS leading her from the floor to his side.

  “That was different,” she breathed, the excitement undisguised in her voice.

  “It was. As always, you were superb.”

  She turned him in her direction with a gentle tug of his shirt, her bright-blue eyes alive. “And it’s all for you.”

  Then she kissed him.

  He returned her kiss, then held her at arm’s length. “I thank you. Now, more gratitude to come. Shall we?”

  “We shall.”

  Five minutes later, in possession of the two cases of money and the final ingredient required to fulfill his purpose, Rhodes drove the ten-year-old Chevy Impala out of the neighborhood and headed for one of the hidden gems offered to locals in the French Quarter. There was nothing like the reward of a celebratory dinner.

  He couldn’t remember feeling any better since the beginning of his new life.

  CHAPTER-2

  The sun reflected off the pink finish of the shuriken throwing star. Milliseconds later, it thudded dead center into the heart of the adult-sized target in Manny Williams’s backyard.

  Before Manny could say an encouraging word, another star danced so close to the first that it was hard to tell there were two.

  Then a third.

  “Nice aim.”

  Sophie Lee, his close friend and ex-partner with the Lansing Police Department—and now the FBI, maybe—glanced at him, perspiration crawling down both sides of her pretty face. She nodded.

  “Watch and learn, white boy. That’s what we’re doing here, right? Teaching you how to throw these babies. Besides, that’s what we Chinese folks do. We toss shit and make it stick to whatever we want.”

  “Yep, that’s why you’re here—I’m learning. But what does that other part mean, exactly?” He moved closer to her, already sensing what was about to happen.

  “I can throw stars or I can throw dog dung. Either way, I’ll get them to stick to something, especially me. It’s part of who I am.”

  Manny ignored the last statement, far more in tune to the second.

  “Explain sticking to you.”

  “Damn, you’re thick for a hotshot profiler. Blond hair and blue eyes and all the rest of you.”

  Sophie took two steps toward him. Manny wasn’t sure she realized she had. Then he was positive she hadn’t.

  “Let me explain, Williams.”

  She shuffled two steps nearer, her bare feet gliding through the grass.

  “It’s like the way I’m prone to having the shitty stuff from this life stick to me. I’m the target. Targets get damaged. Pretty soon they’re destroyed, or worse, they aren’t worth a tinker’s damn or the time it would take to fix them. But that’s okay. That’s the purpose of a target, so the beat goes on. It’s karma or some mystical crap like that. Get it? Or do I have to make it simpler for you?”

  “Sort of. Keep talking.”

  Her beautiful brown eyes searched his.

  They were now only a foot apart, but Sophie’s glare bore right through him, demanding an answer he didn’t have. Good God, she was a tough woman. But . . .

  Gradually, like a slow-motion video, the tears welled and, within a few seconds, mingled with the glowing perspiration on her face.

  “Are you going to make me ask?”

  “Ask what?”

  She turned away from him, staring at the target, then whirled around, emotion changing the very contours of her face.

  “Sometimes I hate the freaking way you think. I ain’t in no damned mood for a confession.”

  “That makes two of us; and maybe you are.”

  She swayed a little, then leaned in. “Why Dean, Manny? Why him?” Her voice was a ghostly whisper.

  He reached for her, folding his arms around her, drawing her close to him. She gave in, not fighting him this time. He still had the bruises from the last instance when he’d tried to console her, some four weeks prior, right after her husband Dean Mikus’s funeral.

  Grief had no friends, but touched everyone. There was no escaping it.

  Thank God she was finally taking this next step in her heartache, willingly or not.

  His friend, as far as he knew, hadn’t spent one tear before or after the funeral. Not one scream of frustration. Not one rage-filled outburst. Well, except for beating his arm. Not even a drunken escapade. Since the funeral, she’d not given a single indication that she was in mourning or grieving—other than not talking to anyone, except him sparingly, for these past weeks. Maybe she was hoping it all just might go away and she would awaken from the nightmare.

  He knew how she felt. He also knew the answer to her heart-wrenching question would never fully reveal itself, at least not in this life.

  She nestled closer to him while he contemplated the not-knowing for the millionth time.

  “I don’t know, Sophie. People make choices. The asshole sicko in Miami made one. Dean made another. That’s all I know.”

  “That ain’t much for a smart guy,” she said quietly. “But maybe I can’t handle more than that.”

  “You mean destiny or fate or God’s will?”

  Sophie released another pent-up sob, then quickly recovered. “Yeah, one of those. But I can only be pissed at one of them. If God is really there, then I’m pissed at him. If it’s fate or some other mystical, undefinable hocus-pocus shit, then what am I supposed to think? That none of us has a chance to change destiny?”

  He didn’t answer but waited for her.

  Her body heaved, then she continued. “There was never a gentler soul in this screwed-up universe. He didn’t deserve this. Not in any concept of the word ‘justice.’ On top of that, I don’t deserve this either. I’ve paid my damned dues alr
eady. Now I’m alone and left behind in this freaking mess of a world.”

  The face of Manny’s murdered wife, Louise, journeyed into his mind, again.

  After her death, he’d done his fair share of questioning, screaming, and shaking his finger too, but later understood that his knee-jerk reactions hadn’t served a purpose, other to make him feel better—and that was temporary at best. Louise wasn’t coming back from the dead. That had only happened a couple of times in history.

  It was impossible to have a bigger frustration in life than to never again be able to touch or talk with the love of your life. The feeling was close to utter desolation and pure abandonment.

  He stroked her long hair. “I hear you. Neither of you deserved what happened. I’m still not sure what God has to do with anything like this. I do know that no one’s immune to heartache. It rains on all of us.”

  She pulled away from him, her hands still on his arms, and smiled a tired smile.

  “Man, you suck at that philosophy crap, but you get an A for effort.”

  “Thanks, I think.”

  Her voice grew even softer. “I know you want to help, but it hurts like a bitch, Manny. What am I going to do without him?”

  Stepping back into his embrace, she began to shake as the cascade of tears let loose, and this time with a vengeance. He felt his own eyes moisten as he plummeted into her despair. No one should go there alone. No one.

  After a few minutes, Sophie’s body stopped shaking, her sobs reduced to faint whispers, which were somehow even more haunting. He recognized that phase too. He thought he’d never get control of his emotions, his heart, his pain, after Louise’s funeral. Hell, sometimes his wandering thoughts still embodied merciless torments.

  Sophie stepped away again, her face more relaxed, if not tear-stained.

  “Better?” he asked.

  “Yeah, for now. But I’m not sure I’ll ever be the same.”

  “No, but it will become bearable, I promise.”