Buried Values: The Library

Your Guide to Discovering BURIED VALUES

Also enjoy these other provocative titles by Joshua Adam Weiselberg:

BURIED VALUES: The Outlaws – In the middle of the horror that’s Bleeding Kansas, witness the start of Daniel Winthrop’s criminal career. In 1857 the North begins to arm the South in a stolen weapons trafficking scandal that really happened with a conspiracy that reached all the way up to the Buchanan White House. Whether it grew from personal convictions or desperation for cash, the direct consequences were felt in the shape of the Civil War! Constance May betrays the young Winthrop’s love and even her own father, the General, on behalf of the Abolitionist cause. And Sgt. Robert Masterson finds himself front and center with all the hell that’s being raised as he winds up incriminated with Jack Talbot and his dirty crew. While somebody’s getting paid, at least somebody else is really going to receive payback! As all attempt to escape their fate, take a guns-blazing ride on the trail to high treason western-style with John Brown, William Quantrill, and Robert E. Lee, along with many more who sought to forever change the course of American history.

BURIED VALUES: The Treasure – In the maelstrom of the Civil War that now rages across the bloody landscapes of 19th Century America, the Buried Values legacy truly begins with treasonous acts of larceny and murder, and Robert Masterson and his future beloved are forever ensnared by events that will affect their families for generations. A robbery and key assassinations are plotted by dirty Daniel Winthrop, and President Abraham Lincoln’s star witnesses to John Buchanan Floyd’s arms trafficking conspiracy are targeted for termination without remorse. Abigail Hutchinson saves patriot Christopher Pratt’s very existence, but the cost of his life might have been too high of price to pay! Now all her family members’ lives are on the line when she and Winthrop get into bed together over dubious hopes for an escape – with a profit. But Pratt’s betrayal demands he seek revenge! Now the originally contemptible Abigail’s priorities change as the feisty Southern Belle realizes she’ll have to rise up to be the better human being or no one will survive. Will the gold, the silver, at the very least some increment of justice – let alone the truth – ever be recovered?

BURIED VALUES: The Rookies – an adventure in Mafia baseball unfolds when almost at the dawn of the Roaring Twenties – with nearly the entire globe manning battle stations – Taddeo Villetti makes it out on to the mound for his first year with the World Series bound Chicago Cubs. And then to take his eye off the ball, Arlene arrives as a new sex-worker in his South Side crime family’s bordello. She is secretly planted there to deliver a stunning victory for the North Side’s Irish Mob and carries the revolver of her distant uncle, the infamous lawman Bat Masterson, with determined intent to bring her own permanent kind of Irish justice down upon the Italians who murdered her parents. But life has a way of throwing some curve balls. As America’s latest immigrants make their first attempt to recreate Cosa Nostra in the United States, a Jewish mob boss attempts to organize both the Italians and the Irish into the country’s largest sports gambling racket which could possibly bring about a lasting peace, but is instead violently derailed by the forbidden romance in an ill-advised affair between Arlene and the Cubs’ rookie pitcher. The young pair are fated to become star-crossed lovers as Taddeo sacrifices all to save Arlene from her life of slavery as a prostitute, with his jealous brothers playing a crippling game to thwart him at every turn. And all this before he ever suspects his obsessed-over love’s true lethal purpose for being there, is to assassinate his entire family. However, nothing can go as planned, when entering into this competition will be Arnold Rothstein, Babe Ruth, and Al Capone - while always fighting to stay alive, will be everyone’s true buried values. And then the signal’s given for the next player on-deck.

BURIED VALUES: The Fall – The Rookies make the plays in a lot of extra innings that the Cubs were surely never planning on. Now in the middle of their killer 1918 season, Taddeo Villetti is murder on the mound serving up his special kind of cutters and Arlene Masterson will be the mother of all vengeance on the streets. The fire for women’s rights has turned into a one-woman vicious crossburn that can run from the cornfields of the Midwest to the corrupt Congress in the capitol. And the Villetti Family with its part in gambling, drug dealing, and Big Jim Colosimo’s bordellos is right in its path of devastation. And there’s no going back to how things used to be, especially with Arnold Rothstein’s agents on hand to practice their particular brand of playing hardball. Dark money is lining all the wrong people’s pockets. Now Taddeo is a man who’s losing control and can only hope he has enough balls to be that one pitcher who can finish the game. He struggles to form an alliance with Johnny Torrio’s enforcer the young Al Capone while his last true love is torn between strengthening her ties to the infamous suffragette Katherine McCormick or The Windy City’s favorite Madam, Victoria Moresco, ally of the fledgling Outfit. Blood’s being let into the Chicago River from Little Italy to Rogers Park and in its backwards flow it is painting everyone’s true buried values in red. And now it is the new players’ turn to witness some strikes up close. But all it will take is one now-veteran man to be called off the bench, for he to become the real game-changer.

BURIED VALUES: The Recovery – In the shocking sequel to Buried Values: The Library, will it be Naomi or Davina who has survived to now have to attempt to run the new Louisiana Mafia? The young woman will form the uncomfortable but necessary alliances that might barely keep her afloat in what’s left of a sinking criminal empire, trying to rebuild in hurricane devastated flood lands. There’s no electricity, no chance to call for any help, not even many roads still above water, and there will be no rescue coming for quite a long time. It is only the worst of the prison gangs – who escaped drowning behind bars – who now rise to surface and seek to satiate their all-consuming thirst for revenge –who can still hold even the slightest grip on any tangible real power. A shaky alliance with the street boss Demetrius Lamont appears to be the only way to push on and complete one thoroughly-soul-consuming quest for a fortune in lost treasure, now the sole currency of any real authority. But who will turn on whom first? One young woman, now ultimately corrupted, will relentlessly compete to capture unimaginable reserves of the real kind of tender she’ll need to secure her status as power shifts drastically in America, following the wake of the controversial 2016 Presidential Election. What are the real values which lie beneath the surface, waiting for her to find? And could they save a lot more people from dying? The legacy of the Villettis – and Buried Values – continues, but only for the last carriers of enough personal fortitude to still remain breathing, when everything else purportedly held dear, seems destined to drown!

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BURIED VALUES:

THE LIBRARY

This country was not founded on benign altruism or a holy mission for the will of God, but on slavery and indentured servitude – on mercantilism and unfettered capitalism. And as is often the case, business is warfare.

– Professor Darren Hughes, August 2016, Louisiana State University

Chapter 1

In the year 2016, the cartel war has exploded into downtown Baton Rouge, LA…

She didn’t mind not being shot at, that was for sure, but the men she’d set up to die could not be allowed to escape. The doll-faced brunette with the long, flowing hair pressed down on the final bullet until it locked in the last clip. She pursed her painted lips. Actually feeling disappointed that if everything went according to the plan, she wouldn’t personally make the kills, she knew she had more than enough rounds in her gun to do the job if the need arose. There could be no margin for error, but it would be best if her hand in this went undetected. She reached down and parted her dark skirt along an unzipped seam, revealing a long, smooth suntanned leg in the tight grip of the holster for her 9mm, with room for the extra magazine on her inner thigh. She secured her backup ammunition, then trailed her crimson nails along the length of her silky flesh. Excited by her own touch as her hand traced her skin around her piece, then climbed higher and higher, a leg quivering and the girl nearly bursting at the seam with anticipation.

Her gun checked, the young woman’s chocolate-colored eyes scanned beyond the office window to the street eight stories below. Russell Stein pulled up and parked a black BMW in a metered spot in front of the building. Her youthful attorney stepped out of the car, grabbed a trench coat from the back seat and pulled it on over his gray suit. Then he reached back into the car and collected a smaller item from the glove box. Walking around the front of his vehicle at a brisk pace, he slid his ID card across the meter reader, clicked the remote for his door lock, and hurried out of the soft rain. The light-haired man jogged down a path centered between the entry and exit driveways up to the front doors of the government building and right across a planted island, which added a bright green to the day’s gray tones.

Seconds later, a silver Dodge Charger recklessly streaked through traffic and stopped right up against the curb in a red zone, beside the ingress driveway. Justin Whitman burst out of his car, a glint of reflected light shining off his gold badge, which momentarily became visible on his belt as his suit jacket moved with his sudden action. He too ran into the office building.

Her cell phone rang. She expected the call. Yes, she answered.

The voice on the other end of the line sounded like a gruff, middle-aged man. [This is Hartley. You’re sure he has the drugs on him?]

Yes. He doesn’t want to disappoint me. He’s supposed to complete the exchange with me here and then drive me to the hotel a block down. She paused, then continued in an all-business tone. You’re going to arrest him now, right? This will complete my role as your informant? Then you’ll have all charges against me dropped? You have that somewhere on you in writing, right?

[We’ll see, the man replied. You’re really not in any position to make demands. But your celebrity trial would just waste my time while your lawyers tear apart my procedures and question my competence.]

You can’t afford any bad press, the girl noted out loud.

[If I can bring in a cop distributing drugs across state lines, especially with protection in place to make the trade inside a government building, I’ll be setting the example for my department that I wanted to establish in the first place,] Agent Hartley said. [After I arrest this guy, you’ll be debriefed and instructed as to when the judge wants you to appear as a witness for the prosecution. That’s our deal.]

I get immunity and protection.

["No. You’ll give me what you promised first. I still don’t trust you."]

Then I wouldn’t be so sure that we have a deal.

[We will. In the meantime, I need you to lie low. Find another school. I may be able to get it approved so my agency reimburses you. But get the hell out of Baton Rouge. That’s the deal.] He broke the connection.

The girl keyed the speed dial for her lawyer. Upon hearing his voice, she switched to a youthful and joyous tone, exclaiming, Russ, I just saw you pull up. I can’t wait to see you! The elevator’s taking forever. Hold on. I’m coming down the stairs. I’ll meet you halfway. She ended the call before he could respond.

Then she dialed Whitman on his mobile line while she observed the street from the window. A police unit had pulled up. A patrol officer exited his vehicle to examine the Dodge that had been left in the traffic lane, hazard lights blinking. A college-age boy ran out of a coffee shop across the street to check on a moving truck that had a compact car attached to its rear with an orange tow hitch.

* * * * *

The dark-haired white boy lingered to make sure the cop wouldn’t notice that his U-Haul and the attached Honda overlapped the section of curb that indicated a no-parking zone. Some sixth sense made him turn his head and look up at the tall building in the center of the office park on the other side of the street. He hadn’t seen whoever had abandoned the silver Dodge, but he figured the driver had gone inside the structure. Something felt wrong, but deciding he’d escaped the serious danger of getting a parking ticket, he allowed that his curiosity could go unsatisfied. His vehicles were safe and he hated cold coffee. So he headed back into the café, grateful to be out of the rain.

* * * * *

Her predatory gaze continued to scan the street as the girl in the office building gripped the holstered gun between her legs. Her fingers clenched the weapon so tight they lost all coloration, sharply contrasting with her blood red nail polish. She waited for the detective to answer his phone, tapping one finger against her own communication device. She stood behind mirrored glass that accented the exterior of the professional suites, but she thought she still might have somehow caught the attention of a young woman who walked briskly in the rain on the other side of the street. She scrutinized the other woman: long brown hair tied in a ponytail under a dark baseball cap, her eyes hidden by sunglasses even on this dark and overcast day. She wore a blue jean jacket over a white top and a denim skirt accented with a silver studded belt. She traveled quickly in spite of the awkward discomfort her oversize purse must have caused, repeatedly smacking against her side. The dark accessory had to protect something important to her since she made as if to clutch it close. The woman moved an object that had been hidden in her other hand away from her mouth as she studied the office building. She might have carried a phone, but it also could have been a radio.

Then the young woman standing indoors spotted a glint of brightness reflecting off metal, flashing some distance off the street, and from above her elevation. A shadowy figure stood behind the open window of an apartment above the coffee shop across the street. The business end of a rifle reflected the light for only a second as the figure extended the weapon to aim into the building in which the girl stood. The gunman was so discreet that only because the girl already knew exactly where to look for him, was he even observed by her at all. But the girl found comfort that he’d taken his position. Good, she thought. Let’s get this over with.

The detective finally answered his phone. Breathing hard, he demanded, [Are you alright?]

Infusing panic into her voice, she responded, Justin! No! He’s still stalking me. He’s actually in the building! I’m avoiding him by ditching the elevator. I’m taking the stairs down to meet you. Please just get me out of here!

[Hang on just another minute! I’ll be right there. Security line held me up.] She’d counted on that. [I’ll take the stairs too,] Detective Whitman said.

She terminated the connection and walked as fast as her dress shoes allowed - out of the legal offices to the emergency stairwell. She heard footfalls and called out, Honey?

Russ Stein’s elated voice came back to greet her. Baby, I’ll be right there. I’m coming up to meet you. Seven levels below, a door flung open and slammed against the stairwell. Then the sound of racing footsteps.

No! she cried. It’s too late! The young woman kicked off one of her black heels, grabbed it, and threw it down the stairwell.

Dammit! Justin exclaimed. Police! Hold it right there!

Russ Stein had just reached her. He began to smile at her when he heard the shout from below and a flurry of footfalls. What? He looked puzzled as he turned.

He’s got a gun! the girl cried.

As Stein turned, raising only his cell phone in his hand, three bullets slammed into his chest. Several other rounds missed, putting dark holes into the stairwell and echoing so loudly that they resounded like a barrage.

The door behind her burst open. Greg Hartley slammed the girl back against the wall as he drew his own weapon. Rushing forward, he yelled, D.E.A., drop your weapon or I’ll fire!

Justin, it’s a trick! the girl called out to the policeman.

Whitman, making the turn on the seventh floor landing, lost his balance and tripped. Two of Hartley’s bullets strafed his hair. Allowing himself to fall prey to the irrefutable emotion he felt for this girl, he’d forgotten all better sense by now and cursed aloud while he blindly returned fire. His shots missed. Hartley grabbed his informant around the neck and fell backwards through the eighth floor doorway, dragging her with him. Hartley’s throw slammed the girl down on the floor. She lost her balance as she tottered in one high heel, her skirt flipping up as she fell back.

Hartley paid her no attention and never caught sight of the girl’s briefly exposed weapon. Duck behind something, quick! he commanded, his attention focused on the shooter on the other side of the stairway door.

She darted behind one of several brown leather couches positioned in the lobby. Although they were inadequate cover, she wasn’t concerned. She didn’t need to be hidden from anyone right then, because she wouldn’t be the target. This time.

Now he knows it’s a trap! Hartley shouted back at the girl. Distracted by his anger with his witness for only a second, the gray-haired man didn’t anticipate the younger man diving to the floor of the reception hall when the stairwell door burst open. Hartley fired high, missing badly. But Whitman didn’t. Steadying his gun with a careful hand, he came up from his roll across the carpeting and fired five times. The shots hit home and tiny crimson holes appeared in Hartley’s clothing, some of his blood decorating the faux wood doors and the glass panel he fell against, shattering it.

Whitman got up. The girl came to her feet as well, kicked off her other shoe, and ran in bare feet to the handsome, athletic-appearing man, dodging broken shards all over the ground in anticipation of his embrace and wrapping her arms around him. Oh, baby, are you alright?

I’m fine, sweetheart. Are you, okay? he asked.

Uh-huh. I think so. I need to sit down, away from this. Visibly shaking, she managed to motion to the body, now bleeding out on the floor. A finger might have still been twitching.

With one arm still around her, Justin pushed open one of the double doors and guided her to a waiting chair in the interior lobby of the civil service office they’d entered. The frightened secretaries were just getting up from where they’d taken cover under their desks upon hearing the shooting. As Justin lowered her down into the chair, his body became a clear target when they separated. Something pierced the glass of one of the huge panoramic windows that formed the rear wall of the office. Whitman staggered as a second and third shot hit him, red stains expanding on his white shirt, under his black tie. He looked up at the girl, his mouth opening but no words escaping. He fell against her legs, his head landing in her lap. The girl none too gently shoved him aside. Screaming, secretaries ducked back under their desks. Good, she thought. No one noticed my indifference.

As the office clerks began to recover themselves once more, the girl knelt down beside Whitman’s body and bit her tongue until she tasted blood to generate an onslaught of tears and feign a bout of nervous shaking. The panicked women began evacuating the professional suite, screaming as they took turns stumbling upon the corpses of Hartley and Stein. The last woman to leave the office grasped the girl by her arm and pulled her up from Justin’s body, directing her along with the rest of the secretaries who were fleeing the building. The girl blended in with them perfectly. Everything had gone exactly as she’d planned.

Chapter 2

Peter Cole slammed both feet on the brakes and cut the steering wheel hard to the left. His car fishtailed in the middle of the street as he spun the vehicle one hundred and ninety degrees and then floored the gas pedal. His tires blazed his passage across a modestly developed island between the east and west bound lanes on North Boulevard. His vehicle burst across the traffic divide: straightening, he launched the car back down North toward the riverfront.

His radio remained alive with a continuous stream of orders and reports coming in from the dispatcher. [Multiple shots fired on North. Sniper fire from across the street on St. Louis. Police responding. SWAT inbound. Multiple victims down. Immediate request for ambulance evac.]

Then came the call he’d already anticipated. [Gang Task Force. Homicide Unit. Report immediately to coordinate at the site of multiple shootings at North and St. Louis. Patrol officers already on scene.] The heart of the state’s government buildings!

This is Cole. Responding, the black detective replied into his onboard radio as he alternated between stepping hard on the brakes and the gas pedal while he reached out to switch on his emergency response light. The red signal revolved rapidly inside its clear housing on the dash of his tan Crown Victoria, as he dodged around other cars, the rainy-day traffic slowing his progress. Cole wasn’t far from the scene though. Even over the noise of his car’s straining engine, he heard automatic gunfire and rapidly accelerated. This is going to be bad, he thought. But getting into some action excited the young detective like a man finally called off the bench and onto the field to play his favorite sport.

* * * * *

Demetrius hit his target with his first shot. His Army training with the M40 A5 served him all too well in civilian life. He repeatedly cranked the bolt action rifle to follow up the round with two more to make sure the cop died before his body fell across his cohort’s lap. His precision rate of fire delivered fast. Through his rifle scope he watched the girl shove aside the body and get ready to play her part in the performance. The sounds of life in his building, someone bouncing a ball in the room above him, all abruptly stopped. Demetrius heard sudden silence save for the pings of his spent rifle cartridge casings that fell on the cement floor beneath him. Glancing at the closed door of the unoccupied apartment behind him, he nervously scratched between the cornrows of hair that defined his personal style and finished with tails hanging down the back of his neck. The police would soon be swarming all over the scene. He would only wait another sixty seconds for his phone to ring before he vacated his position. He knew how to follow orders, but he was even better at taking care of himself.

Then the call came, the girl’s voice clear on the other end of the connection. [I need a distraction. Sacrifice as many men as necessary.] The call terminated.

Dammit! he thought. It’s always the black men that are expended in these operations. Just like my brother. And this girl isn’t proving to be any different than any other member of her family I’ve had the pleasure of working with before. He resolved to have a talk with his employers just as soon as he got out of here. He would get himself out of here. Demetrius’ skill at self-preservation took over.

He used his radio to contact Samson. His men had done hard time for the gang and could handle themselves in prison if they were once again forced to surrender. The crew had plenty of strength on the inside. But first they’d punish law enforcement for their recent interference in the syndicate’s business. Then maybe the Italians could get them out again, or the mouths sacrificed would be permanently shut by the law, right here and right now. Then they’d bear no bad influence on new recruits if these original gangsters were silenced by the enemy’s police. No community outreach by ex-gangsters. No testimonials. And the gang would go on. And no, they weren’t just fighting against white power. They were working for other whites in power – a damaging truth Demetrius’ men could never learn. He hated losing good men but he also had to maintain his control. So he would need to speak to his employer about this new, outrageous misuse of his people, alone. He swallowed hard as the real shooting began, even more determined to make it out of here alive. The next battle in the war for these streets had begun.

* * * * *

On the sidewalk below, the other girl had just put away her radio. She continued to muse about why her employer had her roaming the streets in the rain. She’d made her second lap around the whole city block and was halfway back from Louisiana Avenue in front of a coffee shop when the sound of gunfire erupted from somewhere high above her. Less than a second later, the sound of shattering glass across the street at the government administration center grabbed her attention. As a window into an upper story office on North fell away, she saw clerks diving beneath their desks. On the street level, people inside the café to her right were diving under tables in a desperate effort to find cover as well. Many civilians appeared practiced at it, the last few years of gang warfare having trained their response. But a college age boy awkwardly scrambled for shelter.

The girl had stopped just beneath the spot she estimated the shots had come from, where a U-Haul was parked in front of one of those New Age work-for-housing projects the government recently erected for what some called the entitled generation. The timing could not have been a coincidence. Instinctively motivated into action, she sought an entryway into the private upper levels of the structure. Shots continued to sound from above her. The door to the stairway to the apartments above was accessible only by key code. With no time to achieve a less destructive entry, she withdrew a .22 from her purse to shoot the lock in onto itself and kicked open the door. She easily summoned the energy to burst up the stairwell. Exhilaration filled her. She’d longed for this kind of excitement and the opportunity to take action since she’d first arrived in Louisiana. She wanted to show everyone what she could do.

She encountered no one ready to stop her when she forced her entry past the building’s first security measure, but the girl got more than she’d bargained for as she hit the first floor landing. A door located down the hallway was flung open. A tattooed brown arm wielding an Uzi submachine gun came into view from the security office access way. She barely hesitated as the weapon began a rapid-fire tracking down the hall toward her, leaving a trail of brown burn marks as the bullet holes cut into the wall. She fired back, hitting a dark shoulder that bore a New Orleans Saints’ logo. Red splashed the black and gold. The automatic weapon clattered to the floor as another hand the color of dark cherry wood clutched at the wound. The man withdrew from the doorframe ducking under a wood paneled service counter in the glass room. Wind and sprinkles of rain hit her bare legs from behind, evidence that the rounds the girl’s opponent fired had torn a hole in the large window that looked out from the foyer onto St. Louis Street. Extending her weapon ahead of her, she closed in on the shooter’s location, her breathing rapid, her heart beating hard. Other closed doors ahead caused her apprehension as she tried to keep them covered, the main exit into the stairway for the parking garage at the back of the structure looming ahead as one potentially favored escape route for any more shooters. Now the danger felt as palpable as the excitement.

* * * * *

Multiple bullets rained like hail into his windshield, but the glass’ reinforcement held, though at once the spider-webs of fractures became so concentrated that the view became an opaque white Detective Cole could hardly see through. He barely had time to jerk the wheel to avoid a collision with a streaking black sports car that suddenly shot out from his right, crossing straight into his path and almost careening into him. The Jaguar settled into a launch directly through the oncoming traffic lane. When it charged past the detective’s position, through his side window, he caught a split-second image of the driver, long dark hair flowing behind them, sunglasses on, confidently riding straight through the middle of a gunfight with their windows down. And then the vehicle and its driver were gone. A lone white patrol car further down the street began a U-turn in order to amount some kind of chase. Other police cars backed up with SWAT’s arrival on the scene, so they might better block off all the alleyways that emptied onto North. It was already too late. Law enforcement had used poor judgment in locating their initial blockade. The pursuing officer would never catch up to the black sports car now. Cole’s own vehicle still traveled at a high velocity, arriving on site with his inner voice urging the detective to finally slow down. He worried that more shots were finding him as soon as he made himself that much of an easier target. He didn’t know how long the bullet-proof glass would hold and feared rumors that his assailants had started carrying even stronger firepower to engagements fought in the recent past. Now, less than a half a block east of the government building on North Boulevard, Cole could see the dark silhouettes of patrolmen, arms outstretched, gesturing for his car to stop behind the perimeter they’d established by parking their own vehicles to form their security net. He could see their red and blue lights flashing through the spider-webbing and men hurrying about, their motions suggesting they were making extreme haste to complete backing up that blockade so it would now include more of the adjacent buildings’ parking. SWAT rolled in between their cars to reform the front with their troop carriers.

Someone yanked open Cole’s driver side door. A member of the force in a brown and tan uniform. Just as Cole unlocked his lap belt, he felt the man’s arms hook under his own and jolt him backwards out of the car. Stay low until we get to cover! the officer said. Cole’s heart pounded. This is it! Bullets slammed into his driver’s side window, really fracturing the spot where his head had been sheltered behind only seconds ago.

The shooters are concentrated on St. Louis, split up between the buildings on the west and east sides. We’re concerned with incoming fire from that southwest corner across the street. The officer pointed in the direction of the river. We’re just clear of fire coming from the other side, protected as long as we’re behind that second building. A white patrolman with soft features that suggested he wasn’t accustomed to combat explained the situation, once he’d helped Cole to his feet and turned him around to face him. The patrolman’s back now leaning low beneath the broken windows of his police cruiser. Another officer, a Latino, angled to pass a large object off to the first patrol cop. He received it and then presented Cole a Kevlar vest for the detective’s protection. Put this on and keep your head down. We’re keeping low and reinforcing the blockade. I’ve got a family I want to return to. Let SWAT do its job. He motioned behind him at three dark armored troop transport vans that had positioned themselves perpendicular to the road. The ones which had just been allowed to pass in front of the barrier formed by the bullet riddled patrol cars.

Clad in all black uniforms, helmeted tactical combat officers lined up, flattened against the vans, as their boots hit the ground once they dropped from the transport vehicles. Two men wearing body armor unloaded bullet-proof riot shields; distribution saw them passed up and down the row of similarly armored men. They all brandished automatic assault rifles. Cole realized they were going to march, giving their adversaries a target. A stupid diversion to risk one’s life in, Cole thought. He had no difficulty seeing the timing was not properly coordinated as two gunship transports dove down on the city and ropes were dropped from the attack choppers from which more SWAT troops, or possibly the National Guard, rappelled out of and onto the rooftops. Maybe they were early, or maybe those were the guys who were going to get killed invading the buildings from the rooftops while SWAT was able to rush the government structures from the streets and secure the VIPs? That’s when he realized that the government could actually be the target of all of this! Cole didn’t have a firm grasp on military procedure, but he recognized an opportunity to play the hero when he saw one. He was not going to be left out of this. This positioning of his enemies let them continue raining fire down most effectively upon the cops. It smacked of one carefully strategized operation. But Cole was determined to capture somebody for questioning instead of letting SWAT or the National Guard kill them all, which was probably what had already been planned. But planned by whom, is what the detective really wanted to find out.

Before his rescue companion could say anything, he launched himself from the cover of the patrol cars and sprinted across both lanes of the street, experiencing only slight difficulty with simultaneously drawing his sidearm from his holster inside his wet suit coat and under that bullet-proof vest. He heard gunfire from the building nearest him, but the sound had changed, suggesting it now resounded inside of the structures. Maybe only one shot came his direction and it burned into the street somewhere behind and to the right of him. But as he ran, he saw three men from SWAT go down, their facemasks shattered by incoming fire and red spray painting the transparent plastic from the headshots they’d taken from across the street. A gunship swooped in, pivoting while it hovered, and a light assault cannon sent return fire into the government building, which now clearly rated as being totally held by the hostile combatants. Shooters disguised as workers in gray coveralls fell from window cleaning platforms and plunged many stories to the ground. Chunks of the construction blew off everywhere and hailed down on the boulevard, smoldering. Policy left no room for tolerating assaults linked to organized crime on American soil. Cole reached the building next door to the one he ran for. Another white plain-clothed cop from his department had also just arrived, dodging between the shots, a speeding fire engine, and a pair of ambulances while he ran.

Cole’s new companion shook his head. "This is the resurgence of the new Mafia, trying to send a message. Retaliation for last week. The objective’s possibly a kidnapping or assassination of higher-ups in office. Very bold. They want to prove we can’t protect anyone. That’s the reason for this assault. This really pisses me off. But we’ve all trained for this worst case scenario," the detective said, trying to sound reassuring between his gulps to catch his breath. He didn’t need to. Another shot took him in the back of his head and his body tumbled into Cole, spitting blood on the detective’s vest and taking a second shot that would have hit Cole, had not his fellow officer’s body shielded the cop from additional incoming fire.

Everything has gone to hell now! Cole thought.

Cole vacated that position on the double and made it to the wall of the next building on the eastbound side to North, regretful he couldn’t even spare a single glance back to his fallen comrade. Rather than face fire from the narco-terrorists on St. Louis, he found his way down a parking drive behind the street and sought an entry into the back of the nearest building. The security gate was open and the guard lay dead, the upper half of his body lying outside the watchman’s booth, one arm outstretched still clutching a gun, the black man’s face kissing the pavement below the curb, his white teeth exposed in almost a smile, perhaps encouraged by a peaceful sigh of relief when death had found him. Cole moved past the dead guard and kept low, quickly navigating a path between parked vehicles of all shapes and colors. He could hear gunfire in the structure coming from a floor above him, loud enough to be audible even in the parkade.

A door from the parking lot into the building lay open and another black man, who’d also been armed, lay there preventing the door from sealing, but allowing Detective Cole quick access. He passed the man who lay in a pool of his own blood, one red hand print decorating the bullet pierced wall against which he had fallen. This fellow wore a black football jersey that Cole could see under the flickering overhead lighting which had been hit in some crossfire. The next dead man down the hallway to the lobby that hosted the stairway and elevators was a white man in a suit and tie. He was laid out by the carriage doors, his right hand left positioned on a red stain in the center of his shirt. Cole recognized this next officer, also from his department. Then he noted the blood trail that led off from the front entry to the stairwell door. The detective clutched his weapon tight and rechecked that the safety was off, then as quietly as possible, chambered a round in his gun. Listening to the elevators, he heard no sound coming from them. That information allowed him to form the supposition the carriages weren’t in motion. He proceeded with caution to the stairwell, opened the door, and continuously checking his surroundings, started to make his ascent. He stopped short at the sound of a shot fired and he almost simultaneously stumbled upon the body of a dead SWAT member. Cole heard footfalls rapidly approaching from somewhere up the stairs. The detective’s eyes betrayed his fear. If he ascended now, Cole would have to do a floor-by-floor search while he couldn’t cover the stairwell at the same time. Moreover, he’d run headlong into whoever was on the move above him. A shadow flashed on the wall. Cole sent a text message to mark his location and make a silent plea for backup that wouldn’t be overheard by any hostiles still within the building. He didn’t know how many gangsters he faced on the floors upstairs.

His bravado that had gotten him this far vanished. He wondered if he stood guilty of getting a fellow cop killed by distracting him when he ran off the blockade line and straight into this catastrophe. He rationalized his decision to remain in his position by the logic that he stood his best chance at detaining a suspect if he waited on the first floor, covering every way out through the center of the building. Cole would make this mission worthwhile. Other officers and SWAT should already be in positions to cover the fire exits that emptied into the street or the alleyway, and perhaps they still had live men in units operating in the building somewhere above him. Cole had to trust they’d gotten their act together by now. Thinking of his own young wife and his soon-to-be-born baby daughter, he didn’t want to risk himself any more by charging into friendly fire. His breathing irregularly short, his heart pounding in his chest, Cole wrestled with his self-accusation of cowardice and duty to his family. The detective had settled on his new lay-in-wait strategy for only seconds when a child’s scream cut through the air and blew his plans to the wind.

* * * * *

The other girl hadn’t given it a second thought when she fired her weapon, clearing the first floor of the housing project as she made her entrance. She may have felled a man now, but not before he had shot a local agent, probably working the narcotics angle to this, as well as firing at and possibly hitting someone else in the parking garage. They’d also engaged that first man with the Uzi that she’d initially failed to kill, and the hostile had managed to make it out an alternate door on his feet. He’d apparently carried more than one weapon and stayed in the fight even after losing the automatic the girl had disarmed him of. When the plain clothed cop had stormed the building through the entry she’d blasted open behind them, the thug she’d hit once already had probably been doubling back to stalk her, but took out that next man when that guy had arrived with backup furnished by SWAT. She’d been checking the cameras in the building security office to see onto the other floors above her when it happened. Someone from SWAT must have then pursued the shooter. She’d ducked for cover and hadn’t seen what went on, only concerning herself with intuiting the actions her employer had intended her to be taking at this point in the operation.

Whatever housing shelter residents there were at home stayed silent until now, likely taking cover. But the sudden commotion audible from the floor above her, alerted the new girl that others were on the move. Male and female voices spoke out loud in alarm and a child screamed and started crying as heavy footfalls could be heard through the ceiling, signaling one or even several people running at a good speed on a floor above her. She’d quickly made the decision to climb the main stairwell and took the steps as many at a time as she could while wearing a skirt, definitely not dressed to demonstrate any athletic grace. She now followed behind a blood trail painted on the floor beneath her. But the young lady’s gun and her determination led her until she’d reached only the very next floor’s landing when the access door burst open, slamming her into the wall behind it the instant she reached for the handle. A black man with cornrow hair and tails knocked the new girl right off her feet and she tumbled backward and lost her grip on her weapon. It clattered to the floor as she fell, joining it as the fleeing man rushed past her.

Demetrius caught only a glimpse of the young lady he barreled past. For only a second, he thought it was his new benefactor. She would never come for me. That’s not how this works. And when the woman screamed out, that was not his benefactor’s voice. The thoughts rushed to him almost as quick as an armed tactical officer flew out of another stairwell door but whom Demetrius dispatched with a pistol shot to his face. Holstering his smaller weapon, he rushed forward. The dead SWAT member’s body obstructing his path, he had to use both hands to swing himself over the stairs’ railing but a sudden pain in his leg alerted him that he’d twisted his ankle upon landing. Now the ground floor came up on him fast as he took two intensely painful steps at a time, nearly tumbling all the way down in his descent. He flung open the exit door.

Stop! Police!

Demetrius ignored the order and spun to again draw his Glock but hesitated before he ever touched his weapon. He did a double-take, startled as he thought he recognized someone from his past.

Wait. Wait. Lamont? a black man in a suit called out to him, his voice sounding surprised. That man seemed to do a triple-take himself while Demetrius had his split second to scrutinize the other. But a silver badge reflecting light from the man’s waistline told him all he needed to know as to whether this man was friend or foe. Demetrius dove for the door to the parkade and two shots missed him as he flew over Samson, who in his last act of loyalty, had faded into oblivion while holding the door open for Demetrius.

Furious at himself for hesitating to shoot, Cole reminded himself that the use of lethal force was illegal unless his old teammate drew down on him – and he wanted to take a prisoner alive. But the man who ten years ago was LSU’s once promising running back had never touched his own gun. Perhaps Cole had unsettled him with his recognition? Demetrius Lamont had been publicly reported as killed in Iraq. But Cole was sure he recognized the former football star, alive and well, right in front of him. And did Lamont ever make a tempting prize… But screaming from the floor above him brought the detective’s attention back to even more immediate concerns.

The other girl was stunned but she shook it off quickly and recovered her gun. She had a choice: upstairs or down. There might still be shooters above her, as well as her assigned target, firing down on the street, flooded with civilians caught in the crossfire with the authorities. The sound of a child crying made her settle on a decision and she burst up to the next floor’s landing. But through the window, she caught sight of a black Jaguar sports model nearly crash its way out of the government center across the street on North. It had been boxed in and frantically circled, looking for an escape route, yet it curiously bore no signs of having ever been hit by any of the gunfire. She knew with certainty that was her priority target and she shot out a window from behind which she could view an outdoor fire escape. She rushed down the hallway of the costly novae housing project to take this emergency exit closest to the main boulevard.

A door burst open behind her and a black man in a suit with a badge aimed his pistol in her direction. But she never stopped and ran as fast as she could, her back to him, and he never shot off his weapon. She hit the fire escape at the other end of the hall and clambered down it trying not to slip in the collected rain just as fast as her slim but strong little legs would take her.

Cole lowered his sidearm. A white woman. What the hell is going on? He couldn’t get a good look at her; she was petite but deliberate and fierce. But weapons fire still rang out from the floors above him and he could hear a gunship’s blades whirling as it moved in to cover the building he occupied. The studs in his ears were now buzzing from overwhelming vibrations that brought home the reality of the extreme danger he was in in. Cole dove to the floor as high caliber exploding rounds, and a lot of them, slammed through the level he’d ascended on to. Then there came a single response shot and the whole building suddenly shook, and accompanied with a huge roaring sound, all the glass in the building completely shattered!

Cole’s eyes were diverted from staring in the one direction in which the girl had fled, out another set of blown-out windows to the nearly unbelievable image of the gunship, on fire, crashing against the new housing project. Its smoldering wreckage, alive with red and yellow colors sparking out of it, almost moved in slow motion on its descent to the street below. Its occupants dove out of their aircraft, preferring to fall to their deaths before being burned alive. The crunching sound the chopper made as its metal fuselage collapsed and the rush of heat that came up towards Cole when its gasoline tanks burst was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. The gangs are armed with rocket propelled grenades! Whatever their boss’ objective is, they’re really prepared to initiate another war! Whose agenda could this possibly serve?

But his postulating would have to wait as the whimpers of a hostage taken by a wounded and bleeding thug brought his attention back to those he was sworn to protect and serve. Never doubting his aim, Cole carefully lined up his weapon and fired.

Chapter 3

The eyes of the reptilian predator were the first thing on the creature to move, attempting to track the black Jaguar that raced past it on four tires, mud spraying out behind it as the sports car navigated the winding, back-country roads at high speed. Reacting late to being startled so, the gator quickly scrambled to dive into deeper water that lay just beyond the road. The high-performance vehicle was designed for its maneuvers, the patience span of its driver not nearly as suited for the task that lay ahead of her.

Under a dark green canopy of overlapping foliage, the black car shot like a bullet on an impossible course around the perimeter of the bayou. The girl behind the wheel knew she would arrive at her destination when she spotted sunlight breaking through on the route ahead of her. It could never have penetrated the forested area she’d just driven through. But as she saw the trees part and the palatial Tuscany villa reveal itself in the grassy clearing the road took her to, she knew there was less transparency in that home than in the swamps behind her. The dirt way transitioned into a paved drive past two columns demarcating the boundary of the estate and flowed into a circular roundabout that branched off to the right into a paved parking ground, and to the left, towards a sheltered garage built to resemble Old Country stables, complete with a cobblestone-laid approach. But her path would be harder to see inside the jungle of lies that awaited her inside that house, behind the twelve-foot-high, heavy wooden doors that guarded the villa’s entrance. She’d come home.

The girl stopped her car right in front of the country palace’s entrance. She spotted security in the refined suits that comprised their uniform, walking off the quick step directly towards her. She casually stretched behind the driver’s seat, retrieved a new, brown Stetson hat with a bright red bow, and put it on. After opening the driver’s side door, she continued showing no sign of concern as she reached down to the floor of her passenger side seat and brought up a shoe box. Unwrapping a new set of black heals from the white tissue paper they were packaged in, she caught the scent of new leather as she removed her footwear and placed it on the ground outside her vehicle. She extended her legs out of the car and stepped into her heels as a young guard approached her. She didn’t like the leer on his face as the light brown-haired man looked her over.

You can’t park your car there. No one wants it to be seen here. Move it to the lot hidden behind the stable, he ordered her. His voice barely cracked once when he delivered his command standing there getting wet in the rain, but the girl was a pro at zeroing in on any sign of weakness. Steadying herself, she prepared to teach him a lesson about respecting her.

She half-closed her eyes and lifted her head a little higher, choosing to make a show of ignoring the guard, and pranced right past him. She appeared taller than him in her hat and high heels, sunglasses still hiding a read of any expression on her small face. The girl let The House’s obviously irritated soldier’s response dictate her next action. The man grabbed her waistline and started pulling her into him. Did you hear what I said? he asked. Also, no guns. They don’t want you carrying in there. One of his hands had slid down her waist and she felt its pressure on her butt as he maneuvered it to enter the seam on her skirt while the other advanced over her midriff to come up between where the front of her dress’ material overlapped on her plunging neckline. He didn’t hesitate and grabbed her left breast and started to crush her nipple. His lips formed a cruel smile.

She enjoyed this contest of dominance, her counter-moves, especially against this amateur. Her right heel spiked his shin, after her left hand grabbed his crotch for his penis and testicles and she gave them a sharp twist. Then she smiled as he exclaimed in grief and fell down in a heap at her feet. The other security guard double-timed it to arrive instantly, but gave her a wide berth, his hands displayed outward in a submissive gesture as no doubt this man had already heard of her reputation. He circled a careful distance around her left to pick his younger compatriot off the road. They both stared after the girl for a moment. She twirled her car keys in her right hand. Then the men gave a brief glance back at her Jaguar, left right in the middle of the driveway, telltale dirt and grass blades from the swamp still clinging to it, exactly the way she had wanted it – minus a wash.

The girl made her way to the house. She’d not come far from Baton Rouge and the sound of two or more helicopters reached her diamond jeweled ears. The fighting in the city apparently still went on, the result of the handiwork she achieved today. But inside the home, she could hear loud music thumping and sensed the smells of different kinds of food being catered to the ever-constant stream of guests that visited the villa. They wafted to her acutely sensitive yet softly shaped nose. She’d have loved to celebrate her successful mission. A dark chapter in her past had been brought that much closer to an end by her most careful planning for the demise of certain particular men. But she couldn’t relax. All her senses were alert. A glance at the paved car lot. Sure enough, it was full with sports cars, luxury sedans, and several limousines, their drivers standing outside their transports chatting, and their vehicles’ sizes having forced the obvious late-comers to park on the gravel lot just beyond. She knew that many of the real power brokers were here. The government license plates displayed on many of the vehicles was the telltale sign. Upon having almost reached the door, another suited security guard with black hair neatly gelled back stepped out of the shadows where he’d been reclining and quickly opened the door for her without so much as a word. The quick flickering of his eyes made it clear that it made him nervous to even look at her.

The palpable, bumping waves of the dance music collided against the woman immediately as she entered the structure, established not as a home, but a nest of every imaginable kind of vice. She strutted past young ladies enthusiastically gossiping while dancing in the foyer and the hallway that led beyond it. Some wore full evening gowns while others wore only their bottom pieces of lingerie, naked on top, save for small purses which dangled from their shoulders into which they could reach miniature powder flasks they’d occasionally sniff hits of cocaine from, if those weren’t already worn openly on necklaces. Other ladies offered them chasers from cocktail glasses they held protectively from being disturbed by the movement of so many in the impressively large crowd. A bleach blonde male, also topless, with spiked hair and wearing makeup stood out amongst them, making effeminate and enthusiastic welcoming gestures at the girl and then further ahead in the direction she headed. Another young woman completely ignored her as she finished her hit and grasped the breast of one of her companions and bent her bare legs beneath a hiked-up skirt, in order to slink lower and suckle on a pierced nipple while her partner audibly moaned. The smell of perfumes mixed with sweat hung pungent. The foyer and adjoining corridor was dark, lit only by the pulsating strobe lighting that kept pace with the fast dance music. The girl proceeded, aware that House associates functioning as armed guards dressed in their uniform and formal attire stood back in many a corner, hidden by the shadows where the light would never penetrate. She didn’t need to see anything though. She knew the details and exactly where she was going.

Turning right at a connecting hall, she passed under an arch with several stairs leading down beneath it and she made her way towards a closed set of large, wooden double doors. Three youthful men dressed in house uniform stood talking outside of them. When one of them turned to regard the girl approaching, the others followed suit. The youngest nervously studied her while he kept his hand in his dress coat. He looked at the others with him for some sign of direction or support. With a smile at his third companion, one of his little group motioned the youngest of the three of them to step forward and block the girl’s path.

I’m going to speak with my uncle, the girl stated.

No, you’re not, the older and tallest of the men responded from behind her blocker. He’s not seeing anyone right now. Not without an appointment.

He’s going to see me, she replied coolly to him, never taking her eyes off the youngest guard that first confronted her.

The other man slid his hand into his coat and glanced at his younger companion who returned the look of concern. Their leader looked uncomfortable now as well. He made several gestures as if to begin to reach for his own concealed weapon, but thought better