Assassination Games, page 1
Copyright © 2022 by Zach Franz
Assassination Games
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Print ISBN: 978-1-66785-766-4
eBook ISBN: 978-1-66785-767-1
Printed in the United States of America
What’s past is prologue.
—William Shakespeare
Contents
Prologue
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Prologue
Thunder—deep, vast—shook the heavens like an inverted earthquake. They’re coming.
And like the storm, unstoppable. He could sail to Constantinople, ride the Dakota Territory—they’d still find him. It wasn’t their number that outlawed escape, but their network; a thousand contacts from New York to Ceylon, all eager to broadcast his whereabouts. He might survive for days, even weeks. But eventually he’d make a mistake. Then one evening a peaceful sleep would come, from which there was no waking.
Emile Delacroix twirled a cheroot within his lips, soon releasing its lazy trail of white smoke into the Louisiana night. He was surprised to feel no fear. It wasn’t, though, the calm of courage. He’d simply given up.
He puffed the cigar once more and surveyed the surrounding expanse, shrouded in the typical semi-gloom of a southern summer. Seas of green grass flashed turquoise with the lightning; massive oak trunks stood firm, oblivious to the growing wind. Beyond flowed the Mississippi, its inevitable current sparkling through the darkness.
Behind, the large house beckoned, its glow piercing his back like a spotlight. He turned its way, refocusing. This went well beyond a single life. He may have personally given up, but the rest of the world still deserved a chance.
Delacroix had never considered himself markedly noble. But faced with such a pervasive and ruthless threat, what was the alternative? He liked to think that anyone else would’ve done the same. Still, it wasn’t a pleasant prospect. He shivered through the humidity.
If only he hadn’t accepted their invitation. ‘Recruitment’ was the more accurate word. In the end, he’d merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time. A young man of means and limited wisdom, disillusioned by the perceived futility of European society. More than anything, Delacroix realized, he’d simply wanted the world to remember his name.
Maybe it still would. For a different reason.
1
It never rains in Southern California. Keith Hardy tossed the lyrics around in his head and took another bite of muffuletta. It pours, man, it pours. Fine. Los Angeles could have the metaphor; New Orleans was the real thing.
He rolled down the Ford’s passenger-side window, just far enough beneath Tujagues’ awning. Another few inches and the soaked skies would’ve begun splashing his lap. Over thirty years in this place and it was still either mist or monsoon. He could hardly remember a time there’d been a simple, steady shower.
The balance of extremes went beyond precipitation, deep into the city’s DNA. Where else could you find the world’s best restaurants and its lowest dives? Bourbon Street blocks from St. Louis Cathedral? Amoral games and amazing grace?
This town was never supposed to be home. He’d been born and raised in Baton Rouge; New Orleans was where you went to party, maybe see the Saints. But then he tore a couple tendons in high school, and that dream of edge rushing for LSU faded. Tulane, though, was still offering, with a scholarship to boot. He’d followed the river south, almost like gravity.
From this point, missing out on the NFL was no shock; becoming a cop certainly was. But he’d had a pregnant wife to support, and needed something stable. The department was desperate for an influx of honesty—to this day a deficiency it’d never quite rectified. How he’d survived to make detective was beyond him. All it’d cost was a marriage and the respect of his children.
Hardy took another bite of ham and salami, watched the rain choke Decatur’s overworked drains. Sometimes people would ask why he still did it. His answer was always the same: every once in a while, you got to put away someone really bad. There weren’t too many jobs that still offered that kind of built-in satisfaction.
He glanced toward the Café du Monde a block south. Its lights, dripping through the car’s front windshield, melded with the rest of the traffic clogging the street ahead. What was with this volume? Just before midnight, in a downpour, and you couldn’t see asphalt. At least the temperature was cooperating—first week of December and still hovering above sixty degrees.
He saw a figure seconds later, weaving through the vehicular maze with his jacket held high like an umbrella. He gripped a paper sack in his left hand. The man reached the Ford just as Hardy stuffed the last of the sandwich in his mouth. The driver’s-side door flew open and the newcomer, trailing an errant flurry of noise and droplets, ducked behind the wheel.
Hardy let his partner, Mark O’Brien, settle before clearing his throat. “You know, you could have brought the beignets from home. They make a mix.”
“Not the same, beautiful.” O’Brien was Hardy’s opposite in most major categories: young, white, married. He removed a pair of paper cups from the bag. “Besides, where would we get the chicory? Staking out a house is hard enough without you snoring for eight hours.”
Hardy reached for the caffeine. “Suzie finds it melodic.”
“Yeah, well, she’s a cocker spaniel. Her standards are low.”
O’Brien put the car in gear and began to pull forward. Hardy was rolling up his window when his cell phone buzzed. He fished it out to find the screen flashing an unlisted number. At midnight. What the hell. He swiped the screen and brought it to his ear. “Hardy.”
“Keith, Craig Scheffler.”
He’d been expecting a drunk with the wrong number trying to sell him some watermelon-flavored ecstasy. This was worse. Scheffler was a lieutenant from the first district. They didn’t see much of each other, and that was still more than enough. Strong personalities and different work styles didn’t mix well. Why are you calling? Hardy wasn’t feeling particularly civil. “Isn’t it past your bedtime, Craig?”
“No time for pleasantries. You dressed?”
“Uh…yeah. In the car, actually. Following a lead.”
“What’s your twenty?”
Hardy glanced at O’Brien. “Jackson Square.”
“I need you at St. Louis One. We’ve got a hostage situation.”
“You’ve got to be kiddin—”
“Look, Keith, I know I’ve been a dick in the past. You can run me over the coals all you want later. Right now, I need you.”
Hardy took a breath. “Why me?”
“There’s one hostage, one suspect. We have reason to believe the latter is Darius Thibodeaux.”
By now O’Brien was crossing St. Peter Street on the west end of the square. Hardy thought a second, then quickly shouldered the phone. “Turn around.”
Hardy was hazy on a lot of the offenders he’d busted, but Darius Thibodeaux still came through clear. The man had been in and out of custody since he was a teen. Early infractions were relatively mild: disorderly conduct, vandalism, petty theft. But they steadily grew in intensity, until, just over a decade ago, he’d been convicted of armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon.
The sentence, in light of his prior record, had been severe. But some inexplicable good behavior, and an agreement to testify against a few bigger fish, got him released in eight years. He’d been out on the streets for six months.
Streets that, as O’Brien steered the unmarked sedan north of Bourbon, began to thin. By the time he cro
Hardy was still thanking God for half-baked criminals when they pulled up in front of the station and walked inside. A dispatcher behind a wall of bulletproof glass raised her gaze. They fished out their badges. “Hardy, O’Brien, homicide.”
She nodded and picked up a phone. Two minutes later a door off the main lobby swung open and a uniformed officer, squat and sturdy, made his way forward. Hardy had seen his face a few times but couldn’t quite put a name to it. “Detectives,” said the man. Once he was close enough, he offered a hand. “Sergeant Ed Moses. Follow me, please.”
They obeyed and were led back through the door toward a small conference room. It was dated: thin paint covering three walls, a chalkboard the fourth; in the center rested a large wooden table, chipped and stained. Upon it was spread what Hardy assumed to be a map of the cemetery. A quartet of officers stood pouring over this, one seeming to direct the other three. He looked up as the detectives entered.
After twenty-five years on the job, Craig Scheffler could’ve still adorned the department’s recruiting poster—even if he insisted on wire-rims instead of contacts. A perfectly pressed uniform covered muscles that were nearly as taught as the day he’d applied. His six-two frame came close to Hardy’s, though the buzzed blonde hair—and matching mustache—veered in another direction.
Moses closed the door as Scheffler stepped forward. “Thanks for coming, Keith.”
“You didn’t leave me much choice.” Hardy turned to his left. “My partner, Mark O’Brien.”
Scheffler shook his hand. “Sorry to meet you under these circumstances.”
“Forget it,” said O’Brien. “What are we looking at?”
Scheffler exhaled. “Multiple witnesses place Darius Thibodeaux at a bar down off Bienville thirty minutes ago. Evidently, he’d had a lot to drink, got into a shouting match with the bartender and hopped the counter. You know how big this guy is; the bartender panicked and pulled a shotgun. Thibodeaux stole it and shot him in the stomach.
O’Brien swore under his breath.
“It gets worse. A couple others tried to intervene; he sprayed one of them in the leg, grabbed a female as leverage. He dragged her toward the door, then outside. Eighth district had a pair of officers on the scene a minute later. They turned onto Basin just in time to see Thibodeaux bust through the cemetery gate with the woman.”
Now O’Brien was shaking his head. “You can’t make this stuff up.”
“Why keep the girl?” asked Hardy. “She would’ve slowed him down.”
“I don’t know,” said Scheffler. “Maybe he was thinking ahead.”
“Are you sure they’re still in the cemetery?”
“Almost positive. Eighth stayed on scene until we arrived. I’ve got officers surrounding it right now. Treme and Conti gates are still intact. Unless they hopped a wall, they’re inside.”
“And you’re sure it’s Thibodeaux?” asked O’Brien.
Scheffler nodded. “He used a credit card. Bar also had security cameras; we’re confirming the footage now.” He grabbed a slip of paper from the table. “Girl is Keila Miller. Twenty-six years old, black, five-three.”
Hardy tried to picture her, giving up a full foot and likely over a hundred pounds to a man who could fling her around like a rag doll. “They could be anywhere inside those walls.”
“I’ve got spotters with infrared scopes on top of Basin Street Station to the east and some apartment buildings west. They each have clear line-of-sight, but between this weather and all the graves to hide behind, it’s a crapshoot.
“A helicopter?” asked O’Brien.
Scheffler shook his head. “I’d prefer to keep this from getting loud too fast. SWAT and a negotiator are already on the way. Once the press gets wind, this could easily turn into a circus, even with a single hostage.”
By now Moses had shuffled toward the other three officers—all younger, probably subordinates. They focused back on the map; Scheffler made no attempt to introduce them.
“What about contacting Thibodeaux?” asked Hardy. “Can you call him?”
“We’re still working on getting his number, assuming he even owns a phone. The hostage does, but it’s back at the bar in her purse.”
“So, we’re blind and deaf,” said Hardy.
“Yes,” said Scheffler, “we are. That’s why you’re here. I know it was over ten years ago, but you still tracked Thibodeaux and put him away. There are going to be a lot more bodies at this scene in a matter of minutes, and every one of them will benefit from knowing all they can about this guy. Anything you can shed light on—his movements, tendencies, the way he holds a weapon…I want to keep this from getting any worse than it already is.”
Hardy was nodding, but he’d stopped listening halfway through—partly because he’d guessed the gist of Scheffler’s speech, and partly because he’d had an idea. He motioned toward the hallway. “Can I have a word with you alone, Craig?”
Mild surprise lit Scheffler’s eyes. “Sure.”
O’Brien was left to mingle with new friends as his two elders stepped into the corridor. Hardy closed the door and faced Scheffler. “Let me go in there alone.”
Scheffler almost laughed. “Where—the cemetery?”
“Yeah.”
A shade of frustration. “What voodoo queen put that bug in your brain?”
“I’m serious, Craig. You said it yourself—I’m the best man for the job.”
“Yes, for consulting from the side and letting the well-armed hostage professionals handle it. Look, Keith, I know how you must feel, but Thibodeaux’s no longer your responsibility. There’s no blood on your hands here. Early word is the bartender probably won’t make it, but that’ll simply go down as a random shooting. You did more than anyone else a decade ago. Let that be enough.”
Hardy shook his head. “But it’s not. Not when I know I can make a difference—”
“You’re not going in there!” The bare walls of the hallway stared back in silence, including the thin one between them and the conference room. Scheffler shook it off. “It’s impossible, Keith, even if it was my call—which you know it’s not. This whole situation is a house of cards. Nobody’s going to let a lone gunman blow it over playing hero.”
Hardy took a deep breath, putting his palms up in appeasement. “I don’t feel guilty, Craig, and this is no ego trip. I just know Darius Thibodeaux. His entire criminal career’s been trending toward greater and greater violence, without matching remorse. I don’t care how he cooperated in prison, tonight’s who he really is.”
He looked directly into Scheffler’s eyes. “He’ll kill her, Craig. Even before the noose tightens, just to spite us. Once we add tactical and air support, TV crews, there’s no chance she’s coming out of there alive. Thibodeaux’s not going to prison again; he knows the sentence a second conviction brings. It’ll be a crowded firefight, at best.
Hardy didn’t stop for approval. “Or I go in there now, alone. Catch him by surprise. He won’t expect a single intruder, least of all me. I can move quieter than a SWAT team, try to get eyes on our hostage before a shot is fired. With any luck, I’ll bring her—and him—out alive.”
Moment of truth. The course of the night hung on Scheffler’s expression, which was unreadable. Finally, half a minute later, he narrowed his gaze. “And if you don’t come out?”
“By then your support will be here. Hand over the reins, tell Thibodeaux I was acting alone and you’re ready to talk.”
“If he hasn’t killed her by then.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Good. Because if you lose your head, so do I.”
2
Five minutes later Hardy stood outside the front of the station, alone. Scheffler had ordered his men already posted around the cemetery to stay in place, but there was no reason for anyone else to escort the detective across Basin Street. The less commotion the better. Especially since, true to form, they’d lost the rain and its covering noise. All that remained of the downpour was a thick mist, clouding the air like a wet blanket.
