The sun is rising just as I cross Lake Pontchartrain and enter New Orleans. I'd wanted to rush more, but in trading e-mails with Katrina, who stayed up all night monitoring communications, we decided that I'd do best to meet with Margaret just after dawn. I was able to grab three hours sleep at a truck stop in Mississippi, helping me a lot.

The hardest part about deciding where to meet Margaret was choosing a place she could blend in. With her surgical addictions, Margaret's had just about everything done, from Botox to tummy tucks. Her hair is bleached blonde to try and look younger and to blend in with the image of the DeLaCoeurs, her vanity contacts completing the look.

All of this work means I couldn't send her to my normal safe houses where she would stick out.

Which is why I decided to meet her where we are, at a hotel just outside the airport in the area of the city known as Camp Leroy Johnson because it used to be an Army airfield back during World War II. Close to two universities and the airport as well as the interstate, it gets lots of unique traffic on a regular basis, and I can keep anyone tailing her guessing as to where the fuck she might be going.

I still don't know which of my two long-term safe houses I might stick her in, though. If she's off the sauce, I can take her to a little one bedroom house that I have north of the lake in Picayune, far enough from New Orleans that she might be able to blend in somewhat.

If she's still half-drunk most of the time like she was at the DeLaCoeur home, then I can take her to another place I know to the south, a trailer park in Houma. It's nowhere near as nice, but that's the appeal. Margaret can drink her sorrows away, and most of her neighbors won't notice.

“So which do you think?” I ask Katrina, who's using the VOIP system to allow us to talk. Thankfully Carson's truck comes with a charging dock for my phone, I'd forgotten to put one in my bag. “North or south?”

“Don't forget option C,” Katrina says, remarkably awake for six in the morning. “Take her and dump her in a random spot.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. “I mean, I get the idea, but I don't have the finances for that.”

Katrina laughs, and I realize I once again underestimated the adept computer whiz. “If push comes to shove, I can get you funds to set Margaret up for a while. You know the sorts of places you can get her into very quickly, let's face it.”

“Of course,” I reply, sipping the Jolt Cola I bought at the same truck stop I'd slept at, the same place I'd also gassed up the truck. “Give me a couple hours and I can get her into a place.”

In my head, I already know the type of location Katrina's talking about, they dot just about every city, although I've seen more of them in the South than other places. Low advertised rents, deposits and rent done via credit card or cashier's check only. Basically, the same type of places that Peter DeLaCoeur used to launder his money through.

“Don't even need to do that,” Katrina says. “Give me a city, and I can have everything short of the deposit done for you before you get within fifty miles of the place. At that point you could drop her anywhere east of the Mississippi and be back in time for dinner Friday night.”

“Sounds good. What's on the menu?” I ask, getting off the interstate. I'm feeling relaxed, and having Katrina to talk to helps knock away the last of the cobwebs. “Please tell me Andrea isn't cooking.”

“Hey, I heard that!” a voice in the background calls, and Katrina laughs.

“That's what you get for forgetting I'm on an open mic and speaker here,” Katrina reminds me, and I have to smile. “But to answer you, I'm doing the cooking. I talked Carson and Jackson into doing a supply run today, they're going to go down to town and pick up a nice, thick one pound steak for you. How's that sound?”

“Sounds like you're spoiling me. What's the occasion?”

Katrina sounds like she's leaning into the microphone, and I wonder why before she speaks. “Because Friday night, you're having a romantic dinner date with Melissa, and if you say no, you and I are having another throwdown, but I'm bringing a stick this time.”

“Then I guess I'm having a dinner date with Melissa,” I say with a smile. I drain the rest of my Jolt and put the bottle in the plastic bag I have hanging from the little hook next to the glove compartment, keeping things neat. “Okay, business time, I'm a mile from the meet-up. I'm going to shut down the call for now, I’ll call back when I have an update. Go get some breakfast or something. I'll try and call in by nine.”

“Watch your six, Sergeant,” Katrina says, cutting off the call. Wise words, and as I pull into the motel parking lot, I do exactly that, checking all around me for signs of any danger. I chose this motel for a very specific reason, as up the street about two blocks is the New Orleans FBI building. Not that I think it would stop Isis, but I hope it helped Margaret feel a little less freaked out.

The Magnolia Inn and Suites doesn't really have any suites, unless your definition of a suite means a bed that doesn't vibrate when you drop fifty cents into the box on the side of the bed. But it is low profile, close to the cops, and in an area of the city that Peter doesn't have a lot of business. Still, my Colt is out and next to my thigh as I park down on the end of the line of units, going to Unit 18. I had her choose that room for another reason, it'd get the most foot traffic and hopefully keep visitors away.

When I reach the door, there's no answer when I knock, and warning bells go off in my head. Even if she's asleep, I knocked loud enough that Margaret should be able to hear me. I try the door and find it unlocked, my Colt coming up as I open the door.

The first thing I see is Margaret. She's been tied to the bed spread-eagled, but she's not going to be complaining about it. The slit in her throat makes sure of that.

“Fuck,” I mutter, trying to step back. “God dammit.”

Suddenly, I hear a puff of air, and something hits me in the thigh. It's fast acting, and before I drop to my knees, I see Isis step out from the bathroom, her dart pistol in her right hand. “Long time no see, stud,” she says as I fall to the ground, my Colt dropping from my numb fingers. “Let's have a little fun.”

* * *

I come to relatively quickly, finding myself stripped to the waist, my hands tied to the dresser of another room. From the décor, I'd say I'm still in the Magnolia. “Welcome back, lover.”

The voice stirs long-buried memories inside me, and I open my eyes, trying to focus. “You bitch, you shot me. That's twice.”

Isis is sitting on the bed, a seductive smile on her face and wearing tight dress slacks and a camisole that leave very little to the imagination. She's got her most seductive smile on, and her eyes twinkle as she studies me. “Oh come now Nathan, that first time was just a little flesh wound. Your eye isn't the most handsome I admit, but it does give you a certain... gravitas. As for your ass, I bet it barely even scarred. I was a good girl, I didn't check you for the mark.”

“You mean you didn't have time to drag me down the hall, tie me up, and get my shirt off to see if I was wearing a wire before I woke up,” I grunt, my mouth fuzzy. “What did you hit me with?”

“Well, let's see. If you can feel it, you've got another little bump in your other thigh, I shot you in your left side, so what do you think?” Isis asks playfully. “I taught you a lot about chemicals in the months we worked together.”

“Etorphine,” I reply, hissing as I feel the spot where she injected the antidote into my other leg. “No wonder you wanted to work fast, getting the counteragent. You could have killed me.”

“What I really wanted was something that would work quickly, but also fade just as quickly. So sodium thiopental wasn't on the menu, and ketamine... well, I've never really liked Special K. And let us not get into what fentanyl would do to you. No thank you,” Isis says conversationally, as if discussing the potentially fatal side effects of various drugs is something she does on a daily basis. “By the way, you're looking fit. No problem with your kidneys?”

“What do you know?” I ask, curious.

“I know that Vadim Orloff cut you, he wouldn’t have reported your death to Peter without injuring you. While I hate the Russians, he and I worked together sometimes, I know what he put on his blades. One of the side effects of it is a lot of stress on the kidneys. He was a very nasty man.”

“That he was. You know, speaking of nasty, you weren't exactly polite to Margaret. Why?”

Isis shrugs and reaches for the hem of her camisole top, thinking she’s teasing me a little by lifting it up, exposing her mid-section. “I needed a way to distract you. I knew you were coming, she was pliable under the Sodium Pentothal. But I also knew I only had a second at most to act, you're too professional to have skipped that bathroom. So the Colombian necktie was a bit of last minute improvisation to get your focus. Peter would approve, he's paying me more the messier each death is.”

Behind my back, I start sliding my wrists slowly, trying to find a weakness in the rope. Expert sniper, yes. Good with pharmacology, for sure. Kinky ass nymphomaniac? Check. But Isis has never been as good as I am with fieldcraft, and I can feel she's made a mistake. The edge of the cabinet is sharp, maybe some sort of Formica that's a little worn, and she used what feels like a cotton rope. Okay, keep her talking.

“If he is paying you by the body count, why not just put a round in me and be done with it?” I ask after seeing she's not holding a gun in her hands. Instead, Isis pulls her cami up a little more, and I swear she's trying to seduce me. But it’s not going to work.

“Oh, many reasons, Nathan,” Isis purrs, spreading her legs and closing them. She's definitely trying to seduce me for some fucked up reason. “The first is that you’re not one of Peter's main targets. If I can eliminate the other six members of your little group, or five and can deliver the baby girl to him alive and safe, I’ll have satisfied him. You, well, you I can deliver or not deliver. If given the choice, I would rather not.”

I feel one of the knots on my left wrist loosen and I'm sure if I can keep Isis talking, I have a chance to escape soon. “Why not?”

Isis shrugs, pulling her top up to reveal her lacy bra. I guess she thinks it’s working. She couldn’t be more wrong. “Nathan, would you believe me if I said I regret shooting you in the ass last time?”

“Not really, considering I'm reminded of you every time I look in the mirror, but go ahead,” I reply, twisting my wrists back and forth. “You seemed to enjoy shooting me if I remember correctly.”

“At the time I did,” Isis admits, “but later, and for years, I have missed your... skills. I never have found a lover as enthusiastic or as satisfying as you in the time since, especially how good you are with your tongue. It’s a work of art. So there is that. And of course, because I’m looking for your friends as well. Wherever you've stashed them, you've done a remarkable job so far of keeping those fuckers safe.”

“You are still a foul-mouthed slut,” I retort, trying to piss her off. If I can, she won't notice me getting ready to break my arm free... there! Now, the right hand, don't rush now. “Besides, what makes you think I haven't found better than you? Many, many women better than you?”

Isis leans back and laughs, unbuttoning her slacks and pushing them down her long legs, revealing her lace panties to me. “Oh, I think when I get down on my knees and take that cock of yours out of your jeans, I’m sure you'll remember all the things you whispered to me. I did things that even Aisha never even thought of. You may have called out her name sometimes, I never faulted you for that, but you begged for my touch just as much, if not more. It'll happen again.”

“Not a chance in hell,” I growl, yanking my right hand free. I'd hoped to catch her by surprise, but the drugs must still be somewhere in my system, because her reactions are faster than I expect. My punch crashes into the edge of the bed as Isis rolls back, and I look up just in time to catch the heel of a foot in my cheek. Guess I'm lucky she wanted to try and fuck me before I broke free, since I don't want to imagine what her normal stiletto heels would do to my face.

Groaning, I roll, and she’s on top of me, scratching at my chest and ripping furrows in my skin. “Oooh, lover, a kinky side I haven't seen from you before,” she teases. “Now, you're going to tell me where your friends are, or else I make it very, very painful for all of them.”

“Fuck you,” I hiss, grabbing her hand and twisting. She rolls with it, off of me but catching me in the thigh with her elbow as she rolls behind the bed. I know what she's doing and run for the window, diving through and hoping my forearms and the curtain are enough to protect me from the worst of the glass as I crash through just as she comes up, a Walther PPK in her hand. She fires once, the round whizzing just past my ear as I scramble up and to my right. I see we're on the second floor now but I can see the truck, and I'm glad I left the keys inside.

As I run down the stairs I can't focus as Isis comes out of the room and I dive down the last five stairs, my body aching as my hip bangs into the concrete as I roll. Something crunches under my hip as I climb to my feet again and run for the truck. I'm bleeding, I'm aching, but I'm alive. I can't worry about Isis having a firing angle on me, I just run my ass off, hoping that I can cover the distance before she shoots again.

I'm either lucky or someone's looking over me as I get into Carson's truck without catching another bullet from Isis, being shot in the ass by her once in my life is enough. I start the engine and jam the gas pedal to the floor, knowing Isis has to be executing her egress plan as well. Thankfully, my prints were permanently altered long ago via skin grafts. So the cops won't be able to identify me that way.

Driving away, I quickly blend with traffic, doing my best to not stand out at all once I'm three blocks away. Carson's going to hate me for this, but I know there are traffic cameras in the area. Carson's truck is going to need to disappear quickly.

I reach into my pocket to pull out my phone, groaning when it comes out cracked and broken. Well, at least I know now the sound wasn't my hip, but I'm now shirtless, bleeding, without a spare t-shirt, driving a truck that needs to be destroyed ASAP... and I don't have a fucking phone.

And the bitch has my favorite pistol. For some reason, that more than anything else pisses me off. “Okay, Isis. You got this one. Just wait for round two.”