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Austin’s words caused Maddox to look up. He gave him a firm nod.

“I know Woodward,” said Austin. “Partially, anyway. He’s good people. If he sent these guys, they’re legit.”

Slowly we all relaxed. Half a minute later everyone was standing upright, the guy driving the Bronco still rubbing at his neck.

“Sorry if we spooked you,” the passenger said. He was taller than the driver and clean shaven, head and everything. Both men wore casual fatigues. “Woodward said you’d be coming. Told us to track you down, arrange a meeting with him.”

Maddox still looked confused. “Who’s Woodward?” he asked, more to Austin then to the others.

“One of the officers running a few things over here,” Austin replied. “Special programs. Biodynamics, I think.” He looked at the passenger. “Am I right?”

“Yes sir,” the man said. “The Naval Biodynamics Lab is mostly shut down, but there’s a lot of residual. CPO Woodward’s been in charge of sewing things up. He’s not here now, though. Not for a couple days.”

“That’s why they sent us,” the other soldier added. “We’re supposed to find you. Give you this.”

He reached into a shirt pocket and pulled out a phone. It wasn’t a smartphone. It was one of those pre-loaded flip-open models, without any features. Exactly what the police and drug-dealers in movies were always calling ‘burner phones’.

“CPO Woodward needs to meet with you,” said the driver. “He’ll call you when its right. Until then, he’s told us to instruct you to lay low. You’re being watched already…”

At that, all four of them scanned the shadowy little alley. Everything was quiet but the sound of ambient city noise, way off in the distance.

“Watched?” Austin asked skeptically. “We just fucking got here.”

“We know. You checked into the Sierra a couple hours ago.”

Maddox swore mightily, a whole stream of curses that ended in him shaking his head at the ground.

“The car’s no good either,” one of the soldiers said. “We’ve been ordered to switch.”

He tossed Austin a set of keys, and he caught them deftly. The two SEALs glanced at me, then each other.

“So what now?” asked Maddox. “We sit on our hands until Woodward calls?”

“That’s about the size of it,” the bald man said apologetically. “CPO says you should switch digs. Move into the French Quarter, where the crowds make it easy to blend in. We grabbed you a spot where you can disappear for the next 36 to 48 hours, until that phone rings.”

“Relax a bit,” said the other guy. He even smiled. “Enjoy Mardi Gras.”

My mouth dropped open. “Mardi Gras?”

Suddenly it made sense. The noise. The traffic. The sheer number of people. We’d stuck to the upper part of the city, so we hadn’t really been around the bigger party areas. But now…

“Mardi Gras…” I repeated in amazeme

nt.

All four guys were staring at me now. Maddox’s mouth twisted into a smirk.

“What, you really didn’t realize what month it was?”

Thirty-Nine

DALLAS

Once we reached the heart of the city, it was like being immersed in splendor. For one, it was Friday night. The weekend before Fat Tuesday. The BIG weekend, or so I’d read, or so I’d seen in dozens of spectacular videos online.

None of them however, did this party any true justice.

The French Quarter was a stunning array of 18th century Spanish-style architecture, splashed with a modern flair. Walking its three-hundred year old streets was awe-inspiring enough, without bumping elbows with dragons and zombies and beautiful young men and women in painted masks. Everything I saw took my breath away; the fun and excitement of carefree carousal, the explosion of sights and smells and sounds that made up the weeks-long party of Mardi Gras.