Page 1 of Saving Jennifer
CHAPTER ONE
The air hungthick with humidity as Noah Temple stepped off the plane at Louis Armstrong International Airport. New Orleans in August—a special kind of hell he hadn’t subjected himself to in years. He hadn’t expected to see the city again, even though he had family living within its boundaries. The weight of the city pressed against him intimately, like a lover’s embrace: the moisture, the noise, the memories coalescing into a grimace-inducing shrug. The best he could hope for from this visit was a quick thanks-but-no-thanks to his uncle and a return trip to the airport.
He adjusted his duffel bag on his shoulder and made his way through the terminal, his military training evident in his purposeful stride. At thirty-five, Noah still moved with the precision and awareness of a Special Forces operative, even though he’d left that life behind. His dark hair was longer now than regulations had ever permitted, and the beard he’d grown in Tennessee added to the aura of isolation he’d cultivated since his discharge.
His phone buzzed in his pocket—another text from Gator. That made three in the past hour.
Where are you, boy? Car’s waiting outside.
Noah didn’t bother responding. The old man knew exactly when his flight landed. Patience had never been Gator Boudreau’s strong suit, especially when he wanted something. Quite a change, Noah having the upper hand on his uncle. A rare occurrence indeed.
Outside, the wall of heat hit him like a physical punch. A sleek black Cadillac idled at the curb, and the driver—one of Gator’s many “associates”—nodded in recognition. Noah slid onto the back seat without a word, his jaw tight.
“Mr. Boudreau says to take you straight to the house,” the driver said, pulling into traffic. “He’s waiting.”
Of course he was. The notorious Mr. Fix-It of New Orleans never waited for anyone yet had no problem expecting everyone to wait for him. Noah closed his eyes, already regretting his decision to come. His cabin in the Tennessee hills seemed impossibly far away now that he was here—the quiet broken only by birdsong and the occasional cry of a coyote, the solitude that had become his sanctuary after everything went to hell in Kabul.
They left New Orleans in the rearview mirror, the landscape gradually transforming as they headed toward the bayou. Spanish moss dripped from cypress trees like fluttering gray ghosts, and the road narrowed until it was barely more than a path cut through the wilderness, Gator’s house bordered on the very edge of civilization. Noah remembered playing there with his cousins, swimming and fishing through the sunny afternoons. It seemed like forever ago, yet the memories made it seem like yesterday.
Finally, a gravel-paved drive appeared, lush green grass on either side, with the waters of Lake Pontchartrain lapping up against the shoreline.
The driver continued down the drive until Gator’s house came into view—a sprawling single-story structure that blended surprisingly well with its surroundings, raised on stilts as protection against the unpredictable waters of the bayou.
“He’s waiting on the back porch,” the driver said, coming to a stop in front of the house.
Noah grabbed his bag and stepped out, the sounds of the bayou immediately enveloping him—crickets, frogs, the gentle waves with their hypnotic cadence. He hadn’t set foot on this property since his brother’s funeral years ago.
He made his way around the side of the house, following the wraparound porch until he spotted his uncle. Gator Boudreau sat in a rocking chair overlooking the water, a glass of bourbon in one hand, his ever-present notebook in the other. At seventy-two, he remained an imposing figure—broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, with steel-gray hair and piercing blue eyes that missed nothing. Those eyes locked onto Noah now, a barely-there-or-you’d-miss-it smile spreading across his weathered face before disappearing. Probably gloating inside, because Noah had sworn never to step foot on Gator’s property again, yet here he was.
“About time,” Gator said, closing his notebook and setting it aside. He rose with the fluid movement of a man half his age—a testament to decades spent operating in shadows where hesitation meant death. Before Noah could respond, he found himself pulled into a fierce embrace, the scent of cigars and bourbon engulfing him. He stiffened, then reluctantly returned the hug with one arm.
“Look at you,” Gator said, stepping back to appraise him. “Living like a mountain man hasn’t done you any harm. Still fit as a Marine.”
“Army,” Noah corrected automatically. “And I didn’t come for a family reunion.”
Gator’s gaze never faltered. “Straight to business. You always were like your daddy that way.” He gestured to the empty rocking chair beside his own. “Sit. Miss Willie’s bringing us some food.”
“I don’t need—”
“Sit,” Gator repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Noah dropped his duffel and sank into the chair, suddenly aware of how long he’d been traveling. “You said it was urgent, so I dropped everything and headed for the airport. Something about protection for a woman in trouble.”
Gator reclaimed his own seat, taking a sip of bourbon before answering. “Jennifer Baptiste. Thirty-two. French citizen. Her extended family is causing her some difficulties.”
“Difficulties?”
Gator nodded. “Ever heard of Muhammed Amir?”
Noah felt a wave of shock roll through him. Muhammed Amir had been a thorn in the side of more people than he could count. The man was rumored to have alleged ties to terrorist activities throughout the Middle East. He also remembered the man was dead. Idly scratching his chin, he seemed to recall something about his son inheriting, and there being a scandal recently when he was killed in Texas.
“I have. The family’s worth billions.”
“Yep. Jennifer Baptiste is his illegitimate daughter.” Gator slid a folder across the small table between them. “She’s being targeted by the Amir family. Oil money, old wealth, and dirty as they come.”
Noah left the folder untouched. “And this concerns me…why?”
“For you to understand why Jennifer needs a bodyguard I’m going to have to give you a little background. My little Gabi’s best friend, Salem, got involved with Tarik Amir—that’s Muhammed’s son—who was an abusive son of a…well, you know what I mean.”