the sheriff. “I
have to admit, I believe you would’ve thrown me in my own jail. Do you mind if
I borrow that line when my deputies screw up?”
“Not at all.”
The two men shook hands and Ryan returned to the car.
His team filed out of the café carrying large cups of coffee. Dallas was the
first to reach him and handed him a cup and the folded napkin.
“I’ve been getting a lot of these lately,” said Ryan,
unfolding the note.
“Sorry it took us so long. There was a line at the cash
register,” said Dallas with a smile.
“Did you get in touch with your sister, Michelle?” asked
Ryan.
“I did. She’s fine.”
“Houma, Louisiana,” said Tom. “I knew I recognized the
name. It’s the setting for the for the ‘Swamp Thing’ comic book series?”
“I never would’ve pegged you for a comic book reader,”
said Michelle.
“Love them,” said Tom. “Every week as a kid I’d spend my
entire allowance at the corner drugstore. Soda pop and comic books were my
Saturday routine. Sadly, the files I read now contain the real monsters that
are out there.”
“Well, maybe we’ll run into the Swamp Thing down in the
bayou,” said Dallas. “You could ask him to help us find our monster.”
The team arrived at the airport and boarded the Learjet
that would take them into the hunting grounds of Richard Elliot. He was also a
highly decorated and patriotic Marine who volunteered to become a better
soldier through genetic experimentation. His record was spotless until the day he
and the others decided to walk away from the lab in Maine and become a ruthless
band of murderers.
During the flight to New Orleans, the only team member
remaining awake was Ryan. A folder with red stripes marked “Classified” was in
the seat next to him. He didn’t bother to open Elliot’s file and bury himself
in the pages filled with horrific images and reports. Instead, he sat quietly
looking out the window as the world slowly passed underneath.
6
Zydeco
The aircraft landed early in the afternoon at Louis
Armstrong International Airport in New Orleans. The team was met by agents from
the local field office. They were given vehicles and escorted to one of the
FBI’s safe houses located on St. Charles Avenue near the French Quarter. The
local agents had no idea why Ryan and his team were visiting their city. They
were told to accommodate and provide them with any equipment, information, and
support they requested without question.
During the thirty-minute drive, all four agents remained
silent. Hardly a word had been spoken since they boarded the plane in Virginia.
Each was trying to anticipate Ryan’s next move. But Ryan wasn’t thinking about
the complexity of the situation he needed to sort out. He brought his thoughts
down to a very basic human level. He was thinking about Sheriff Parker driving
down a country road carrying the weight of having to tell a mother and father
their daughter was dead. He had to tell them their daughter was murdered by a
U.S. Marine.
Ryan wasn’t so naïve to think the chaos of the world
owed anyone an explanation for the horror it could produce, but the chaos he
found himself in wasn’t one of those situations. The answers were out there to
be found. As the vehicles pulled into the driveway of the safe house, he made
his decision. He wasn’t going to let the sheriff go down that country road
alone.
“Let’s get all the gear inside,” said Ryan. “We’re
taking tonight off. It’s been a while since I’ve been in the Quarter, and I
think we all could use a drink.”
“Sounds like an excellent plan,” said Dallas, knowing
the real reason for the break.
He knew the reason because he had worked with Ryan for
over six years. Dallas started his career with the FBI after serving four years
with the Marine Corps. Both he and Ryan were stationed at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, but their paths never crossed. Dallas was assigned to the Marine Special
Operations Support Group
have to admit, I believe you would’ve thrown me in my own jail. Do you mind if
I borrow that line when my deputies screw up?”
“Not at all.”
The two men shook hands and Ryan returned to the car.
His team filed out of the café carrying large cups of coffee. Dallas was the
first to reach him and handed him a cup and the folded napkin.
“I’ve been getting a lot of these lately,” said Ryan,
unfolding the note.
“Sorry it took us so long. There was a line at the cash
register,” said Dallas with a smile.
“Did you get in touch with your sister, Michelle?” asked
Ryan.
“I did. She’s fine.”
“Houma, Louisiana,” said Tom. “I knew I recognized the
name. It’s the setting for the for the ‘Swamp Thing’ comic book series?”
“I never would’ve pegged you for a comic book reader,”
said Michelle.
“Love them,” said Tom. “Every week as a kid I’d spend my
entire allowance at the corner drugstore. Soda pop and comic books were my
Saturday routine. Sadly, the files I read now contain the real monsters that
are out there.”
“Well, maybe we’ll run into the Swamp Thing down in the
bayou,” said Dallas. “You could ask him to help us find our monster.”
The team arrived at the airport and boarded the Learjet
that would take them into the hunting grounds of Richard Elliot. He was also a
highly decorated and patriotic Marine who volunteered to become a better
soldier through genetic experimentation. His record was spotless until the day he
and the others decided to walk away from the lab in Maine and become a ruthless
band of murderers.
During the flight to New Orleans, the only team member
remaining awake was Ryan. A folder with red stripes marked “Classified” was in
the seat next to him. He didn’t bother to open Elliot’s file and bury himself
in the pages filled with horrific images and reports. Instead, he sat quietly
looking out the window as the world slowly passed underneath.
6
Zydeco
The aircraft landed early in the afternoon at Louis
Armstrong International Airport in New Orleans. The team was met by agents from
the local field office. They were given vehicles and escorted to one of the
FBI’s safe houses located on St. Charles Avenue near the French Quarter. The
local agents had no idea why Ryan and his team were visiting their city. They
were told to accommodate and provide them with any equipment, information, and
support they requested without question.
During the thirty-minute drive, all four agents remained
silent. Hardly a word had been spoken since they boarded the plane in Virginia.
Each was trying to anticipate Ryan’s next move. But Ryan wasn’t thinking about
the complexity of the situation he needed to sort out. He brought his thoughts
down to a very basic human level. He was thinking about Sheriff Parker driving
down a country road carrying the weight of having to tell a mother and father
their daughter was dead. He had to tell them their daughter was murdered by a
U.S. Marine.
Ryan wasn’t so naïve to think the chaos of the world
owed anyone an explanation for the horror it could produce, but the chaos he
found himself in wasn’t one of those situations. The answers were out there to
be found. As the vehicles pulled into the driveway of the safe house, he made
his decision. He wasn’t going to let the sheriff go down that country road
alone.
“Let’s get all the gear inside,” said Ryan. “We’re
taking tonight off. It’s been a while since I’ve been in the Quarter, and I
think we all could use a drink.”
“Sounds like an excellent plan,” said Dallas, knowing
the real reason for the break.
He knew the reason because he had worked with Ryan for
over six years. Dallas started his career with the FBI after serving four years
with the Marine Corps. Both he and Ryan were stationed at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, but their paths never crossed. Dallas was assigned to the Marine Special
Operations Support Group
Similar Books
