“These are for you, John-Wesley. Use them wisely and well.”

  He unwrapped the cloth. Inside were three knives, with blades that gleamed dully through a thin coating of machine oil. A KA-BAR, the favorite of the U.S. Marine Corps, and a Fairbairn–Sykes fighting knife, developed by William Ewart Fairbairn and Eric Anthony Sykes. The two men virtually invented the double-edged dagger style knife while they were serving with the Shanghai Municipal Police in China. Later, the British SAS adopted the knife, and it became part of legend.

  The third blade was an Applegate–Fairbairn fighting knife. A modern design, Colonel Rex Applegate modified the design of the Fairbairn–Sykes fighting knife to produce a more lethal weapon. The blade had a similar double-edged dagger profile to the Fairbairn, but was wider and tougher. It also used a different handle, made from Lexan plastic with adjustable lead weights. Which meant the user could change the balance-point, depending on the circumstances. To throw, cut, or stab. The Applegate–Fairbairn could do them all.

  “Sir, I don’t know what to say,” Ryder mumbled, overawed by the generosity this man had shown him.

  “Then say nothing. And the name is Joe.”

  “Yes. Thank you, uh, Joe. Say, which one is best? I mean, for…”

  “Killing?”

  “I guess.”

  “Forget which is best. The knife in your hand is the one that’s best to do the business. No matter whether it’s one of these or a kitchen knife you happen to have picked up. Just make sure to get plenty of practice with them; that’s what counts. I want your word on that, John-Wesley.”

  “Yessir, you have it.”

  “Every day.”

  “Yessir.” The knives each came with a sheath, together with a lightweight canvas webbing harness, so he could secure all three below his coat. He buckled it on and holstered the blades. The rig was heavy, very heavy. It felt good, really good. Like they belonged, were part of him.

  “Good. Now let’s get you hidden away in the truck. We’ll get away from here without those two cops knowing what we’re doing. I’ll take a look out the back window, and make sure they haven’t switched positions.”

  Ryder joined him, and they peered into the distant clump of bushes and trees. A branch moved slightly, yet the wind was still. Joe laughed. “Bunch of amateurs, they may as well park in plain sight instead of that fool Boy Scout stuff. Okay, we’re clear at the front. Lets…”

  He stopped. Ryder saw the movement at the same time. “It’s Grace. Christ, they can’t miss her!”

  The girl suddenly ran into the open from a patch of bushes. She was about one hundred yards from the boundary to Joe’s farm. Grace hadn’t seen the danger, but a cop pointed at her and shouted. Then he began running across the field toward her. It was the younger man, Caleb Fry, and a second later, the older cop, Dubois, charged after him. He was carrying a pump action shotgun, and as he ran, he racked the action, aimed, and fired.

  She ducked as the buckshot whistled over her head, but it didn’t all miss. Some of the lead must have hit her, because she stumbled, almost fell, and then kept running. John-Wesley was already speeding toward her, and as two more shots boomed out from the shotgun, she looked up and saw him racing toward her.

  “John-Wesley, help me! He’s trying to kill me!”

  “Keep running. You’ll make it.”

  “But I can’t, my…”

  She stumbled again, and this time she fell. Ryder pounded toward her and helped her up, just as another hail of buckshot whistled past them, and some of the shot punctured his arm. A truck engine started, and then Joe Poesy was driving across the field toward them. As he came alongside, he shouted, “Get her in the truck before they kill us all!”

  More shots cracked out, but nothing came near. He almost threw her into the cab, and dove in as Joe floored the gas pedal. They bumped and skidded away from the cops.

  * * *

  “Lieutenant, you can’t do this!” Fry shouted.

  By way of a reply, Dubois pumped two more shots toward the fleeing truck. Fry was appalled at him targeting unarmed kids, and he fired two warning shots into the air. Dubois at last stopped firing and lowered the Remington. When he looked at Fry, his face was red with anger.

  “Dammit, I had them bang to rights. You let them get away, you fucking amateur!”

  Fry didn’t back down. “Lieutenant, we just want them for questioning, not to kill them. Shooting at them was wrong.”

  “They did it,” he snapped, “I know it for a fact.”

  “Maybe, maybe not, but if you kill them, we’ll never know for sure.”

  He grimaced. That’s the way he wanted it, so no one would ever know for sure. Except he couldn’t spell it out to Detective Caleb ‘Straight Arrow’ Fry. He took a few deep breaths and started planning his next move. He needed to pile on the pressure. Which meant more men, and more resources.

  “Now you’ve let them get away, that truck could be going anywhere. Which means we’ll need help, so I’ll call that FBI Special Agent, and he can get their people on it. We pay enough taxes, so they may as well earn their keep. You contact Alexandria PD, and get them to put out a BOLO. Move it.”

  Fry nodded. “Alexandria PD, yeah, that’s a good call. I’ll get onto it. But the FBI, they don’t have jurisdiction. There’s no sign they’re planning to cross any State lines, so you can forget the Feds.”

  Dubois snorted. “And let those crazy killers rampage across Louisiana unchecked? I don’t think so.”

  “Lt, we don’t know they’re killers. They’re suspects.”

  “They’re guilty. We need the Feds involved. It’s just a matter of putting it to them in the right way.”

  He looked puzzled. “I don’t understand. How would we do that?”

  Dubois stared back at him. “What gives the FBI the authority to go after a suspect, Detective? Apart from crossing State lines, that is.”

  “Terrorism?”

  A chuckle. “Good call, but we can’t make the case for terrorism. How about serial murders?”

  “Well, yeah, but they’re not suspected of serial murders.”

  “Not yet. The thing is, I have at least two outstanding murders in New Orleans. Stabbed, the way Daniel Poesy died. It could be those kids were the killers.” He didn’t seem to notice Fry’s appalled glance, “See, if they’re serial killers, the Feds have a reason to go after them. They’re armed and dangerous, and will issue a ‘shoot on sight’ advisory.”

  He laughed. “That’ll take care of them. Contact The Alexandria PD, and I’ll talk to that Fed, Special Agent Callahan.”

  “Lieutenant, you’re talking about lying to the Feds. That’s serious.”

  A grin. “Just bending the truth a tad, is all. Get on with it.”

  “They’ll send in an FBI SWAT team, Lieutenant, and when they find them, they’ll gun them down. This is all wrong.”

  “I don’t give a shit. Just contact the local cops. Leave the rest to me.”

  * * *

  Joe drove like a man possessed, skidding out through the gates and onto the road. Ryder realized what he was giving up to help them. His farm, his home, and most everything he owned. By aiding the escape, he’d made himself a wanted felon. Yet he was a man consumed by the need for justice for his dead brother, and for his niece, Grace Poesy. As well as John-Wesley, who in a short time had become close to him. Like the son he’d never had.

  He kept staring into the distance, and Ryder asked him what he was searching for. He gave a grim-faced reply.

  “They’ll set up roadblocks, you know that? Those cops will contact the local Sheriff’s office, spin them some yarn to get their help. Or…” He stopped and thought for several seconds, “Sonofabitch, it’ll be worse than that.”

  Ryder stared at him. “Worse? How could it be worse?”

  “They’ll call in the FBI. It was an FBI man who tipped off Dubois, so they’ll call them in. And that means the full works. Helicopters, SWAT teams, you name it.”

  “They can’t do that,” Grace said, her voice filled with anger, “The murder of my father isn’t a federal crime.”

  “They’ll make it a federal crime, Grace. Invent some Mickey Mouse felonies they say they’re investigating, God knows what. Murder, drug smuggling, maybe, I don’t know. What I do know is that cop Dubois is desperate. He’ll say and do anything to shut you up.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “I’m doing it. Looking for a track where we can turn off into the forest at the side of the highway. We can stay under the tree canopy where a helicopter can’t spot us.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “This is all my fault, Uncle Joe. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.” His voice was sharp, “You didn’t ask for that cop to attack you and try to rape you. A guy like that, he’ll have done it before, and he’ll do it again. If we’re to get any kind of justice for Daniel, we have to see this through. Stay clear of the cops, and find someone who can help us.”

  “Like who?” Ryder asked, “If we can’t go to the cops, or the FBI, who does that leave?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he swerved the wheel over and left the road, heading onto a narrow forest track that threaded through the trees. If he’d turned a second earlier, the helicopter wouldn’t have seen them as it followed the highway, searching for the truck. However, he hadn’t turned a second earlier.

  * * *

  “I see them!” The observer alerted the pilot while he kept his gaze fixed through the 20 power binoculars, “They’ve driven off the road and gone into the forest. Sonofabitch, it’s gonna be hard to follow them down there.”

  The pilot made up his mind in seconds. “We’re running low on fuel anyway, so I’m gonna head back to Alexandria International Airport. We’ll refuel and fly back over here to pick up where we left off. They can’t stay in the forest forever. We’ll get ‘em.”

  He called the Agent-in-Charge at the roadblock, a SWAT officer named Hank Duisenberg. Nicknamed ‘Doozy’ to his unit. Explained what they were doing, and promised to be back in the sky inside of thirty minutes.

  “Copy that,” Doozy replied, “Say, when you come back, I want you to land here and take on two passengers.”

  “Passengers?”

  “Yeah, my sniper can fly with you. He may get a shot. The detective who put out the call just arrived, a Lieutenant Arthur Dubois. He wants to travel with you. The guy says he has knowledge of the fugitives that should help you locate them.”

  “You got it.”

  He swung the nose around and headed north, muttering, “Damn passengers, they’ll be sending the local Boy Scout troop next for pleasure flights.”

  They flew to AEX, and a refueling truck was waiting next to the helipad. Five minutes later, they were back in the air, and they landed next to a dark, anonymous minivan with blacked out windows. A bunch of FBI SWAT Team shooters were sitting around outside arrayed in their working gear, armored vests, assault rifles, Kevlar helmets, a variety of handguns, and even grenades clipped to their webbing. Ready to go to war.

  “They look more like Special Forces every time I see them,” the observer chuckled, “I wonder if they know they’re going after two kids and a retired sailor. As far as we know, they’re unarmed.”

  “You know, I wouldn’t like to be in their shoes,” the pilot replied, “Those guys look like they’re loaded for bear. They mean business.”

  As the rotor blades slowed, a man walked over to them, a SWAT team member, arrayed in black tactical gear. He carried a sniper rifle, a McMillan Tac-50. A .50 caliber anti-materiel weapon, and the pilot gave it a surprised glance.

  “You know we’re trying to locate two sixteen-year-old kids? Do you need that kind of heavy ordnance?”

  “Ask the gumshoe. He’s talking to Special Agent Callahan.” He pointed to two men engaged in conversation. A paunchy cop, a detective, and an unmistakable Fed with a sharp buzz cut. Well-pressed suit, white shirt, polished shoes, and ID badge strung around his neck, “The cop said they’re dangerous. The way he described them, they’re like a reborn Bonnie and Clyde, only much worse.”

  He looked incredulous. “What are they armed with, anti-aircraft missiles? Jesus Christ, I thought they were trying to find them and take them in for questioning. Not turn them into dog meat.”

  The detective, Dubois, shook hands with the Agent-in-Charge and walked up to the helo. His face was grim, set in what looked like a permanent scowl. “A word of warning, these people we’re hunting, they’re serial killers. Treat them like wild animals.”

  He didn’t sound satisfied. “They’re armed?”

  A pause. “Yeah, they’re armed.”

  “Armed with what?”

  Another pause. “I don’t know.” The man gave him a scornful look, “If they tell me, I’ll let you know. Just get this thing into the air and find them. We’ll take it from there.”

  They boarded the Jet Ranger. The pilot turned to the controls, adjusted the collective, and the helo began to rise. Dubois had to leap in fast and clutch at a handhold. They climbed to a thousand meters, and the observer resumed his search with the big binoculars. The FBI sniper took station at the open door, hooked up to a safety strap. The pilot wasn’t convinced, and he took pleasure in throwing the Bell Jet Ranger all over the sky. Dubois knew the guy didn’t believe him, but that was too bad.

  The priority is to find those kids and stop the rot, before it spreads too far and engulfs me. If I let them get away, I’m finished. They have to go down. They are going down!

  They flew over where they’d seen the Ford truck leave the highway and continued heading south to intersect their probable route. After a few minutes, the observer lowered the binoculars.

  “I see them, three o’clock, about two thousand meters away. The tree cover is patchy, and every now and again that red truck shows through.”

  The pilot altered course, and seconds later they spotted the truck. The sniper looked at Dubois. “How do you want me to play this, Lieutenant? I could try for the tires, but it’s a difficult shot in a moving aircraft.”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Go for the cab.”

  “Sir, that’s not the way we do these things. We should challenge them to stop first.”

  “It’s my call, and I take full responsibility. Do it before they leave a trail of bodies all over Louisiana. You want people to point the finger at you and say you could have stopped them, but you failed.”

  A brief pause, and when he sighed, the Lieutenant knew he’d won.

  “Roger that. I’ll take the shot.”

  He took aim, and Dubois watched his body achieve the stillness of the master sniper. Every ounce of concentration went into putting the bullet in the exact place he wanted it to go. His finger tightened a fraction on the trigger, and Dubois was within an ace of containing the damage.

  * * *

  “Helicopter, right overhead.”

  Joe nodded to John-Wesley. “I hear you. Hold tight. This is going to be a tad bumpy.”

  He left the narrow forest trail and steered into the trees, just as the first shot slammed into the cab, and then another. Grace screamed, and Joe cursed as he steered for a denser patch of woodland.

  “The bastards, they’re using heavy caliber rounds. That was a .50 cal, unless I miss my guess. The bastards mean business.” Under his breath he mumbled, “They want to kill us.”

  He concentrated on threading through the narrow openings between the trees. The truck plunged through dense foliage, at times barely scraping through gaps between the trunks of trees, gaps that didn’t look big enough to allow a motorcycle through. The bodywork made grinding noises as it squeezed past, and they were into a clearing. Two more shots smacked into the cab. The first smashed the windshield and showered them with fragments of glass. The second shot hit something solid. Human flesh, and Joe cried out in pain. Then he slumped, as they were about to get under cover of the forest canopy.

  The truck slewed out of control and passed through another narrow gap between two trees. They careered into the dense wood for several yards, and out of the corner of his eye Ryder saw they were heading for a massive trunk. He was still trying to rouse Joe to get the truck back under control, but he was unmoving, and he said to Grace, “No pulse, I think he’s dead. Help me. Hurry, before we hit the…”

  The Ford slammed into the tree and stopped dead with a force that threw Grace though the shattered windshield. Ryder slammed against the dashboard, with one arm still held around Joe. The force of the impact tossed him around, and his head struck the roof of the cab. He saw Grace tumbling across the ground and Joe’s head lying at an impossible angle. His neck had broken when the dead weight of his body whiplashed and snapped the vertebrae. A split second later, he blacked out. His last conscious recollection was the roar of the helicopter engine overhead, and he wondered if they were about to join Joe in death. Torn apart in a fusillade of .50 caliber bullets.

  * * *

  “I, er, I dunno,” he mumbled, in response to Dubois’ question, “I hit something just before they disappeared into the trees, and I thought it was the driver. But they went out of sight, so it’s hard to tell.”

  “Shit!” he shouted to the pilot, “I want you to land this thing in that clearing. They could be hiding right under our noses.”

  “You’re kidding me, right? You see that space? If I try to land in there, we’ll snap the rotor blades. It has to be the highway. We need a clear, wide space. Make up your mind; you want to carry on looking? Or land and come back here on foot to search through the trees?”

  Dubois thought for a couple of seconds. He glanced at the sniper. “You think you hit something?”

  “I’m almost sure, yeah.”