Inside Out

91

A chilled, steady rain kept pedestrians on both sides of Decatur Street moving rapidly and the vehicles rolling slowly. Jax had been a long-closed brewery complex when it was turned into a fanciful tourist mall-reminiscent of a medieval castle with flags flying from its sheltered parapets-with views of the Mississippi River and the French Quarter.

Three FBI vehicles were parked facing the levee at the rear of the vast lot beside the complex. Archer's assault-suited FBI SWAT team sat in the step van waiting patiently, while the surveillance techs sat at portable consoles, anxious to field test their equipment.

Archer, occupying the passenger seat of the black Crown Victoria, strummed his fingers nervously on the armrest. He had good reason to be nervous. Special Agent Finch sat stiffly behind the wheel. Every seven seconds the wipers would cycle, clearing their view of a concrete wall three feet from the grill. Like a sullen teenager, Sean Devlin sat slumped in the backseat with her arms locked across her chest. An unoccupied purple Dodge convertible waited next to the Ford. Finch jumped when Archer's radio squawked to life.

“Big Chief, this is Eyes One. The covered wagon has left the barn, headed toward the lower forty. ETA is fifteen minutes.”

“Roger that,” Archer said. “Okay, all teams, prepare to roll when the covered wagon starts back to the barn.”

In a low voice, Finch translated the radio lingo for Sean. “The team watching Manelli's estate just told us that Manelli's car is on the way from there.”

“Okay, Mrs. Devlin. Get ready. I have a team covering the garage. Manelli's driver is on his way, alone. Soon as you get in, make sure you keep noise coming so we always know. Remember that we are running tape.” Archer tilted the ball cap toward his mouth and whispered, “Ears, you getting this?”

“That's a roger,” a voice said. “The signal is ten-ten.”

Archer handed the cap to Sean. “Remember, you just get Manelli to admit being behind the hit on your husband. We need him to admit he ordered it-financed it. Conspired with others. That is all we need.”

“I hope he's thoughtful enough to incriminate himself before he kills me.”

“We will never be more than seconds away. Just get in your car and go. We'll be with you the whole time.”

Finch said, “This will be over before you know it.”

“I just hope it isn't over before you know it.” Sean straightened, and when she did she felt suddenly queasy.

“I can't do it,” she said. “Not now.”

“What the hell do you mean?” Archer growled.

“I'm getting a headache,” she said, alarmed.

“Don't you dare try and pull anything,” Archer threatened. “We're not changing the plan. I have people on you and if you try to make a run for it, they'll shoot you as a fleeing felon.”

“Seriously, I'm getting a migraine,” she said. “Would that surprise you?”

“Finch,” Archer snapped, “go into the van and get some aspirin over here, now!”

“Aspirin?” Sean said. “I need something a lot stronger than that.”

Archer snapped at her, “You'll take the aspirin and you will not get a headache! Do you understand me?”

Sean took four tablets, praying they could stave off a migraine. Keeping her head perfectly level, she slipped the ball cap on gently, and climbed gingerly out of the Crown Vic. Oblivious to the rain, she slid carefully behind the wheel of the convertible. She eased the door closed, not daring slam it for fear of promoting the headache.

Take two bullets in the head and call me in the morning.