Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3)(55)

“Fortunate you’re not on life support, ’cause I’d be all for pulling the plug,” I quip and watch as a parade of people walk past Farrington, draping her with colorful Mardi Gras beads as they do. She tries to step away from them, but she’s hemmed in.

“There’s no suspicious activity that I can detect,” Briggs tells us. He’s a couple blocks over, sitting in the parking lot of the French Quarter Visitor Center on the corner of Decatur and St. Peter, which runs parallel with the streetcar tracks. We rented a black Camaro, and he’s keeping watch from it, just in case we need a vehicle.

Farrington slips away from the bead givers and checks her position next to the bench. She’s nervous; her leg bounces up and down in frustration, and every couple seconds she runs her hands over the tops of her leg.

“We’re at Bienville. Fuck a duck—it smells like something just died in here,” Bryan yelps. “Holy hell!”

“Can’t be worse than your midnight under the covers flatulence sessions,” Patti says, setting the record straight.

“This is so bad you can’t breathe. Passengers are commenting about getting off before their stops,” he explains. “The driver looks perturbed and I need a gas mask.”

“Toulouse Street”—I glance at my watch for the timed juncture—“is in four minutes. Suck it up.”

“Yeah, Christ, it’s like someone dumped a pile of manure.”

“Like they wanted the streetcar cleared as much as possible?” Briggs suggests.

“Just like a distraction,” Bryan confirms.

“Who remained and who’s getting on now?” I feel the fuel of marked anticipation. It’s all about to go down and my senses experience the familiar buzz.

“There’s a new set of parents with a child dressed like . . . I’m not sure—she has a full face mask and hood with a full length blue gown and her hands are in a . . . I don’t know what it’s called, but I’ve seen it once before in a Russian movie.”

“You mean like Dr. Zhivago?” Briggs tries.

“Yeah, that porn flick,” Bryan declares easily.

“You’re an idiot,” Patti quips. “Do you put a hand in each end?”

“Yeah, and it looks like it’s made of white rabbit fur.”

“It’s a muff,” his wife says matter-of-factly.

“A what?” Her husband’s voice raises a notch.

“A muff??” Briggs squawks. “Are we talking about the same thing?”

“You boys are a bag of limp dicks.” I toss out the insult. “It’s a hand warmer. Get some class.”

“Why the hell would anyone want a hand warmer in the middle of August—it’s almost a hundred degrees out here,” observes Patti.

“It could hide duct tape or handcuffs.” I lock onto a premonition. “What are the parents wearing?”

“Plain clothes with full facial masks of Donald Duck.”

“Donna f*cks?”

“Good one.”

“Three minutes!” I bark.

“Just trying to relieve the tension,” Briggs says apologetically. Yeah, this is how we do that, and I’m almost grateful he’s keeping things unemotional, but enough is enough.

“Can you engage?” I ask Bryan.

He says, “I’ve already gotten closer. In total, there are roughly forty passengers.”

“Two minutes,” I count down.

“Child’s head is down, and none of them look like they’re at a party. They’re not talking to each other either—parents are staring straight ahead.”

We can see the streetcar now; it heads towards us as we’re standing on the Toulouse Station platform.

Patti throws me a look from her position about twenty-five yards from me. She’ll wait to move until the back exit doors open. I nod.

Farrington doesn’t turn back, and she doesn’t hesitate; she takes off her mask so she can be easily recognized now and then boldly and defiantly steps up closer to the oncoming streetcar.

“Bryan?”

“They’re the only new family. Plus, after they got on is when the stink started and they didn’t get right back off.”

“Twenty seconds.” The comfortable press of my Glock nestled in its holster against my back is reassuring.

“The parents just separated—mom towards the back with the kid and dad towards the front,” Bryan tells us. “They look ready to get off, but they’re behind eleven other passengers.”

The streetcar slows then comes to a complete stop before the two doors in the front and back open simultaneously.

A couple people shove in front of Farrington and she quickly pushes back.

“I like a woman who plays rough.” A guy who is near naked, his body spray painted to look like Iron Man, snakes a hand around her shoulder. I’m ready to come at the son-of-a-bitch with both fists loaded.

She immediately draws her knee up into his well exposed groin. As he reaches his hands to his jewels, Farrington body checks him to the ground and quickly goes up the streetcar’s steps.

Everyone in line laughs, and I inch—agonizingly slowly—closer. I’m exactly six people behind her.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Excuse me.” I listen as Patti jostles hard into the woman dressed as Donald Duck.