Chapter 9 - The Siege of Magazine Street
The federal raid on Poydras Street went down precisely as Cormac had calculated.
At 8:15 a.m., six unmarked blue vans pulled up to the glass-fronted tower of Delacroix Construction. Agents in windbreakers carrying bolt cutters and evidence boxes flooded the lobby. By nine, Hector Delacroix had been escorted out of his penthouse office in handcuffs, his face pale as lard, a raincoat draped over his wrists to conceal the irons from the news crews gathered at the curb.
Wren watched the live broadcast from the library television, her fingers curled around a porcelain mug of black tea.
Beside her, Sable was curled on the sofa, clutching a pillow, watching the screen with the wide, disbelieving eyes of a condemned prisoner who had just received a pardon from the governor.
“It’s really happening,” Sable whispered, her voice trembling. “They’re taking everything.”
“They’re taking what was stolen,” Wren said softly.
The library doors clicked open. Cormac entered, wearing a fresh charcoal suit, his tie knotted with mathematical precision. Teague followed two steps behind, carrying a satellite phone and a tactical folder.
“Hector is in federal custody,” Cormac said, nodding toward the television. “The judge denied bail on flight risk grounds. The U.S. Attorney is presenting your Crescent Causeway core samples to the grand jury right now.”
Wren turned to look at him. “Then it’s finished?”
“Hector is finished,” Cormac said. “His second-in-command, a mercenary named Vance Cole, is not.”
Teague opened the folder on Cormac’s desk. “Cole ran Delacroix’s heavy enforcement squad. Ex-contractor out of Blackwater. When the feds breached Poydras, Cole emptied their tactical reserve armory and pulled eight men off the grid. They know the company is dead. They know the money is frozen. They have one play left.”
“Magazine Street,” Wren said, her engineer’s mind instantly anticipating the trajectory. “They think the evidence came from your central office. They want retribution before they run.”
“They want to kill me,” Cormac corrected calmly. “They think if they cut the head off my organization, they can take Julian’s ledger back and use it to negotiate safe passage out of the country with the state officials Julian owned.”
Sable whimpered, pulling the pillow tighter against her chest. “Are we safe here?”
“No one knows about Prytania Street,” Cormac told Sable, his voice carrying the immovable weight of absolute authority. “You will stay here with four of my men. The perimeter is mined with trip-flares and seismic sensors. Nothing comes within fifty yards of this house without dying.”
He turned to Wren. “You are coming with me.”
Wren blinked, surprised. “To Magazine Street?”
“Vance Cole has three structural breaching charges,” Cormac said, his eyes meeting hers with sharp clarity. “Commercial-grade C-4. He stole them from Delacroix’s demolition division last month. If he places them against the western foundation piers of the cotton warehouse, he can drop the upper three floors into the street before we can eliminate his team from the firing positions.”
Wren understood instantly. “You need someone who knows where the charges have to be placed to stop them before they detonate.”
“I need an engineer,” Cormac said, extending his hand toward her. “My engineer.”
Wren looked at his outstretched hand. The calloused palm, the long, steady fingers that had wiped the soot from her face in the dark of the riverbank. There was no hesitation left in her. She reached out, her fingers closing firmly around his, and let him pull her to her feet.
Her thigh throbbed, a dull, manageable ache, but her leg held.
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“Give me a radio and the warehouse structural schematics,” Wren said, her slate-gray eyes blazing with a fierce, cold light. “I’ll show you how to turn those charges into dead weight.”
***
