CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
New Orleans literally pulsed with life, every corner exploding in a riot of color and sound. Mardi Gras had descended upon New Orleans like a fever dream, the streets choked with revelers draped in shimmering beads, masks hiding grins and secrets alike.
Jazz spilled out from open windows, mixing with the thunder of drums and shouts from the parades that weaved through the French Quarter. Amid the revelry, a different kind of chaos brewed—a relentless chase that would leave the city changed forever.
Ten men pressed through the throngs, their eyes scanning the swirling crowd for any sign of Tyler.
Ham wore a battered green baseball cap and eyed the chaos with seasoned suspicion. Gator, whose nickname came more from his bite than his smile, moved with a wiry energy, always first to spot trouble.
Finn, River, and Quinn, stuck close as they always did, their banter barely audible above the din.
Hoot, Rush, Patrick, Kev, and Matt rounded out the group, each fueled by equal parts camaraderie, anger and the burning need to stop Tyler before he found his next prey.
Tyler, for his part, moved like a shark through water. He wasn’t trained like the men pursuing him but he’d done this enough to know how to find just the right woman. Although his record the last few weeks wasn’t very convincing.
His eyes darted over the revelers—each mask a possibility, each laugh a distraction. He was searching, always searching, for a woman who fit the twisted image in his mind.
His hands were never still, shoving dancers aside, knocking drinks from hands, sending glass crashing to the pavement. Violence followed him like a second shadow, and nothing—not the crowds, not the spectacle—would slow him down.
The heart of Bourbon Street was an unending parade. Glittering floats drifted by, tossing beads and coin trinkets into the air. The men darted through the crowd, dodging confetti showers and the swinging arms of dancers.
“This is why I hate Mardi Gras,” frowned Ham. “I fucking hate it unless it’s at our bayou.”
The air was thick with the sweet rot of spilled alcohol and sweat, the ground sticky beneath their feet. Everywhere, strangers pressed in, their laughter hiding fear as the chase cut a jagged path through the celebration.
Drummers marched with pounding rhythm, their music echoing off the walls and masking the sounds of Tyler’s rampage.
The men split up, moving with practiced urgency, hoping to flush Tyler from his hiding spot. They traded quick shouts over the crowd’s roar, their voices threading through the chaos on their communications system.
“Anyone got eyes on him?” asked Ham.
“He went past the float!” said Finn.
“He’s heading toward Jackson Square!” yelled Kev.
Tyler’s progress through the crowd was a trail of disruption. He shoved a reveler dressed as a jester so hard the man sprawled into a pile of beads, cursing.
At a vendor’s cart, Tyler threw a tray of king cake to the ground, the sweet pastries crushed underfoot as he stalked off. He grabbed a woman’s arm, twisting her toward him—her eyes went wide with terror before she broke free, vanishing into the swarm.
His search grew more desperate, more erratic, as the night deepened.
The men watched, fury mounting with every report of Tyler’s violence. Finn clenched his fists.
“We catch him tonight,” he vowed. Quinn nodded, jaw set, and the group pressed deeper into the madness.
River, always the tactician, mapped out the city’s choke points—narrow alleys, busy intersections, the banks of the Mississippi.
Hoot coordinated their movements with quick texts, directing Kev and Matt to flank Canal Street while Ham and Rush shadowed the parade.
Gator, ever the risk-taker, slipped ahead, weaving through a second-line band toward the old St. Louis Cathedral, hoping to catch Tyler between the revelry and the quiet.
The men operated like a unit, their purpose cutting through the chaos. Each knew Tyler’s cruelty, each remembered the damage he’d done before. New Orleans itself became the field of battle, every landmark a possible trap or refuge.
A shimmer of red caught Ham’s eye—a woman in a feathered mask, Tyler’s hand clamped around her wrist. Ham surged forward, but Tyler spotted him and vanished into a press of dancers.
Rush barreled after, nearly colliding with a parade marshal, shouts trailing in their wake.
A few moments later, Kev and Matt cornered Tyler in a shadowed courtyard, only to have him vault a fence and disappear into the maze of streets.
