Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller Read Free Page B

front-page news, but no longer, so callous and accepting had people become to cartel murders. Even the president had asked if Jock had seen any violence from his vantage point at an idyllic resort on the Pacific coast. He discarded the paper and shopped for another necessary purchase, a pair of socks. His loafer-clad feet were freezing.
    It was late afternoon when he arrived at Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport and hailed a cabhome. An antebellum house in the French Quarter, Jock’s home was his castle, and as he walked the steps to his porch and front door, it felt good to be the king. He’d certainly been knocked off his throne yesterday. As he unlocked the door, he thought again about the responsibilities the president had given him. He decided the punishment fit the crime, then opened his door and forgot about the challenges ahead, focusing his thoughts on where in the Quarter he would have dinner. It was good to be back.
    A shower, a nap and change of clothes, a bourbon with bitters, and Jock was ready for his evening meal. The night air was cooled by the breeze blowing off the river, but his sport coat was enough protection from the elements. He walked from his house on Chartres Street, a couple of blocks, then right on Dumaine toward Bourbon. Mardi Gras was over, and though there was still plenty of pedestrian traffic, the annual crush with all its chaos and color was gone. With no specific destination in mind, he knew something would speak to him, and the accent was Cajun. He called the game restaurant roulette, and the odds were in his favor. It was impossible to lose when his love of the French Quarter and its restaurants was so absolute and consuming. As he walked, he admired the eighteenth-century facades, looking up at the decorative hand-wrought iron filigree on the narrow second-floor balconies of the Creole town houses. The larger of these extended farther out from the building. These were add-onsbuilt in the 1850s, called galleries. They were supported by columns cast from molds in local foundries. He was gazing up at a second-floor gallery when he bumped into a fellow pedestrian and began to beg pardon, though the collision had not been his fault. The man blocked his path.
    “Keys, wallet, cell phone, credit cards. Quick,” the man said.
    “What?” Boucher was stunned. He was on one of the most public streets in the Quarter, only blocks from his house, his neighborhood, in the early evening. His reaction was visceral, primal, and territorial. But not a muscle in his face twitched.
    “I gotta spell it out for ya?” the gunman said.
    Boucher froze; the barrel of a pistol a foot and a half from his gut. The man wore a hoodie pulled well over his head. The face was hidden, but a pair of eyes glared out, the whites opaque, almost yellow. High on something. His right hand held the gun. It shook. From the left hand, palm up, fingers fluttered like feathers in a breeze; the classic “gimmee, gimmee” motion. Boucher slowly raised his hands to his chest.
    “What’re you doin’?”
    “My wallet. It’s in my jacket pocket.”
    Boucher was wearing one of his two-button patch-pocket blazers. Making sure his eyes engaged those of the robber, he grabbed his lapel with his right hand, slowly pulling the garment from his body; he slid his left hand insideto retrieve the billfold. It was a ruse. His intention was to get his arms above those of his assailant. Boucher had spent most of his military career as a member of the All-Army Boxing Team and had added to his martial arts skills over the years. He was fast, and now he was angry. Anger added an edge. As he continued to stare into the man’s eyes, his motions were a blur. His left hand, fingers extended as if preparing a salute, chopped down on the assailant’s right wrist with enough force to shatter bone. The right hand pulling the blazer lapel was already formed into a fist and a short distance from the gunman’s head, too short for a