KNIGHT'S REPORTS: 3 Book Set Read Free

Bourdieu!”
    The crowd goes wild as the handsome black man, dressed in royal cape and crown, grins widely and waves the key around.
    “Thank you mayor, for this great honor!” he shouts out, and for some reason I focus in on a small detail — when he turns his head, the black tip of a tattoo is revealed above his white collar.
    It’s just a tattoo — something many people have. But, for an unexplainable reason, I find it notable. I accept that. I’m a little odd at times, to say the least. My subconscious seems to pick up on things that should otherwise pass me by. But it shoves these little oddities to the forefront of my mind and makes me jot them down on a small virtual notepad someplace behind my eyes.
    A “Breaking News” ticker moves across the bottom of the screen as I watch: Man found dead in a car Monday after high-speed accident on Bourbon Street has been identified as a known gangster, underworld hit man and mobster wanted for murder….
    Something about the news rings a bell in the back of my mind.
    On the television, behind the “Breaking News” ticker, the King of Carnival is waving high into the crowd of jubilant onlookers as he leaves. He’s escorted to a black Cadillac limo and gets in. As the car drives slowly through the crowd, my mind zooms in on another detail: the lights reflecting off the Caddy reveal a small crack in the rear window and a tiny dent in the trunk lid.
    I decide it’s time to forget about the festivities on television and to refocus on my own issues. My life and possibly others' might depend on my memory. I must figure this all out before the gun-toting, redheaded beauty with the Texas accent returns.
    It’s all so very foggy — the last I remember I was in Los Angeles.

 
     
    Chapter 2
    Trouble to Come
    Several Days Earlier, East of LA, California Highway 74
     
    I remember — negotiating the winding rural highway, driving my ol’ daddy's '68 Shelby Mustang GT 500 KR convertible toward LA. While enjoying the beautiful Sunday morning, the Beach Boys were singing “California Girls” on my CD player. I couldn’t help but wish I had someone special to share the wonderful SoCal day.
    I wish I had a dog .
    I had to laugh at myself. Where did that come from? After three years in prison, I wanted to keep the company of a canine?
    I shook my head.
    At 10:00 AM I had an appointment with my old buddy, Jason Ryder — a friend from my Marine Force Recon days. He’s a big-shot movie star now, married to my ex-girlfriend, actress Stella Hutchins.
    What a tangled web we weave!
    Jason wanted to meet me at Devil's Horn Cliff — an ominous sounding place — where he'd give me a quick rundown on what I was to expect in my big move to the "Left Coast". He'd scouted out some marinas for me.
    With the help of a couple friends down in San Diego, I’d bought a used sailboat, and it was my intention to retire with plenty of life left in me. At thirty-eight, I would begin one of those idyllic lives, simple and trouble free — a nice change after a maximum security prison.
    Since before my eighteenth birthday, "idyllic" wouldn't exactly describe the life I'd led. From the US Marines to mercenary and vigilante-for-hire work, through the time of my wife's murder and the three years in prison, my life had been somewhat less than simple. That’s without even considering my prison break and the killing of two FBI special agents — a whole other story.
    I met with Jason and his daughter Sophie. My, how she had grown since I'd first seen her cradled in Jason's arms nearly five years ago. Sophie actually came running up to me when I got out of my car after parking next to Jason’s Mercedes-Benz SLS AMG Coupe.
    “Uncle EZ!” she shouted as she raced across the gravel from where she’d been standing next to her father. Jason must have told her about me.
    She was beautiful in her pink sundress. When she leapt to me, I had to snatch her from midair to ensure she wouldn’t crash.
    “You’re