Angel’s Promise by Aleatha Romig

Rett

Nighttime enveloped the neighborhood, settling over the darkened streets of Desire. My pulse thumped as it raced through my veins, not from nerves, but the unmet desire to bring Emma’s kidnappers to justice and my wife home. The tips of my fingers tapped an undetectable rhythm on the armrest in the back seat of the SUV as Leon and I stared through the windows from our place in the shadows.

Twenty years ago, it would have been easier to remain less conspicuous or hidden in Desire. There was more here at that time—more people, more buildings, and more places to fade into. The population of this neighborhood had dropped exponentially over recent years.

Katrina was partially to blame.

It was too easy to blame all of New Orleans’s woes on that one hurricane. As I’d told Emma, she—Katrina—had a bum rap.

While she’d been a category five out in the gulf, by the time she made it close to us, she’d weakened down to a category three. Forecasters said New Orleans had dodged the bullet when she’d hit landfall forty-five miles away, keeping her powerful winds farther away.

But she was a deceiving bitch.

Her power wasn’t in her winds.

New Orleans had handled 125-mph winds before and since.

No, her power came in the over ten inches of rain and over eleven feet of storm surge she brought.

A plan had been developed to rid the sea-level city of water, but the structures hadn’t been maintained. The levee system failed. And even now, nearly two decades later, people speak about the devastation of Katrina when what they should talk about was the abject failure of those sworn to protect the city, its structures, and its people.

My city.

My people.

Emma’s and my father both had tried, but evacuating a city that had never before received such an order was a feat in and of itself. Even I had to admit that using the Superdome was a good idea. Then again, it brought forces within the city to a level playing field—literally. That caused its own problems.

Now, as I peered out the windows, I saw lot after lot in Desire where houses once stood, now empty. While most of the damaged structures from 2005 had been removed, many hadn’t been replaced. Instead, they left grass and mud as well as cracked-asphalt remains to fill the spaces.

The church Johnny had mentioned was a block away.

In this area, overgrown brush and abandoned buildings were more abundant than homes with full-time residents. Leon had our SUV parked behind an old gas station, hidden in the shadows of what was at one time a carwash.

From where we sat, we could see the back of the church.

At a little after midnight, the men started to arrive. One or two at a time, all on foot, they’d made their way along the rutted dark streets and slipped behind the loose piece of plywood. It was now a quarter to two and the head count within was seven, including Johnny. And from our vantage point, there was no sign of life.

I had a car with my men watching the other side.

No one had left.

This abandoned old church made for a well-hidden hideout.

Initially, I’d wanted to wire Johnny for sound.

The reason he wasn’t fitted with a bug was because of the work that had been done to him—swollen eye, fat lips, and bruises on his body. I knew from good sources that Johnny’s presence would be questioned. He’d obviously been caught by my men. There was too great of a chance that he’d be searched and wires would be discovered.

That didn’t mean he wouldn’t double-cross us.

He could.

My insurance policy—Johnny’s wife and kid—was currently at a motel in the Fifteenth Ward with two guards watching their door. The research my men did today confirmed that Johnny’s wife had been recently let go from a big-box store in the Lower Ninth. She’d missed too many days of work; supposedly, her absences coincided with their kid’s doctor’s appointments and days their kid missed school.

I didn’t want to know any more.

That information was enough to confirm Johnny’s story.

He was now in that church to get his money. It was his only job.

Johnny also knew if my plan went south, he and his wife wouldn’t need to worry about medical appointments. I’d take the three of them out.

Johnny, Mrs. Johnny, and little Johnny.

Damn, my list of Johnnys was growing.

Then again, if he came through, things could look up for the Johnnys.

Leon spoke quietly, “Boss, no reason why Ingalls would need to pay his own bill. He could easily send someone.”

Meaning Ingalls might not show.

“I’ve thought of that, but what are our other options. If Ingalls or Boudreau appear, I want them fucking tailed from every side.”

That wasn’t all that I wanted.

While I’d considered torching the church at the onset of their meeting, I decided against that for one reason: killing either Ingalls or Boudreau tonight wouldn’t bring my wife back to me. It stood to reason that if Ingalls helped abduct Emma, he was in contact with who wanted her, who had her—most likely Boudreau and then there was the added possibility of the elusive Jezebel North.

A text message came through, and I hit the icon.

“Fuck.”

Leon’s dark gaze met mine in the rearview mirror.

I lifted the phone. “Boudreau’s showing his face at some high-class establishments. And he has an interesting piece of arm candy.”

Leon’s head snapped sideways until our eyes met. “Not Mrs. Ramses?”

“Fuck no. Remember the name Emily Oberyn?”

His brow furrowed. “The ginger who was spotted with Underwood.”

Leon wasn’t asking.

“It now seems she’s with Boudreau.” I read the text. “Right now, they’re at Restaurant R’evolution. I’m just fucking learning that earlier they were seen at Galatoire’s 33.”

“Making the rounds,” Leon said as his head tilted to the side. “Seems like a ruse. They want your people watching them.”

“My people are. My people are also here and around the entire fucking city.”

“Word’s getting around. Thought you should know.”

My focus went back to Leon. “Word? What word?”

“Mrs. Ramses. The shit Ingalls started is getting out but not the way he thinks.”

“Go on.”

“People saw you and her at August. Some reporters took her picture headed into the courthouse. They’re slapping it all over social media.”

“Fuck.” That wasn’t what I wanted. “That’s why I’ve been getting calls from Michelson and a few detectives at NOPD. I’m not ready to have them nosing around.”

“Probably how they know,” Leon said with a nod. “But, boss, it ain’t like you’re thinking. They’re rallying around her.”

“Rallying? They? Who?”

“Talk is that Mrs. Ramses, she’s married to you and is Ms. North’s daughter. Hell, they have pictures of the two women up on Twitter. Jezebel’s are from some time ago, ‘cause she ain’t been seen for a while.” He shook his head with a smile as he stared down at his phone. Leon looked up. “There ain’t no denying Mrs. Ramses looks like her momma.”

“Wait?” I was trying to wrap my head around what he was saying. “You’re saying Emma’s picture is on social media?”

Fuck. This is why I wanted to keep her home. She didn’t ask for this.

“Boss, the people, they’re worried, even though she ain’t been reported missing—”

“Because like I said, the last fucking thing I need,” I interrupted, “is NOPD sticking their nose where they don’t belong.”

“You said Michelson called? You not trusting him now?”

Exhaling, I met Leon’s gaze. “I did. Right now, I’m not trusting anyone outside my ranks.”

“That’s the thing, boss, the people, they care. They’re worried. I got word earlier tonight; there was a prayer vigil for Mrs. Ramses at St. Charles and another one at Franklin Baptist.”

A prayer vigil?

“Why?”

“You know New Orleans. There’s a saint or a spirit for every need.”

“Emma isn’t dead.”

“Not saying that. They’re worried she’s missing. Hell, we ain’t the only ones who saw the video from the cameras. Those cameras belong to the city. One person gets a copy and posts. The one of her being pushed into the Caddy has over a million views.”

I wasn’t sure how I felt about this.

It was good, right?

“Saint Anthony,” Leon said.

“Excuse me.”

“He’s the saint of missing people, things too.”

I shook my head. “Miss Guidry was going on earlier about the spirits. Saying my mother talked to Emma, and she’s safe. Of course, my dead mother didn’t relay Emma’s location.” I was growing tired of Miss Guidry’s tales. “What the fuck good are spirits?”

“Boss, don’t you see? You’ve been busy with Mrs. Ramses, Knolls, and Herbert, too. Your mind’s been occupied. The spirits talk but that don’t mean all people listen.”

I had another thought. “Franklin Baptist, that church is in the Lower Ninth.”

“Yes, boss, it is. And they are praying straight to the Lord. All over the city. Different denominations and different people. Like I said, they’re rallying behind Mrs. Ramses.”

Exhaling, I leaned back against the seat. “Well, fuck. The Lower Ninth is Boudreau turf.”

“For seven years, that’s been Ramses territory. They know something else. They know she’s a Boudreau.”

Leon was right. That ward had become Ramses territory, but we both knew there were still those people who had been true to Boudreau for generations and were slow on making the transition. Those were the areas Kyle, a.k.a. Isaiah, had worked the hardest. Pockets of old-timers with young bucks that don’t want change.

I looked out the windows. We were parked in one such area.

“Earlier today,” I said, “I had the idea to cleanse Desire, fucking torch it.” I met Leon’s gaze. “You’re better at knowing what’s happening on the street. What can I do to help Desire or the Lower Ninth? The gangs here listen, they don’t like it, but they do. Except, fuck, the house that exploded yesterday had three kids. That shit can’t go on.”

“You ain’t going to turn New Orleans into a park. Your daddy and Mrs. Ramses’s daddy knew that. They knew what you know. It’s about men on the ground. And you know who controls those men?”

“Me? Boudreau? Their local leaders?”

Leon scoffed. “You’re getting closer. I ain’t saying it is one hundred percent, but you know who was filling those churches this evening, walking the streets with candles, posting on social media, and saying prayers to gods and spirits in Mrs. Ramses’s name?”

I couldn’t help but smile. “It wasn’t those men. If history means anything, it was the women.”

“Ninety percent. Now, don’t get me wrong. I ain’t saying they’re soft. Hell, there’re tough women out there, ones who’d shoot you as easy as look at you. There’s a salon or two that cleans more cash in this city every month than the gambling boats combined.” He scoffed. “I’ve watched members of gangs get pulled inside their house by their ear. Ain’t no one standing in the way of a momma.

“The women, they know how this city runs as well as their husbands or daddies. They also talk to their husbands and sons. No man worth his weight doesn’t listen. He may not like listening, but if the women be like Tara” —he whistled— “they talk...a lot.”

“And right now,” I said, “you’re telling me that the women of New Orleans in Ramses and Boudreau wards are worried about Emma?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

A new thought came to me. “Leon, if she wasn’t my wife, would I be threatened?”

“You ain’t talking about you, are you?”

“We need to get to her. I’ve been saying Kyle wants her dead. If he hears about this, that piece of shit will take her out like I’ve been saying because she’s his competition. I’m starting to hope that our theory is right and Jezebel is somewhere in this mix.”

Leon nodded toward the front windshield. “Ingalls just arrived.”

Two men got out of a black Cadillac.

“Looks like Boudreau and the ginger aren’t here,” Leon said. “Told you, they’re a distraction.”

“Are you fucking me?” I asked, seeing the car. “Ingalls is driving the same fucking car that took Emma.”

“Then that means that car took her somewhere, left her, and now is back in the city.”

“Get our men moving,” I ordered. “Get his car wired and if Boudreau has a car parked near R’evolution, it better be wired too.” We’ll wait until this meeting is over and we’re following Ingalls back to wherever he goes.

I wanted to watch him die after what he said, but tonight wouldn’t be the night.

He needed to lead us to Emma first.