The sun rose over the horizon and illuminated a New Orleans sleeping off a late night of partying and preparing for another. The streets were practically deserted at this hour, so walking up Canal Street meant not fighting through the crush of thousands of bodies. A twenty-four-hour McDonald’s offered respite from their hunger. After eating, they entered the clutter, stench, and wonder known as the French Quarter.
A familiar figure crossed the intersection ahead of them. Henry recognized the tattoos and beefy arms, which now held onto a limp body draped over John’s shoulder.
“Don’t ask,” Henry cut off Cole’s obvious question. “You don’t want to know.”
They passed by a narrow opening between two buildings. A tall, handsome man in a pirate outfit stepped from the shadows and onto the side
