Free Fatal by Eric Drouant

cloth and had loved her more than ever, and worried more than ever.
    The fish stopped biting. They had an ice chest with a dozen trout, plenty enough for lunch and dinner. One by one, the other boats pulled anchor and took off, and soon enough they followed, making their way back across the water. During the hour-long boat ride, Cassie said nothing, watching the choppy water and the landmarks, guiding them back to camp. She idled the boat into the slip and killed the engine. Ronnie tied it front and rear, leaving plenty of slack for tide changes, and tossed the bumpers back between the boat and the dock. The ice chest came out, heavy with the day’s catch. As he was carrying it up to the camp, Cassie fell in beside him. She brushed her hair back away from her face. “Let’s eat,” she said. “Then we’re going to talk about how we’re going to end this thing.” She ran ahead to open up the camp.
     
    *****
     
    Andre Kohl spent most of the following day allowing himself and his thoughts to wander. The French Quarter drew his attention, and he found his way down to the French Market. The lines of fruit stands, broken up by souvenir vendors and t-shirt sellers, held him for some time. As much time as he spent in the West he could never get used to the abundance, the overflowing bins of ripe fruit. A trip through a grocery store left him envious of the citizens of this country, his sworn enemies, and yet so friendly a people it was hard to picture them as the evil his superiors proclaimed them to be. Yet he knew it was so. He’d been given enough examples of their aggression, spent enough time being indoctrinated in his own ideology, to make doubts something to be cast aside.
    Coffee and pastries with white powdered sugar followed a lunch in a small restaurant off Bourbon Street. He walked the few blocks back to his hotel, following the curve of the river. Canal Street was crowded as he made his way through, a busy and seemingly unending center of commerce and entertainment. The people were well dressed for the most part, in bright colors, a far cry from the drab clothing of Russia. When he entered his hotel, the lobby was quiet and the air conditioning a welcome relief. He reminded himself that this city seldom saw the snows that so often blanketed Moscow, holding it in a frigid embrace until the white powder went dark with dirt and soot. Perhaps that was why this New Orleans was so open.
    He was mulling over this idea as he opened the door to his room, tossing the newspaper picked up at a small stand on the corner onto the bed as he passed. He removed his shoes, placing them neatly alongside of the bed, and placed a call to a room two floors below. There was no sign of either the kids or Brooks or Mead. The apartment was still empty. He wondered about that. If Francis was aware of his operation his operation there should have been some movement against him, some action. Brooks or Mead weren’t smart enough to avoid slipping up in an interrogation or brave enough to withstand what Francis would do if he wanted information. Kohl would have been targeted already, probably followed or taken into custody. Instead, there was nothing. That lack of information was disturbing. Kohl was a man who operated with knowledge. The smallest pieces could be interpreted, dissected, and the next action predicted with some certainty. He was amused at the irony of it. It seemed that Cassie Reynold and Ronnie Gilmore could be just another set of college students to disappear, and they had. The problem was his men had disappeared along with them. He was smiling to himself when the telephone on the bedside table began to ring.
     
    *****
     
    Cassie called Luke Francis early that evening. She was terse and to the point. “Your man Bronislov has a problem,” she told Francis. “A big problem. We need to talk.” Francis waved his assistant out of the room. The door closed. He sat down in his chair, recognizing the voice. It was the last