Page 1 of Gerard

Prologue

There they were again.

Headlights in his rearview mirror nearly blinded him.

Was it them? Had they caught up with him?

His heart hammered against his ribs as he rammed his foot onto the accelerator, wishing he had stolen a faster car. One with more gas in the tank and an air conditioner that worked. Instead, he had taken an older model boat of a car that hadn’t been locked and was easy to hotwire. He’d ridden with the windows down to catch a breeze in the stifling southern Louisiana humidity.

He’d left New Orleans a little over an hour ago with his tail in hot pursuit.

And why wouldn’t they be?

He glanced at the ordinary gym bag sitting on the seat beside him and shivered. What the hell was he doing? Were the contents of that bag worth his life?

Taking it had been too easy.

Keeping it...not so much.

As soon as he’d grabbed the bag and run, they’d been after him. He’d lost them a couple of times in the streets of New Orleans and on the backroads west of the city. Each time, they’d caught up to him.

The bag had to be tagged with some kind of tracking device. If he could get a free minute, he’d stop, find the device and toss it. Trouble was, he hadn’t had a free moment, the gas gauge had been sitting on E for the past thirty miles and he had run out of options.

When he’d seen the sign for Bayou Mambaloa, he’d turned off the main highway onto the parish road.

He remembered his father talking about his boyhood home. The home he hadn’t returned to in over thirty-odd years.

When the Mambaloa Boat Factory had closed, the community had practically dried up. Fewer jobs had meant no future for young people. His father had left when he’d turned eighteen and never looked back. His one regret had been leaving his high school sweetheart behind.

The key feature of Bayou Mambaloa that interested him now was that it was a town so small it barely warranted a dot on a map. Sitting on the edge of a bayou, he could steal a boat and lose the bastards behind him.

If they didn’t catch up to him before he reached the bayou.

If he could get to the bayou before he ran out of gas.

The trailing vehicle closed in on him. A loud bang sounded, his rear window exploded and a sharp pain knifed through his left shoulder, rendering his left arm useless.

With only his right hand on the wheel, he took a curve without slowing, sending the car's tail spinning out behind him. The rear tires regained traction and shot him forward. For a few precious seconds, the low-hanging trees blocked the headlights, which meant they couldn’t see him either. A narrow dirt track ahead might be his only chance to lose the vehicle behind him.

Gunning the accelerator, he raced for the dirt track and spun the steering wheel to the right, sending the tank of a car down the rutted path. He prayed the track would take him deeper into the woods where his pursuers wouldn’t find him and maybe close to a marina where he could find a boat and speed away into the bayou. He killed the headlights even as he mashed his foot on the accelerator, slamming through the brush and mowing over small trees and bushes.

God, he hoped there wasn’t a tree in front of him. His night vision had yet to adjust to the lack of headlights. About the time he could make out more than the ruts in the dirt track, he emerged in a small clearing, with brush on either side and a dark maw ahead, sloping downward. He didn’t dare hit the brakes and shine the red taillights, giving away his position. The car’s forward momentum carried him through the clearing and down the slope.

A break in the overhead foliage let starlight through, the light reflecting off a smooth, glassy surface.

Too late.

He plowed into the water, the front end of the vehicle nosediving into the swamp. The impact jerked him forward, slamming his forehead against the steering wheel.

For a second, darkness enveloped him.

He blinked several times, forcing back a wave of dizziness. When he could see out the front windshield, he stared at the bayou.

Fortunately, the water wasn’t deep enough to submerge the car. The front tires sank into the silt, sending the engine under while the back wheels remained on the bank.

His left arm hung loose, and warm blood soaked his shirt, making it stick to the skin on his chest. He’d been hit. Bad. If he didn’t get out of the swamp and find a hospital, the guys who’d been following him would be the least of his worries.

As his strength weakened, he shifted into reverse and hit the accelerator.

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