Night in New Orleans felt like it was trying to smother you, heavy and damp, pressing every breath out of the air. Steven Bird's black sedan—freshly patched up after catching a few bullets—caught the glow from the streetlights, shining like maybe it hadn't just been through hell. The repairs were brutal on his wallet. Five hundred bucks gone, just like that. For a twenty-four-year-old rookie cop, that stung. Al at Marigny Auto didn't make it easy, either. Bird had tried to haggle, but Al just wiped greasy hands on his overalls and growled, "Five hundred, kid, or this heap stays put." Bird managed to scrape together three hundred, promised the rest next week, and scribbled his info down on a crumpled receipt. Al didn't exactly buy it, judging by the way he watched Bird leave, eyes cold and sharp.
The clock said 7:52 p.m., December 1, 1999. New Orleans buzzed with its own wild heartbeat. Rain pattered on the windshield; the wipers stuttered along, out of sync with the jazz pouring out of the bars on Bourbon Street. Neon lights bled into everything, saxophones wailed, street vendors hollered about pralines, and the air tasted like river water and powdered sugar. Traffic was a mess—horns, a streetcar's bell, and people shouting over it all. Bird's eyes kept flicking to the rearview mirror. He gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. He couldn't shake the morning: Thomson bleeding out on him, Officer James's empty stare, the shooter disappearing into the haze at the convention center. The sharp hospital smell from Tulane stuck in his nose. Senator Douglas Thomson was there now, in the ICU, barely hanging on.
Captain Lewis's words kept coming back, colder than river water at midnight: "You were supposed to protect him, Bird!" That hit deep. He'd gotten Thomson to the hospital, dodging bullets, but it wasn't enough. Lewis only saw the failure. Bird's chest tightened up. He was just a kid from Alexandria, chasing after his uncle's badge, but New Orleans didn't care. This city was all snakes and shadows—corruption, dirty deals, sudden violence. Stane had warned him: "Business types who don't like snoopin'." Was the shooting a warning? Or were they aiming to kill? Bird's little apartment off Magazine Street held no answers. Sleep never came easy these days.
He turned onto Rampart, the sedan cruising past old Creole cottages and bars that looked like they'd never close. A couple slow-danced under a live oak, rain sparkling on them. Kids chased a stray dog, their laughter somehow cutting through the drizzle. Bird's gut twisted—not out of jealousy, just this ache for a normal life he didn't get anymore. His uncle always said, "Show up, kid. Do the work. That's how you earn respect." Bird set his jaw. He'd find the shooter—vest or no vest. He wasn't screwing up again.
He parked under the flickering Gumbo Shack sign, boots crunching on gravel. The sedan looked almost brand new—three hundred bucks well spent, if it stayed that way. Across the street, a peanut vendor's cart smoked, the smell making his stomach grumble. His apartment window glowed upstairs. He pictured a po'boy, a cold beer, and finally, some sleep.
Then tires screamed. Bird's head snapped up. A battered gray Chevy pickup tore down the street, swerving so close it nearly hit the kids. They scattered, shrieking. The driver—a shadow in a black hoodie—barely slowed, fishtailing around the corner. Bird's pulse kicked up. Something was off.
He ditched dinner plans without a second thought. Jumped in the car, keys jangling, headlights low. The Chevy disappeared into the French Quarter's chaos, but Bird kept after it, letting a couple cars buffer him. The rain got heavier. The wipers lost the fight. He slid past praline carts, ducked around brass bands, muttered apologies when a drunk bounced off his fender. He really didn't need more scratches.
The pickup darted down a skinny alley off Decatur. Bird followed, heart hammering. Tight brick walls, graffiti everywhere—fleur-de-lis, gang tags, Y2K paranoia. Dumpsters stank of old fish and spilled beer. This wasn't joyriding.
The Chevy stopped by a rusted fence. Bird killed the engine, slid his window open, rain soaking his arm. The driver climbed out, hoodie plastered to his head, lugging a heavy sack. Three others stepped out of the shadows, faces hard in the broken streetlight.
Bird grabbed his service pistol—Lewis's issue, cold and steady—and slipped out, boots squishing in the mud. He crept behind parked cars, then crouched behind some crates, just fifteen feet away. Voices carried, low and tense.
The driver, wiry and jumpy, gripped the sack tight. "Package is secure. Delivery tonight."
The leader, a big guy in a battered leather jacket, scar slicing down his face, glared at him. "No screw-ups. This opium's worth your lives." He flicked open a switchblade.
Bird's ears caught the word. Opium? That stuff barely showed up around here. He thought of Thomson's enemies, Stane's sketchy side hustles.
The third guy—tall, wiry, denim vest, skull tattoos, a voodoo pendant swinging as he gnawed on a toothpick—spoke up. "What about that cop from the convention center?"
Bird froze. Rain slid down his neck, mixing with sweat. They're talking about me.
The fourth—stocky, bald, red flannel open over a gold crucifix—flexed his scarred hands. "If he snoops, we take him out. Like the last one."
The leader's scar twitched. "Stay focused. Ten kilos, pure, at the warehouse by midnight. Big player's waiting—someone with real pull, tangled up in the senator's mess." He shot a look at the driver. "We clear?"
The driver unzipped his sack, showing off plastic-wrapped bricks. "Clear. Cops are busy with Tulane's circus."
Bird's gut twisted. Tulane—Thomson's ICU. No accident. He leaned in, the crates groaning under his weight.
A memory flashed—him, a kid, hiding in his uncle's garage, listening to beat cops. "Listen. Don't jump in," his uncle had whispered. Bird took a deep breath, burning every detail into his mind—scar, tattoos, crucifix, chain.
The leader barked, "Load the truck. Cops show? Drop them." The bald guy grinned. "Then we party."
Bird needed proof—Lewis would want it. He slipped back to his sedan, heart pounding, and tailed the Chevy through backstreets to the riverfront. Warehouses slouched in the rain; the Mississippi reeked. He parked a block away, grabbed his flashlight, and crept into the junkyard—tires, pallets, rusted cranes everywhere.
The crew hauled the load into a van. The leader snapped at the tattooed guy for dropping a brick. "Easy, idiot—that's ten grand!" The driver studied a map, muttering, "Bayou drop, Cypress Point Lane."
Bird's brain lit up. Cypress Point Lane—swampy, out by Lake Pontchartrain. Weird spot, but it fit the vibe.
He edged closer, hiding behind tires. The leader dropped his voice. "This haul's our ticket. Senator's out, thanks to the hitter. Boss gets his share, we're set."
A hit. These guys were just chess pieces.
The bald guy bragged, "Last job, I cracked a guy's skull. Easy money."
The tattooed one laughed, his pendant rattling. "You wish, Red."
The driver snapped, "Enough. Boss hates chatter."
Bird needed the buyer's name. A bottle clinked under his boot. The tattooed guy's head shot up. "Hear that?"
Bird held his breath. The leader's switchblade flashed. "Check it out."
The tattooed man crept closer, revolver drawn. Bird's finger hovered on his trigger.
"Nothin'," the guy muttered, turning away.
The leader laid out the plan: "Midnight, Cypress Point Lane. Boss's man brings cash, we hand off."
The driver nodded. "Senator's rival wants it clean."
Bird's pulse hammered. A rival with real muscle. He locked every word in his head.
Then he shifted, a crate scraping. The leader's scar jumped. "Someone's here."
Guns appeared—pistols for the leader and driver, a shotgun for the bald guy, a revolver for tattoos. Bird backed toward an oil drum, his own pistol suddenly tiny.
The tattooed man spotted him. "Got company!"
Bird rose, heart slamming. "Officer Bird, NOPD! Drop it!"
The leader just laughed. "You're outnumbered, kid."
The driver crept forward, pistol aimed right at Bird. "Kneel or bleed."
An engine rumbled in the fog. The crew hesitated, glancing around. Bird's mind raced—backup? Or just more trouble?
The leader snarled, "Time's up."
Bird bolted for the tires. Gunfire exploded, bullets pinging metal. He dove, rolled, lungs burning. Rain blurred the world.
Shouts. Bird crawled through mud, jumped crates, and ducked behind a crane. A bullet tore his arm, fabric ripping—Al's bill—another two hundred gone.
The driver fired wildly, stumbling. Bird hurled a crate—cracked the guy's elbow. The pistol skittered away. The driver lunged with a knife. Bird shot twice, center mass. The man dropped, blood pooling. Bird's stomach twisted. First kill.
The tattooed guy showed up, revolver ready. Bird flung his flashlight—cracked the guy's wrist. The gun fell. Bird charged, slammed a crate into his chest. A fist clipped Bird's cheek. Bird fired low—shoulder shot. The man howled, clutching the wound. Zip-ties out. Two down.
Bald guy roared, shotgun blasting, tearing up a pallet. Bird rolled behind a drum. The leader fired, sparks flying. "You're dead, cop!"
Bird peeked. Bald man charged. No cover. Three shots—center mass. The crucifix swung, then stopped. Another body in the mud.
The leader came for him, scar twitching. "Last chance, rookie." Bird angled a rusted pipe. The leader fired—the bullet ricocheted, slicing Bird's thigh. He dropped down, pain flaring.
Bird pushed to his feet, pistol steady. "Drop it." The leader tossed his gun, blood leaking. Bird zip-tied him, boot on the wound.
Silence. The rain eased off. Fog swallowed the van. Bird dragged the wounded inside, locked them in. Two dead, two alive. Self-defense, but would Lewis agree?
He frisked the leader, found a crumpled note: C.S., 555-0132. He pocketed it. Then, on the ground, a silver chain with a tiny cross—must've slipped from one of the goons. He tucked it away. Evidence, maybe more.
Back at Marigny Auto, Al paced around the sedan, grumbling under his breath. "Two hundred, 'cause you're NOPD." Bird flinched—five hundred gone, his whole stipend wiped out. Al kept going, "Riverfront's trouble. Gangs are moving weight over there. Stay away."
Bird slumped onto his couch back at the Magazine Street apartment. The TV was blaring about Y2K, everyone losing their minds. He couldn't shake the image of Thomson's face at Tulane—gray, hooked up to tubes, machines beeping, blood everywhere. James's toothpick spun through his mind. Lewis's words echoed, sharp as glass: "A dead cop, a senator on a ventilator!"
Now he'd killed two more. Guilt twisted inside him, thick and choking. He'd hesitated over that woman's complaint, just watched James go down. Was he still a cop, or just a killer now? His uncle's badge sat on the shelf, staring back. Show up, it said. He had, but at what cost?
That note—"C.S."—could mean anyone. Cartel, councilman, some corporate bastard. It burned in his pocket. He needed to prove himself. Tomorrow, with Dickson.
Standing at a payphone in the rain, he called. Dickson's easy drawl loosened the knot in his chest. "Bird, you're something else, cher. Four goons? You got guts."
"Two dead, self-defense. Two more wounded, tied up in the van. Not Cypress Point. Warehouse at 5th and Main. Left a note: C.S., 555-0132."
Dickson let out a low whistle. "That's a big fish. We'll hit it tomorrow. Get some rest."
Bird hung up, then called dispatch. "Riverfront lot. Two suspects, wounded, tied up in a van. Two dead. Send units."
Fog rolled in, swallowing the street. A gunshot cracked somewhere in the distance. Bird's hand went to his pistol. Was "C.S." already on the move? The night felt like it was holding its breath, waiting.