Page 44 of Death in the New Year

“Thanks, brother. Let’s go.”

Steadily, they walked the streets, going up and down and into the alleyways. They left no opening, no entrance, no dark space unturned. There would be nowhere for Sizemore to hide. Others on the streets had seen him, and every drunken ex-footballer was certain he could nail the bastard.

The Gray Wolf men didn’t even bother to deter them. The more hunters, the more likely they could stop him. Within moments, every Gray Wolf man was on the streets of the Quarter searching for Sizemore. He wasn’t getting away this time or any time in the future.

Gaspar pointed up ahead to see Trak and Zeke taking off on Conti while the others followed.

When everyone caught up to them, they stood quietly outside the gates of St. Louis Cemetery Number 1. The storied 18th-and 19th-century cemetery had some of the most haunted gravesites in America, including voodoo priests and queens, witches, and pirates.

“He’s inside,” said Trak, staring at the gates. He pointed to the darkened concrete walkway, and they realized that someone in the crowd had sliced their prey. He was injured, and now they had the advantage. Ghost looked at the men and nodded, pulling his weapons.

“Two at a time. Block the gates and find him.”

Slowly, they made their way up and down the pathways of the cemetery. They were literally in a human Lego field. With the graves all above ground in concrete vaults, the hiding places that would delight any child in a game of hide and seek.

But these men had the advantage despite what Sizemore might think. They’d hunted in swamps, blizzards, floods, sandstorms, and much worse. They’d walked through minefields and cocaine manufacturing plants to get to their target. This one would be no different.

They would walk away with him, dead or alive.

Barely a sound could be heard as the men stepped carefully from one spot to the next. Even Alec and Tailor were showing their prowess by not making a sound in the cemetery.

Zeke stood on one of the vaults and stared into the darkness. With his dark clothing, dark skin and hair, it was unlikely Sizemore would see him in the black of night. On his left, he spotted movement off to the side and signaled to the others to move in that direction.

Alec and Tailor went straight to cut off his return while Trak, Cruz, and Jean broke off to circle around him. When Cruz lifted a fist, pointing to the blood on the path, they all slowed and moved carefully.

Nine caught the vision of Tailor leaning over one of the vaults. He held his fingers to his lips, and then, gripping the neck of their prey, he pulled him to his feet and held his throat between his massive hands.

Sizemore was so weak, so tired, he couldn’t fight back as the men surrounded him. Gaspar stared at the man, loathing in his eyes.

“Reverend Sizemore, we’d like to discuss your future.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Sizemore couldn’t believe it. It was impossible to comprehend that these old men would have gotten to him. He knew they were older than they appeared, but who would have believed they were smart enough to figure this all out? To chase him down and actually capture him.

“I’ll get out again,” he smiled at them, seated beside the river on the damp earth. “I’ll plead insanity, the confessions of my flock pushing me over the edge.”

“That’s funny,” smirked Alec.

“That my flock pushed me over the edge?” he asked with a grin.

“No, that you believe you’re going to go before a judge. We are the judges, fucker. All of us.”

Sizemore stared at the men, the smile gone from his face. Now he understood. These men weren’t security and investigations. They were mercenaries. They had no souls, and they took no prisoners.

“Then do your best,” he grinned. “My father tried, and I killed him in the end. Go ahead.”

“You don’t get it,” said Gaspar. “There are twenty of us standing here and another three hundred waiting to get a piece of you. You will not leave this spot. We will kill you and leave your body.”

“What do you want?”

The men laughed, shaking their heads.

“We want nothing,” said Nine. He raised his finger and shook his head. “Actually, I’m curious. Why would you determine whether or not someone was a sinner when you, yourself, were committing the ultimate of sins?”

“I am the judger,” he said, gritting his teeth. His arm was bleeding profusely, but no one made an effort to help him. “My mother and father were sinners. They fornicated every night.”

“That’s what married people do,” said Nine.

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