Page 47 of Vapor

Vicki’s giggle spills out into the garage.

As I head out, I toss my empty bottle into the trash can. I roll my newly repaired bike out of the shop past the one I borrowed from another club member. He’s going to swing by and pick it up later.

When I get back on the highway, wind whips through the hair hanging out from underneath my helmet. There’s nothing better than the freedom I feel while I’m riding.

After all this shit with Broussard is done, I need our road captain to plan a run. Something fun for the end of the summer. Assuming we’re all still alive by then. I don’t trust Broussard at all. We’ve got to be ready for anything tonight. I only have a few more hours of daylight, but there’s a lot I want to accomplish before sundown.

***

The moon casts an eerie glow over Lafayette Cemetery No. 1 as I cut the engine of my Harley. The sudden silence is almost deafening after the roar of the ride. I swing my leg over the bike and step onto the uneven cobblestones, the faint scent of jasmine mixing with the musty odor of decay.

The ancient, wrought-iron cemetery gate creaks open under my touch, groaning like an old man waking from a long sleep. The heavy backpack I’m carrying is weighing me down, but it won’t be long before I hand it over to Broussard.

I push on, my boots crunching on gravel as I make my way deeper into the shadows. Tombs rise around me, silent sentinels in the night. They’re above ground, like miniature houses for the dead, their whitewashed walls reflecting the moonlight in an almost ghostly manner. Some are adorned with statues of angels, their faces worn and solemn, while others are cracked and crumbling, revealing the dark void within.

Everywhere, the names of the departed are etched in stone, a testament to lives long gone. The stillness is oppressive, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant call of a great horned owl.

I move further in, past rows of tombs, each one a reminder of the fragility of life. The shadows play tricks on my eyes, and I find myself glancing over my shoulder more than once, half expecting to see a ghostly figure trailing behind. Even though I don’t believe in them, it doesn’t mean they don’t exist.

The air grows colder. A shiver runs down my spine. I’ve faced down rival gangs, stared death in the face more times than I can count, but there’s something about this place that sets my nerves on edge. It’s probably just because I don’t trust Broussard. That’s got to be it.

I come to a stop in front of a particularly grand tomb, the name engraved in bold letters above the entrance crumbled to the point where it’s illegible. I can’t help but wonder about all the people buried here. What their lives were like. What killed them. I feel a chill that has nothing to do with the night air.

This place is more than just a resting ground for the dead. It’s alive with memories, with the whispers of those who once walked the streets of New Orleans. And tonight, it feels like those whispers are growing louder, calling out from the shadows, reminding me that the past is never truly gone. It’s always there, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to rise again.

Fuckin’Tank and Bones. Their superstitious crap is rubbing off on me.

Shaking the jitters away, I move past the tomb toward the center of the graveyard. A cigarette flares to life. The momentary brightness reveals Broussard’s face. Another man stands beside him, stiff and alert. It’s exactly midnight and so far, everything is going according to plan.

Instead of bringing Bones with me, I decided to send him with Tank to scout the area. They’re lurking somewhere nearby, watching. I’m sure Broussard ordered his men to do the same thing.

I drop the backpack at my feet, the thud of it hitting the ground sounding unnaturally loud in the stillness. I intentionally chose an amount higher than the money we recovered from the boat so Broussard wouldn’t see the connection.

“Eighty-five grand,” I say, my voice low but steady. I unzip the top, revealing the stacks of $100 bills neatly bundled and filling the bag to the brim.“Want to count it?”

“Not here.” Broussard gestures toward the man by his side.“I’m surprised you came alone.”

“Why wouldn’t I? If we’re going to work together, we need to trust each other.”

“True.”

His associate crouches down, inspecting the contents of the bag. Moonlight catches the edges of the bills, making them almost glow.

“Eighty-five thousand, just like we agreed,” I say, keeping my eyes locked on him, ready for any sudden movements. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, every instinct on high alert.

He takes a bundle and flips through it with practiced ease, nodding in satisfaction.“Looks good, boss,” he says, standing up and slinging the backpack over his shoulder.

I clench my jaw. This isn’t the first time I’ve dealt with scum like Broussard, but I know better than to relax. The weight of the gun tucked into my cut is somewhat reassuring. I could probably reach it before they drew on me.

“Recently, it came to my attention that the cartel lost some of its cargo,” Broussard says, studying me intently.

“What kind of cargo?” I ask, playing dumb.

“Women.”

I want to correct him because those kids we rescued weren’t old enough to be considered women yet. Fucking bastard. But I keep my mouth shut.

“Why are you telling me about this?” I ask, adding a hint of impatience to my tone, as if he’s wasting my time.

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