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life?”
    Traffic on the street was light as they made their way down Canal toward the I-10 onramp. The French Quarter was on their right, the cobblestoned streets passing one after the other, freshly washed and awaiting the crowds of tourists who found their way to the Crescent City. Cassie watched them go by. Ronnie was right. It was too early to think about giving up everything they had. They would have to fight. She was seeing a dual-headed risk. The chance of Luke Francis exposing them to outside interests was one thing, but Francis himself presented an immediate risk. Archer had chosen to use them sparingly, allowing them at least some semblance of a normal life. Francis was an unknown quantity, but he was off to a bad start. His arrogance grated on her. Cassie liked to make her own decisions. She could never tolerate Francis having complete control over her. Archer had misjudged the nature of his successor, and now Cassie and Ronnie would have to pay the price. Or, she thought to herself, Francis would.
    For now, she would put it away. Francis would bear watching. Her senses were on high alert. They would stay that way until she felt it was time to act. Ronnie drove on, not speaking. He would mull things over in his own way. Cassie knew she could depend on him more than she could depend on anyone in the world. When push came to shove Ronnie would act decisively. He was slower to jump into things than she was, but when the time came, he wouldn’t hesitate. At the age of thirteen, he had confronted a pair of intruders in his home, men intent on kidnapping him and Cassie both. One ended up with permanent brain damage from a baseball bat, the other dead, shot with the first intruder’s gun, which Ronnie had picked up. Together they had handled things. They would do the same now. They would wait, she decided. Right now, she was hungry. “Head for the Sweetie Place,” Cassie said. Ronnie smiled and drove on.
     
    *****
     
    Andre Kohl watched the kids as they left the hotel and made their way into the parking garage. There was no need to follow them himself. His people were in place. His job was to put it all together: Francis, the kids, the trip itself, the meetings. If something was in the wind, he had no idea what it was. But the tingling at the base of his spine was still there. He sighed, drained his cup of coffee, and walked out onto Canal Street. Tomorrow, he thought, I will find some answers. Maybe. The battle between patience and action was perpetual. He was used to it. Eventually he would find answers. Now it was time to call his superiors and try to find out if there was something big building, or perhaps already underway. So many things we never know, he thought, and so many things to learn.
     
    *****
     
    The Sweetie Place, as Ronnie and Cassie knew it, was a small restaurant on Chef Highway. Built on a triangle of land between Franklin Avenue and Louisa Street, it was easy to find. Stay left and Chef Highway rolled on. Bear right and a small avenue of businesses eventually ended in front of Schwegmann’s Grocery and the Industrial Canal. Ronnie stayed left, hooked an immediate right into the parking lot, and shut down the engine. The small diner smelled like heaven and felt like home. Half a dozen tables were all the place could hold and the inexpensive but hearty food packed the place during lunch and dinner. The dinner crowd was gone though, and Ronnie grabbed a booth next to the window looking out on the highway.
    The waitress came over, laying out napkins and forks and knives and delivered her usual line. “What can I get you to drink, sweetie?”
    Cassie giggled, looking over at Ronnie. The waitress’s traditional greeting had given birth to their name for the restaurant.
    Ronnie rattled off his order. “I’ll have white beans and rice with a breaded pork chop and French dressing on the salad.” He looked at Cassie. “Roast Beef Poorboy, dressed but no tomato,” she said. “And we’ll both