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blasted in his mind as Rose’s monotone diatribe continued.
    “You listening?” she snapped.
    “Yes, ma’am. Old ghosts in the attic. You know the symptoms.” Hollywood’s fingers strangled the fine leather steering wheel. His other hand hovered over the pistol tucked below his hamstring. He’d lost enough in one ambush. Now he lived to suffer because he’d survived. “Why me?” He chomped on the insides of his cheeks.
    “Survivors guilt, Hollywood. You’ve got a purpose—focus on finding it.” Rose’s tone switched from chastiser to counselor. She’d been there and knew where the cracks were. Healing them wasn’t her job—protecting America was.
    “Why you up at four in the freaking morning, Rose?” His haggard reflection bounced back through the rearview mirror.
    “Gotta move when the data deciphers. Intel Division’s still muddling through the Preacher’s hard drive. Seems something’s brewing down your way other than coffee and beignets.” Her attempt at imitating the thick slur of Cajun dialect fell flat.
    The sound of the Preacher’s name chilled his soul. This homegrown uber-extremist and his network of disciples had nearly pulled off the most significant terror plot against the American way of life. Though he’d been killed months earlier by Special Threats Response Team’s very own boss, Rose Prospero, the Preacher’s diabolical schemes continued to be launched by his blood family and his network’s hierarchy.
    The specialized STR was authorized by the United States Government to operate beyond the blackest of black ops’ environments. Deciphering the Preacher’s confiscated hard drive had allowed STR to anticipate the many still active attempts against America. According to Rose, Hollywood just so happened to be in the right place at the wrong time—something often said about the Big Easy.
    “Did you say coffee and beignets?” His voice perked up.
    “Yes, I guess I did.”
    “Great idea, I’ll hit Café Du Monde until briefing time. Not like I got a place to stay.”
    “You could pawn that hundred thousand dollar car and buy a place.”
    “A hundred and fifteen.” He punched in the new directions and navigated toward Decatur Street.
    “Anyway, seems bayou country’s scheduled for more than Mardi Gras this March. The Preacher’s disciples are still hell-bent on carrying his torch for world domination through its destruction.” Hollywood heard the rapid rattle of typing in her background. Rose was not alone.
    “Tell Billy I said hello.” Hollywood laughed. His voice up-ticked.
    “Tell him yourself in surround sound.” Rose’s throaty laugh said she was most happy next to Billy Price, STR’s resident Delta Force and Capitol Hill lion tamer.
    “Hollywood, seems the FBI picked up chatter across the wire about your local chapter of animals recruiting sniper/spotter teams.” Billy’s voice from across the room wasn’t as clear, but his message was crystal.
    “Who’s their target, Billy?” He stabbed at the dashboard controls. “Hold on, I’m on Chartres and I’m pretty sure I’m heading down a wrong way. Ever drive the French Quarter?”
    “Watch them alligators, pretty boy.” Billy teased, “They make great boots.”
    “Sorry ’bout that,” Hollywood said as he got himself back on track. “If they’re advertising for outside contract work then they must have multiple targets. Amateurs gonna make it a hatchet job. No self-respecting shooter would answer a casting call—it’s uncivilized.” He stamped the center console.
    “Place not open yet?” Rose asked.
    “How’d you know?”
    “You’d be crazy to slap a hundred grand car unless your caffeine fix had gone dry. Look again, their website shows it’s open twenty-four hours a day.” Rose was spot-on as usual.
    “Hollywood, anyone mention Carvaka yet?” Billy had moved closer to the microphone as his usual soft-spoken voice became dominant.
    “Indian or Hindu, but never heard of it. Is that