Page 56 of The Fourth Option
Walker kept his hands up by his shoulders.
“Don’t you worry,” he replied, before turning back toward his vehicle.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
New Orleans
Present Day
WALKER PULLED INTOthe run-down service station and pre-paid for gas in cash through a sliding drawer to a man with hollow eyes sequestered behind thick glass. He then began fueling his faded blue van and took Paladin to a nearby patch of weeds so both man and beast could stretch their legs.
Parts of the Ninth Ward had clawed their way back from the brink, pockets of resilience scattered among the wreckage. Here and there, clusters of retail shops stood like outposts, their windows scrubbed clean, their signage defiant. Some homeowners had fought to reclaim their blocks, painting trim, planting flowers, polishing their porches like armor against the decay.
The ward wasn’t rotten to the core. In fact, its core was the part still holding on. It was the fringes, the outer edges, where the rot had taken hold. That’s where the streets turned quiet in the wrong way, where the houses jutted like broken teeth, and where the criminals dominated the night.
Walker was surprised at how inexpensive the fuel was in this part of the country. New Orleans was home to a number of petroleum-related businesses along the Mississippi Delta, which must have helped reduce cost of fuel.
The gas pump clicked off with athunkwhile Paladin sniffed around a patch of weeds near the curb, tail twitching, ears perked. Walker wandered over to the dog and stood with his hands in his pockets, feeling the sun on his face.
He turned to the sound of a green seventies-era BMW 2002, patched with Bondo and coughing smoke, that had lurched into reverse and backed up in front of the van. Walker’s spine stiffened. There were otherpumps open, so it was odd that this driver had chosen the one directly in front of his. His hand instinctively went to the Glock beneath his shirt.
The car looked familiar. He had noticed a similar vehicle when he exited the Federal Building.
The instinct faded when the driver’s door cracked open and a girl stepped out. She was young and wiry, a pale waif with thick mascara-framed eyes. Her dark jeans were torn at the knees and tucked into black Doc Martens. A crucifix tattoo, medieval and jagged, clung to the side of her neck. She looked like she weighed ninety pounds soaking wet.
She put the nozzle into her car, punched the buttons, and, while waiting for the tank to fill, ambled to Walker’s van. She must have assumed he was inside, paying the bill, because she kept to the driver’s side and peered through the windows, standing on tiptoe.
Walker calmly approached out of the dead space. “Can I help you?” he asked, careful to keep his voice neutral.
“Oh,” she said, turning. “Sorry, I…”
“You like old cars?” he asked, looking at her vintage Beamer.
Her pale face flushed.
“Sorry. Yeah, I was just checking it out,” she said, backing toward her car.
Walker wasn’t buying it. The way she had pulled in and immediately checked his van suggested that was her intent. He wondered if she might be related to the guys who had tried to rob him at his campsite on the swamp.
She removed the nozzle and hung it back on the pump.
Walker moved to his van’s driver’s-side door and opened it for Paladin.
“Dein Platz,” he said. The dog jumped into the van and across to the passenger seat, staying upright and watching through the front windshield.
“Platz? What the fuck language is that?”
“German.”
“Cute.”
“Blijf,” Walker said to Paladin.
“German?”
“That was Dutch.”
“A multilingual dog?”
