Page 161 of The Fourth Option
He nodded once at the cluster of employees he passed—research scientists, marketing staff, the VP of sales—acknowledging them without slowing. His expression was calibrated: confident, detached, just enough warmth to suggest leadership, not enough to invite conversation. He wasn’t the CEO, but he moved like one.
Genyra Pharmaceuticals was surging. The messaging was back on track, thanks to Carolyn Boyle’s human-interest piece inThe Timeson life expectancy gains in Genyra’s Tulane wing. Matheson was pleased enough to stop micromanaging for a few days. The stock was up. The board was quiet. Kimbel had delivered.
He had kept the logistics humming, the DEA distracted, and the cartel’s product flowing through Dorado and Nectar like clockwork. The NOPD was taking hits, but Icy was managing the optics. That five mil was paying off.
And what of the killings? The attention was bad for business. Too many unknowns; second- and third-order effects that were impossible to predict. And the dead cops? That was regrettable, but in the end they were disposable. Much like busboys in a Michelin-starred restaurant, they were necessary but forgettable. Bates would replace them.
He walked through the revolving door at the main building on the Genyra campus in Metairie, the building’s glass façade reflecting the late-afternoon sun. The executive section of the parking lot was nearly empty. Kimbel slid into the driver’s seat of his Mercedes AMG GT Coupe and tapped the infotainment screen to get Spotify blasting. The smooth jazz of Chuck Mangione seemed appropriate this evening.
The drive was familiar. Eastbound on I-10, then north toward the exclusive acreage outside New Orleans. Horse country. Old money. The kind of place where neighbors kept to themselves. His home sat on twelve acres, tucked behind an iron gate and a line of cypress trees, ringed with security cameras and guarded by a neighborhood patrol force that carried serious firepower.
He passed the exit for Kenner, and eventually Lake Pontchartrain shimmered to his left. The Mercedes glided over the asphalt, the suspension absorbing every bump. He turned up the volume and let David Sanborn’s sax, mellow and smooth, fill the cabin.
His exit came up fast. He signaled out of habit and veered off the freeway onto a two-lane country road. The trees thickened. The houses grew farther apart. He passed a white-fenced pasture where a pair of chestnut horses grazed lazily.
He liked the quiet of this world.
He glanced in the rearview mirror and noticed an old-model station wagon with large tires behind him. It looked like a giant had stepped on an old Wagoneer. Vintage American. Maybe the beefed-up station wagon was a rare classic.
He turned onto a narrower road that dipped toward a culvert where the drainage ditch ran beneath the asphalt. The unfamiliar vehicle followed. He hadn’t seen it before. Probably belonged to a spoiled kid whose parents owned property out here.
The road narrowed over the culvert into a single lane.
But suddenly, there was no culvert. There was no road. There was only smoke, flying grit, and asphalt slamming into his windshield. Fumes filled the cabin and he felt his body surge against his seat belt as the airbags deployed with a brutal hiss, exploding into Kimbel’s chest and face.
A bout of nausea overwhelmed him and he vomited down the front of his suit and deflating airbag, confused by the realization that his Mercedeswas half-submerged in a smoking crater. Reality had yet to seep in. David Sanborn was still playing his sax.
Before Kimbel could realize that his vehicle had been hit by an IED, a man was at the window pulling him out. Kimbel’s wrists were zip-tied, then his ankles. Moments later, he was thrown into the sturdy station wagon. He was vaguely aware that someone had pressed what felt like an adhesive bandage to his neck.
The AMC Eagle’s tires crunched over gravel and pine needles as Walker turned off the county road and onto a narrow dirt track that wound through the woods. The sun was low, bleeding orange through the canopy, casting long shadows across the windshield. Behind him, Walt Kimbel slumped in the rear seat. Walker wondered if the fentanyl patch would kill him.
The former SEAL drove deeper into the trees, past a rusted gate and a collapsed hunting blind, until the road ended in a clearing surrounded by cypress and oak. He killed the engine and stepped out. The air smelled of moss and spring rain.
He opened the rear passenger door and yanked Kimbel onto the dirt.
Kimbel blinked at him, face pale, lips cracked. “You’re making a mistake,” he croaked.
Walker dragged him to his feet and zip-tied his hands to the rack on top of the Eagle.
“Who the hell are you?” Kimbel asked, his speech slurred from the patch.
“I think you know,” Walker said.
Kimbel nodded slowly. “You’re the one they said was dead.”
“And you’re the chief commercial officer for Genyra Pharmaceuticals. You oversee all business operations, including logistics, including certain pallets that arrive at your facility through Dorado, coming in with sugar and Snowball. The cops get a cut to not just look the other way but to help transport and distribute. How am I doing so far?”
“I’m a businessman,” Kimbel said. “I don’t move anything. I manage distribution.”
Walker’s voice was low. “You move poison.”
Kimbel looked away. “You don’t understand how this works.”
Walker paced, scanning the woods. He turned back. “Then tell mehow it works and you might just survive the day. I want names, places, process, all of it. You may even be able to work a plea deal or turn state’s evidence and avoid prison time, if you have something of value to trade.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Let’s talk about Nectar,” Walker said. “The sugar company.”
