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him; he made few mistakes and even when he did, nobody dared to question his leadership.
    The whole city stretched before Augustine, the teeming bustle that never slept. He brushed his hands through the silver mane that covered his head, pleased but still not content. Except for Rick Carson’s decision to run, the day had unfolded almost exactly as he had desired. Fact was, almost everything he’d planned over the past ten years had pretty much fallen into place. Almost time to attempt the grand finale.
    “Golden Boy, as you so quaintly refer to him, is important,” Augustine said to Charbeau. “He could cause problems if we’re not cautious. His flight complicates matters. Why did you not foresee that possibility, make arrangements for it?”
    “You got a beef with me? I said I’d locate him.”
    “Watch your tongue, Nolan.”
    Silence fell for a moment, but then Nolan spoke again, more cautious this time. “I meant no disrespect, sir. But have I ever failed you?”
    “It’s true you haven’t. But as they say, there is a first time for everything.”
    “I’m one of them positive thinkers, don’t see that as a possibility. I got some ideas where to find our fugitive.”
    Augustine moved to his desk, pulled a prescription bottle from the top drawer, and washed down the medication with a bottle of water he took from a refrigerator in the corner of the room. His left arm hurt and his chest ached. His thirteen-month bout with cancer made him feel insecure, aware of his impending mortality. The looming grave had caused him to accelerate certain actions, to become more aggressive in his lifelong quest. He faced the other men in the room and smiled at them, everything positive and upbeat in spite of his pain.
    “The media circus I’ve watched all day serves as testament to your capabilities,” Augustine said, speaking more positively to Charbeau as he faced each ally in turn. “Enough bad news to keep cable channels busy for a decade.”
    “I do aim to please.”
    “All in the precious name of Jesus,” Augustine said caustically. “Each act carried out with the banner of the so-called Christ flying high over it.”
    “Makes churchfolk look like buffoons.”
    “Precisely why we paid the perpetrators to say what they said.”
    The allies before him smiled too.
    “You got some smarts, I have to give you that,” Charbeau said. “Pay millions to a bunch of losers to go berserk on the same day; lay those acts at the feet of sweet Jesus. Should create a pretty good backlash against Bible thumpers.”
    Augustine chuckled, picked up his cigar and sat before the monitors again, his spirits lifted by the day’s outcomes. Charbeau, a forty-two-year-old self-educated son of bayou country with bad grammar and poor social skills, knew his business. Always on the lookout for specialized talent, Augustine had run across him after he’d broken into a home Augustine owned in New Orleans. It had taken ten of Augustine’s top men to track Charbeau down; six of them to subdue him once they did. Instead of having him thrown into jail however, Augustine had questioned him, discovered his unique skills. A former Ranger, Charbeau knew weapons, explosives, surveillance techniques. Plus, he had no qualms about theft, no conscience about murder. A two-time divorcee with no children and no ties to anything except Louisiana State football—whose games he never missed—Charbeau made the perfect employee for a particular type of job that Augustine occasionally needed done. Since he’d grown up poor and lonely, two things motivated Charbeau—vast sums of money and a sense of belonging to something bigger than himself, and working for Augustine provided both.
    “Your performance deserves much praise, Nolan,” Augustine said, back in the moment. “We have accomplished much together.”
    “It tickles me to hear you say that.”
    “We will not finish this task in my lifetime.”
    “But we’ll be closer to the end than the