A city has been saved, but there's no rest for its savior as crime author Jonathon Marcel thrusts his risk-taking PI, DeShawn Mills, right back into the mix in this third installment of the novella series.

Someone is systematically killing members of a prominent family, but the youngest child and last remaining heir to the Delacroix fortune may still be alive. If so, it's anyone's guess where he might be. Lawyers for a mysterious woman have come forward claiming their client is the baseborn child of Jack Delacroix, and she wants the estate all to herself. The probate judge has ordered both would-be heirs to appear in court or forfeit their claims.

As the clock ticks down to the hearing, lawyers for the Delacroix corporation hire DeShawn Mills to locate the youngest son and bring him back in time to take his place at the head of the table. But it seems no one, not even the attorneys, want DeShawn to succeed for fear of disrupting the status quo. Someone is selling DeShawn out, and with every move he makes DeShawn finds himself being dogged by assassins.

THE CHILDREN
Chapter 1

Mexico, May 5, 1988

THE MIDDAY SUN was quickly heating up the crowded streets of Nuevo Laredo on Cinco de Mayo, making Gustavo’s Helado Salón, the local ice-cream parlor, the favorite pit stop for kids tugging on their mother’s hands.

Festivalgoers strolled along storefronts of mom-and-pop bakeries and thrift stores, enjoying the shade under the awnings that loomed over the entryways and alluring window displays. A pit bull leashed to a tree barked at the mariachi band parading down the street in full native costume, blasting their horns as toddlers covered their ears. Behind the band, a string of floats ferried beautiful young Latinas garbed in traditional folk dress, who were tossing candy and beaded necklaces while waving to the crowd. The smell of grilled meat and peppers wafted in the wind from nearby vendors.

Ten-year-old Josefina Delacroix bounced on her toes, shaking maracas in the doorway of El Paseo Barra y Restaurant—her grandfather’s place.

“Can we watch the dancers and stay for the fireworks?” she asked, looking up at her grandfather.

Standing proud in a white guayabera, pulling on a cigar, Enrique Montoya messed his granddaughter’s jet-black hair. “Si, my little raven, but let’s wait for your mother and grandmother.”

Josefina, anxious to join the festivities, skipped across the sidewalk then pushed her way through the crowd to the curb just in time to see a group of actors marching in historic Mexican army uniforms with muskets on their shoulders and sabers dangling from their waists. Trailing behind them, another actor dressed in a tuxedo and top hat with his face painted like a skull led a man in chains, who donned the drab uniform of the French emperor Maximilian.

Blending in with the locals across the street, a well-tanned gringo in his late thirties concealed himself under a ball cap and behind mirrored sunglasses. He stared intently at the young girl shaking maracas, and then glanced to the stout man drawing on a cigar in the doorway of a restaurant. The gringo checked his watch then scanned the streets.

Twenty-seven-year-old Maria Montoya, a voluptuous woman with no husband, emerged from the restaurant wearing a waitress’ apron, appearing at her father’s side, eyeing the sidewalk for her daughter.

“Where is Josefina?” Maria asked her father.

Enrique pointed with his cigar out toward the curb.

“Josefina!” Maria called out.

Running back to the restaurant, Josefina dropped one of her maracas. She stopped and went back, then bent down to reach for it.

The gringo tucked his chin and scurried out behind the crowd just moments before a blinding flash and thundering boom!

An explosion destroyed the restaurant and apartment above, hurling Josefina and many others into the street. Shards of glass and mortar shredded their bodies. Panic sent the crowd stampeding over the child as she lay face down in the street.

Disoriented from the shockwave, Josefina could hear dull screams under the high-pitched ringing in her ears. An overpowering aroma of fireworks filled her nostrils. Her blurry eyes opened to a skull-painted face staring back at her with lifeless eyes.

Josefina staggered to her feet with blood trickling out of her nose and ears—her face, hands, and knees scraped raw. She wavered on wobbly legs as she gawked at her grandfather’s restaurant. The place was gone, so was her family.

Her wide-eyed gaze shifted up and down the sidewalk, searching for her mother.

Chapter 2

Iowa, 1990

COLD STRAWBERRY SODA—the perfect drink to quench a twelve year old’s thirst under the ninety-degree sun. Perfect also to wash down a chilidog.

Joseph Delacroix strutted tall between his father, Jack, and big brother, Jacob, as they made their way out of the auction tent and through the carnival grounds, one hand wrapped around his pop bottle, the other with a thumb wedged into the front pocket of his Levis.

“Aren’t we waiting for Mom and Jackie?” he asked.

His dad tugged the bill of his green Delacroix Industries ball cap. “I told your sister we’d pick them up when we circle back so she can enjoy the rides a bit longer with friends.”

Joseph loved county fairs. If he had his way, he’d live on the fairgrounds during the summer months. Hypnotized by all the bells and whistles and blinking lights, he couldn’t tell where the stench of livestock manure ended and the mouthwatering smell of salty popcorn and steaming hotdogs began, nor distinguish between the squealing of pigs in the 4H tent and the screams of girls being whirled around on roller coasters. But there was never any mistaking Alabama playing over the loud speakers.

County fairs were Heaven.

The Delacroix men wound their way between canvas tents and food trailers toward the giant grass parking lot. Joseph took the last gulp of his soda then belched.

“That’s your third soda this afternoon,” his father teased.

“And I’m ready for another.”

“Let’s get the hogs we just bought loaded into the trailer, then we can talk about another soda.”

Farmers in ball caps and work boots, that’s who you typically spot throughout rural Iowa. Not so much full-fledged cowboys as you do in Texas or Oklahoma, who don cowboy hats, silver belt buckles, and boot-cut jeans pulled over snake-skinned boots. Mexican rancheros? Never.

Today, two rancheros prowled parallel to the Delacroix men some fifty yards away. The big-bellied ranchero peered out from beneath the wide brim of his cowboy hat as he stroked his salt-and-pepper mustache.

Sixteen-year-old Jacob pulled alongside his father. “You promised I could drive the truck back to the auction tent, and let me try backing up the trailer.”

Jack tossed his eldest the keys. “You can try backing up as long as there are not a lot of people waiting to load.”

Joseph dropped his soda bottle and kicked it across the grassy field.

His dad snapped. “Son, go back and pick that up. What if someone drives over it and blows out a tire? Are you going to buy them a new one?”

“Sorry.” Joseph went back sulking while his dad waited.

Jacob climbed behind the wheel of their Chevy Suburban, inserted the key, then turned over the ignition.

Boom!

The explosion jettisoned the Suburban twenty-feet skyward in a massive ball of fire, and catapulted the trailer end over end across the field, ripping it in half before it landed atop other vehicles.

An invisible force slammed into Jack Delacroix’s back, propelling him over parked cars and smashing him against another a split second before the mangled grill of a truck sandwiched him with his leg twisted backwards below the knee.

The bomb’s concussion pounded Joseph at the very moment he bent over to pick up the pop bottle, knocking him into the earth and dredging him through the field beneath flying debris. Grass and soil were ground into his skin and pasted to his bloody face. He had been several yards from where the Suburban was parked, yet was still nearly cleaved by soaring sheet metal.

He stared out from under the wreckage he lay buried. The dull thud of his heart pulsated in his ears over the inaudible echoes of people screaming. His eyes tracked a mob of people racing toward the charred Suburban burning in the distance. Joseph’ eyes felt so heavy, he hadn’t the strength to resist their weight and let them close.

Chapter 3

Kansas City, 2014

“YOU’RE LATE AGAIN,” Jacqueline Delacroix-Anders said teasingly to her husband after he pulled up to the curb and stepped out of the car. “You know Daddy hates waiting more than me.”

“Would you believe the car wouldn’t start? Brand new. I think something is wrong with the starter or spark plug, I dunno.”

Almost forty, high maintenance, and spoiled, Jacqueline spun around in her black leather skirt and red stilettos outside the Crown Center. “Kids, tell your grandfather goodbye, and thank him for today.”

A whoosh of air from a passing city bus rolled over the Delacroix family and the pedestrians shuffling along the sidewalk, followed by the stale smell of exhaust and motor oil. Across the street next to the pavilion, an array of water sprays shot high into the air on timed intervals from evenly spaced spouts hidden beneath a broad-based fountain.

High above, behind the glass windows of the skywalk that connected the Crown Center to the Hyatt Regency on the next block, a portly-built man in a sports coat and jeans, with grizzled hair adorning his empty race, spied the Delacroix family through his cold gray eyes as he stroked his mustache.

Jacqueline kissed her father’s cheek. “Are you sure you won’t change your mind and come with? Your grandchildren were looking forward to having you with them for the entire day.”

Jack Delacroix balanced on a thick wooden cane. “It’s a last-minute meeting,” he said with a scratchy voice. Old scars and burn marks plagued the patriarch’s neck and face. “I told Nathan I would meet with him to discuss the details for our Arizona project, but I will catch up with everyone this evening.”

“You can at least let us drop you off.”

“Nathan has sent a car or I would.”

“He should drive you himself, not send someone.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Jacqueline petted her father’s face. “You know I worry about you.”

Jack held his daughter’s hand. “I’ll be fine. I’ll see everyone in time for dinner.”

With his daughter’s family packed into the car, Jack shut the passenger door, waved to his grandkids, then checked his watch. He hadn’t limped ten steps toward the Westin Crown Center Hotel to meet his driver when he suddenly froze.

The sound of his daughter’s car engine missing as he son-in-law tried to start it sent an eerie chill up his spine. He whipped around, reaching out with his palm raised.

“No! Don’t! Stop—”