Pierce the darkness, p.1
Pierce the Darkness, page 1
part #1 of A Blade Broussard Thriller Series
PIERCE THE DARKNESS
A BLADE BROUSSARD THRILLER
NANNETTE POTTER
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, corporate or government entities, facilities, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright ©2023 by Nannette Potter
Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission.
Graylady Publishing
655 Minnewawa, #274
Clovis, CA 93613
First Edition: May 2023
ISBN 979-8-9873547-0-4 (paperback)
ISBN 979-8-9873547-1-1 (hardcover)
ISBN 979-8-9873547-2-8 (ebook)
Cover design by Cherie Foxley at www.cheriefox.com
Printed in the United States of America
For my parents, Frank and Mamie Dias,
and to the loves of my life,
Mark, Phillip, Monica, Jeff, Alexandra, Kaylee,
Ayden, Noah, and Devyn
God decided in advance to adopt us into his own family by bringing us to himself through Jesus Christ. This is what he wanted to do, and it gave him great pleasure.
EPHESIANS 1:5 NLT
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
November 13, 9:06 p.m.
New Orleans, Louisiana
Genevieve “Blade” Broussard adjusted the push-up bra she wore under the black leather jumpsuit, exposing an almost indecent amount of cleavage. In this part of the French Quarter, a little skin sold tickets, and this gig barely covered her living expenses.
“Damn bikers are here again,” Xavier muttered, peeking around the edge of the shabby red velvet curtains that concealed the stage.
I can’t catch a break.
Six weeks ago, illusionist Nikki Flynn had come flying into The Rising Sun like a genie on a magic carpet, offering Blade the one thing she desired most: validation from a somebody that her impalement act was good enough to be on the world stage. Or at least on the Las Vegas Strip. But her big break as an opening act for the hottest new magic show on the Strip had turned into imminent unemployment.
Trusting Mickey Gillespie, her dirtbag manager, to finalize the Las Vegas deal was foolish. If that wasn’t bad enough, she’d given Madam Toussaint two weeks’ notice without a signed contract in hand. As a final insult, Blade had learned Nikki Flynn had chosen a damn mind reader to be her opening act. Tonight was the last performance she had lined up, and she had no one to blame but herself.
Blade clenched and unclenched her fists in an effort to relax. “We’re on in one minute.”
Xavier stretched one leg and then the other, his skintight leather pants molded to his thighs. Razor-edged abs glistened with posing oil. Her assistant popped his pecs and grinned. “Laissez les bons temps rouler.” Let the good times roll.
She nodded. “Let’s give them a show they won’t forget.”
“Welcome to the Jungle” blared over the sound system as the curtains opened. Blade and Xavier appeared in a perfectly choreographed routine to the standing-room-only crowd. The noise of the audience and music made her head throb, but she kept her practiced smile plastered on her face. She knew the stage lighting she’d chosen transformed her chestnut-colored hair into a lake of molten lava running over her shoulders. Twin bursts of faux fire rose eight feet in the air above them, drawing the eye to the Wheel of Death.
“What you are about to witness,” she said into her wireless headset mic, “can be dangerous and result in death. The impalement arts—”
“Hey Red, impale this,” a biker hollered, clutching his crotch in one hand and a Coors in the other.
Typical. The guy was straight out of central casting in his black skull cap, black wife-beater tank, and black leather vest with patches above each breast pocket. His whole crew wore black. They were a clichéd blight on the sea of people who had paid the cover charge to see this performance.
Ignore him. Just get through tonight and move on.
“This seems innocent enough,” she began again, brandishing her knife, allowing the light to catch the glint of steel. “But all is not what it appears to be. This blade can cut, or stab, or cleave. It can penetrate a beating heart or save one. Tonight, I will use this simple tool to blow—your—mind.”
Lights flickered as thunder rolled overhead, barely audible over the music. The crowd, clearly hammered, surged closer to the stage. Blade was fine with unpredictable crowds—she expected them, and used them to her advantage. That’s what made each performance unique. But this crowd felt different, like one breathing, volatile entity. One slip, one wrong word, and the performance could turn disastrous. Which might not be so bad, she reminded herself, considering this was her last performance at this dive.
She silently groaned as Skull Cap and five of his pack forged their way to the front of the crowd.
“How about you and me taking this outside,” he boomed. “You can show me how well you can blow”—he leered—“my—mind.”
The crowd responded with clapping and catcalls.
She envisioned plunging the knife straight into the moron’s heart. But in truth, her fury was directed at herself, for being blinded by the illusion of Nikki Flynn who was all hype and no substance.
Blade paraded the length of the stage, buying time, holding the knife in her left hand. Audiences were fickle, and these bikers threatened to turn her performance into a free-for-all. She needed to distract the audience, to lure them back to the performance rather than side with the bikers.
Skull Cap bawled out something blessedly unintelligible, but it still earned him laughs.
A trickle of sweat traveled along her spine. She knew how to handle hecklers. Never let them get under your skin. She noted Xavier shaking his head, willing her to ignore the biker.
Nope. Not tonight.
She wheeled on him. “Okay, hot stuff,” she said. “Are you man enough to ride the Wheel of Death?”
“Ride you, sweetheart? Anytime,” the biker slurred.
“How many of you want to see him take the ride of a lifetime?” Blade called to the crowd.
The audience burst into cheers and whistles. One of his pack shoved him, causing him to momentarily lose his balance.
Blade gave the audience a mischievous grin and winked. This is going to be fun.
The lights went out, the music exploded, the twin pillars of fire danced on cue—and Xavier stomped offstage, refusing to participate. He stood among the audience, arms crossed, disapproval etched on his handsome face.
I’m gonna bring this house to its knees. She grasped the biker’s hand and led him to the Wheel of Death. Just a little over six-feet in diameter, the black wheel dominated center stage. Skull Cap peered back over his shoulder, nodding to the audience. He tried to grab her, but Blade deftly side-stepped him and positioned him in front of the device. In a matter of seconds, she’d bound his wrists and ankles to the soft pine wood with leather straps.
The high-octane music throttled into overdrive as Blade primed the audience for the one and only act of the night. “In 1938 the Gibsons thrilled audiences when they introduced the Wheel of Death at Madison Square Garden,” she said into her headset. “The Veiled Wheel of Death has only been performed by four artists to date. But tonight, not only will I perform this feat, but I’ll do it using both hands simultaneously. Are you ready to see history made?”
“Hell yeah!” someone called out.
“Blade! Blade! Blade!” someone began to chant. Instantly the crowd fell into the same rhythm.
“Any last words?” she asked the biker through her mic.
“You’re not the first woman to handcuff me,” he snickered.
Okay, pal. You asked for it.
She secured white silk paper over the target area. Now the biker was completely concealed, although Blade knew precisely where every limb was positioned.
What’s the paper for, sweetheart? Some kinky fetish?” The questions
She leaned in close and whispered in his ear. “It makes it easier for the crowd to see your blood—if I miss.”
Blade walked to the black onyx table that held her equipment. She strapped on the custom-made holster that held two sheaths that belted around each thigh. There were four knives in each sheath. Resembling a futuristic gunslinger in her costume, she stretched out her arms, shaking them slightly to loosen her shoulders, then sashayed to the wheel and, with one hard pull, started the wheel in motion.
By now, the biker would be disoriented, belly up, and bile rising. Not quite the ride he’d anticipated.
The beat of the bass drum pulsated through her body as she removed two knives and gauged their weight, their perfect balance in each hand. In one choreographed move, she flipped the knives into the air, catching each by its blade before rearing back, lunging forward, and letting the knives fly.
Thwack. Thwack.
In less than one second she drew out another two knives. In less than five seconds all eight knives were thrown, and the bright, white paper showed no stain of blood.
The audience erupted in shouts and applause. When she removed the thin veil of paper, the biker had passed out, with his tank front covered in thick, yellow vomit.
CHAPTER TWO
November 14, 7:55 p.m.
London, England
Sir Edward Dunn adjusted his tie in the elevator and basked in his good fortune. He intended to celebrate his divorce from wife number three—finally. Even with a prenuptial agreement, the damn woman still left with millions of his hard-earned money. Tonight he’d get roaring drunk and bed a beautiful woman, and not necessarily in that order. His palatial home in the country paled against the robust distractions of London. A stay at the Park Lane Regent never disappointed. Although the last time his bit of fun at the hotel cost him his marriage.
He would rather be horse-whipped than spend one more evening at the nearby Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. Or take an evening stroll to London’s West End, with its cacophony of theatregoers, as wife number three had insisted upon every damn visit. No, his tastes ran to more private entertainment.
The Regent’s Boulevardier Bar afforded him this luxury. The dim lighting and dramatic black and burnished gold décor served seduction on a silver platter. Music from the adjoining foyer wafted through the open double doors. The atmosphere oozed romance, but with three ex-wives and no children, Sir Edward lived for his own pleasures. Oh, he served his country, too, as chairman of the Maritime Defense Corporation. And while it was true that making lucrative arms deals could be better than sex, he sometimes needed reminding that the activities were not mutually exclusive. He richly deserved a night out.
A waiter escorted him to a seat at one of the intimate golden coves that lined the interior. After ordering a Bowmore whisky older than whatever woman he would bed tonight, he scanned the room. Dozens of patrons sat around dark wooden tables. All the barstools were occupied. Three attractive women appeared to be alone or waiting for someone. In orbit around them he counted seven overeager men shifting about like hyenas circling prey.
Sir Edward dealt with reality, facts, numbers. And he never lied to himself. Women did not find him attractive. Never had. At sixty-one, he shaved his head rather than deal with the tufts of hair that remained around his ears. His lack of exercise showed in both physique and waxen pallor. But his wealth more than compensated for his lack of appeal.
His competitors learned by hard experience not to underestimate him. Just last week he had crushed a hostile takeover attempt by his leadership and adept maneuvering. He refused to be put out to pasture like an old gelding or to allow a simpering foreigner to steal his company.
One of the circling men, perhaps in his thirties, made his move on the stunning blonde at the end of the bar. Amused, Sir Edward grinned as the man’s charming demeanor turned to dismay, stepping back as if the woman were going to literally bite him.
Time to show these pups how a real man made a conquest.
The blonde took a sip of her martini. Her mane of long hair beckoned to be mussed and fondled. He fantasized about running his hands through the silky mass. She wore a scarlet sleeveless dress, a perfect shade for her pale complexion, with a plunging neckline that accentuated her firm breasts. Based on his experience, a woman dressed provocatively, sitting at a bar alone, signaled a green light to a bit of fun. She could be here on a first date. Or perhaps her tastes ran to someone more mature—someone with more to offer.
He motioned for a waiter and ordered another drink for himself and one for the blonde. Five minutes later her gaze lingered on him as she raised her fresh martini in a toast. After taking a few sips, she stood, straightening her dress. She needn’t have bothered. The short dress hugged the curve of her body, and she damn well knew it. The sway of her hips mesmerized Sir Edward as she covered the twenty-five feet between them.
“Why, aren’t you the gentleman,” the blonde said in a lilting Southern drawl. She slid next to him on the settee, crossing one long leg over the other.
“She’s making her move.”
Vivienne Martel spoke softly into a wireless security microphone from one of the far tables with a direct sightline to Sir Edward. For the most part, surveillance bored her, except for the rare occasions when she assumed a role and played dress-up. Today she’d created a role to blend into the atmosphere of elegance and sophistication.
She had begun trailing Sir Edward in the morning, dressed as a middle-aged London executive, with a smart pantsuit and expensive handbag. For this leg of surveillance, she’d transformed into a British grande dame of a certain age, wearing a frumpy, floral dress and a gray wig that reminded her of Queen Elizabeth II’s coiffure. But she needn’t have bothered. He was oblivious to anyone not wearing a short skirt. She could almost feel sorry for the blonde.
After several rounds of drinks, Sir Edward and the blonde stood to make their exit. She hugged his proffered arm to her breast and leaned into him, careful to keep the small, pearl-encrusted evening bag in her left hand.
“They’re on the move.”
Vivienne left fifty pounds on the table and followed the pair. The handle on her cane bore a carved wooden lion, and inside its shaft hid a rapier-pointed blade. A Walther PPQ semi-automatic pistol lay snug in her handbag.
“Moving to the lift.”
People milled about the lobby, making it difficult to stay in the guise of an infirm elderly woman. At this pace, she would never reach the lift in time. As a young man carrying an ice bucket hustled past her, Vivienne called, “Young man,” in a loud, tremulous voice. “Please be a dear and hold the door to the lift.”
Anxious to please, the young man smiled, ran to the lift and, juggling the ice bucket, held the door open. Sir Edward and the blonde, alone in the lift, glared at the old woman, clearly annoyed at the interruption.
Unperturbed, Vivienne entered and turned her back on the couple. An hour earlier, she had poured Annick Goutal Gardenia Passion eau de parfum on her dress. The aroma of gardenias filled the enclosure. An overpowering aroma of perfume to dull other senses.
The lift slowly climbed. Sir Edward, ever the optimist, had reserved a suite at eleven thousand pounds a night. A pittance for a man with his annual income.
