Chapter 158: He Might Be Dead

"Goodbye, Joe, we gotta go, me oh my oh."

"He's paddlin' down the bayou in a pirogue."

"His Yvonne, the sweetest one, me oh my oh!"

"Son of a gun, we'll have big fun on the bayou!"

As they drove, Hannah tuned the car radio to a local station, and a classic song by The Carpenters, "Jambalaya," started playing. The cheerful melody and catchy lyrics made Jack hum along, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

This song, also known as "Jambalaya," had a Chinese version called "Little Sweetheart," once sung by a certain unmentionable actress.

Louisiana, also known as the Pelican State, was once a colony of a European country famous for tanning their armpits. In 1803, a short but great man sold it to the USA for four cents an acre, making it a state.

Nowadays, just like the capital of that European country, Baton Rouge, and New Orleans, famous for its chicken wings, had become a hub for certain special groups.

Especially New Orleans. Since the famous hurricane in 2005, this city has become one of the most crime-ridden cities in the USA, with the white population dropping to less than 30%.

Jack could understand why, after Hurricane Katrina, 40,000 National Guard troops entered the city with guns to maintain order rather than for disaster relief.

In a place where people aren't busy with self-rescue but rather looting in large groups after a disaster, New Orleans stands out even among several such places in the USA.

After enjoying a ballet performance in Houston the previous day, Jack and Hannah chose Lafayette, a city as famous as a certain Parisian department store, as their destination today.

The security there was relatively better. At least, the would-be robbers retreated upon seeing Jack's formidable FK7.5.

Ultimately, Jack and Hannah opted for a suburban resort hotel, avoiding staying in the city. After all, with the highest number of French descendants in the state, Cajun cuisine here was not to be missed.

Spicy wild duck, wild rabbit, seafood soup, and the long-lost taste of rice made Jack feel a bit of home.

"I think if you wanted, just selling this crawfish recipe could redeem my family's ranch."

In the evening, on a long riverbank, gazing at the Mississippi River Delta's beauty, Hannah sucked the sauce from her fingers and sighed with satisfaction.

In Louisiana, the native home of crawfish, people here had immense patience and enthusiasm for these little creatures with not much meat, influencing neighboring southern states. Even Texas, where Anna was born, held similar beer and crawfish festivals annually.

After tasting the Cajun cuisine, Jack, still unsatisfied, bought six pounds of fresh crawfish from a nearby paddy field, borrowed the hotel kitchen for a small fee, and cooked a large pot of spicy crawfish. With the local specialty beer, "Machine Ghost," they leisurely spent the evening.

Jack, unusually full, sprawled on a deck chair, feeling the cool night breeze, and let out a long burp, making Hannah laugh uncontrollably.

Unfortunately, an urgent phone call interrupted this beautiful moment. Jack picked up the phone, which was from the Wolf brothers, who had arrived earlier in Margrave.

"Jack, I think we have a problem. When can you get to Georgia?" Braxton's voice came through the phone.

Jack's heart tightened. He straightened up from the deck chair, and Hannah, noticing his serious expression, quickly wiped her hands and sat beside him, listening closely.

"We plan to reach Atlanta by tomorrow afternoon and should get to Margrave by evening. What's the issue?"

"Chris and I have been in this boring town for days and spotted a suspicious character. We suspect he's a federal agent. We followed him and found others tailing him too."

Braxton sounded frustrated. This former mercenary clearly wasn't used to the quiet life of a small town.

"Who was following him? You didn't alert them, did you?"

Jack trusted the Wolf brothers. Braxton was impulsive, but Chris was steady enough. Jack recalled Hannah mentioning the LA port explosion and grew worried.

"No, it's a group of South American mercenaries. I saw their tattoos; they must be ex-special forces. We're in trouble here, with only a rusty revolver we took from a punk. Can you get the gear here quickly?"

No wonder this former mercenary was so agitated without proper weapons.

"Everything you need is ready. Don't worry."

Jack reassured Braxton and continued questioning.

"Can you describe this suspected federal agent?"

The phone was handed to Chris, whose voice was much calmer.

"Big guy, about 6'2", around 200 pounds, under 40, well-mannered. He arrived about a week before us. We followed him around town and suspect his target is the Kleiner Foundation, just like ours."

Jack's heart raced. Could it really be? From Chris's description, this federal agent seemed to be Joe Reacher, Jack Reacher's brother, who got killed early on in the story.

"Hannah and I will head out tonight. Keep an eye on him and, if possible, provide some protection. He might have clues about the Kleiner Foundation."

"No problem. We'll wait for you."

Chris hung up decisively.

Six hours later, as the Firebird sped across the Alabama-Georgia border, Jack felt Hannah gently grasp his hand on the gearshift.

Knowing her thoughts, Jack comforted her softly, "Don't worry, leave everything to me. We'll uncover the truth."

"Thank you, Jack. You've done so much for me..."

Hannah's words were cut off by another urgent ring. Answering it, Braxton's anxious voice came through.

"Jack, we're in big trouble. Chris got shot, and the federal agent, he might be dead."

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