Handwritten letter from Special Agent H. Justin Pierce, c/o New England Opera Lovers' Society; Wednesday 17 December, close to Midnight, somewhere north of Lake Verret, Assumption Parish, Louisiana

Dear DG,

I will try to have this sent by snail mail, so there are two possibilities. Either I live, and you can count on my having sent better info through civilised means, or I am dead, and these will be the last words of H. Justin Pierce. If this letter reaches you, send a thank you to a Ranger Pigeon. Because she's the one I will have asked to post this.

Right now, we are in a ranger cabin, somewhere in these godforsaken Louisiana Bayous. Place has been ransacked, but there was some paper, and there were some pencils. This is probably not the calm, detached style you have all come to expect from me, but right now my veins are popping with adrenaline, so bear with me. The rush of battle is potent and often lethal, for war is a drug. Tell me about it.

First things first. If I am dead, by all means, send a hit squad to Iberia County, and burn an old plantation, just east of the swamps, to the ground. With everything and everyone in it. No survivors, no prisoners, none of the pinko-liberal chickenshit. Do not settle for less than total extermination. We had done the voodoo ritual, and the loas had spoken to us. Then somebody wasted Mama Marie, and we were set upon from all sides by inbred redneck hicks in boats. I gave them some lip, they gave me a bloody lip, and I ordered a surrender. Nothing doing – we were surrounded, we were outgunned, we were sitting ducks. DAMN how could I have been such an ass.

They drove us through the bayous to some plantation in Iberia County. I thought it was a posse – Angell, the Assumption County Sherrif was leading them. Make sure you get that one. They took Devereaux and Summers away, and locked us in cells in a converted stable. For the next three days, we were beaten, shocked, tortured, locked in pits of water, pissed and shat on. They gave us all “personal attention.” 

Wilmot was a catatonic wreck. Guy's a marine. He's tough as coffin nails. He would not talk about what happened. Still has not. Chief was beaten up, but his magical patch thingywhatsit that the loas left him helped him recover. Frost... he was unscathed. But he would not talk either. I tried to keep morale above absolute zero, but it was hard going... And me? Well... remember Heath Ledger in “the Dark Knight”? You wanna know how I got these scars? They thought I should smile more.

This afternoon, they brought us out, and put us on a boat. We are the prey, and these Dixie hick degenerates like to hunt. Six boats. I got the names for you, except for eight that you really do not have to worry about anymore. Dupont – that son-of-bitch, prancing around in a Confederate uniform. With everything that happened, however... he might actually have been around. And Devlin... Devlin. He was not there, too much of a chickenshit for that, but I would cut his balls off and deport him naked to the 'Stan to have the raghead goatlovers anally rape him, if only I was not sure he'd probably enjoy it. So if I don't make it back, kill him for me, will you?

They dropped us off in the swamp, one by one. Sheriff Bryce shot me. I suppose I cannot really blame him, since I mentioned something along the lines that he looked like the kind of guy who'd screw his own sister and become his own brother-in-law. We still had out gifts from the loas, though, and Chief's came in handy. The wound hurt like hell, but Chief's gift got it done. Healed me completely, all hurts gone. But the scars remain. They were going to come after us after Sundown, but old Dupont is a sport. If we could make it to Whitetown, we'd be off the hook. Of course, if a scumsucking bottomfeeder like Dupont makes an offer like that, chances are he thinks our chances of getting there are slim.

So we set off, in the direction we thought we'd have to go. Except that it was blocked by a huge expanse of water. So we headed north. And we reached a dead end. As good a place as any to make a stand. We created dugouts, while I sat back to raise the Shield of Isis. I'd cast it a couple of times, but never for real. Because now our lives depend on me being able to take a hit, to allow the others to overwhelm a shooter and get his gun. Did I mention we were desperate?

And then the fox came along. Little red fox, female. Cute piece of tail. It beckoned me. It did. What did I know? Maybe the loas were finally rearing their ghostly heads... The others followed. I heard Frost mutter that it was Devereaux. Of course, Devereaux is a fox, no two ways about it, but not literally. But you know what? If you're in the middle of the Louisiana bayous, wearing cut-off rough jean shorts and when your best plan is to charge a guy with a gun, in the hope that some ancient Egyptian hokus-pokus will save you, why not? She led us past our starting point, and onto another island. And then she vanished. Did I mention that it has started raining? By the bucket? Fucking brilliant. Well, at least it reduces visibility for the hunters. Short range is good for us.

(To be continued...)