London Carter Boxed Set: Books 1 - 3

by BJ Bourg

  As for Kenneth, although he passed under a shroud of controversy and his moral character had been called into serious question, he was posthumously cleared of any wrongdoing and later buried with full honors. Alvin had been too disturbed over what happened with Gina—our former sniper coordinator—that he turned in his sniper rifle and his badge. Last I heard, he was swinging a hammer for some construction company up north.

  When we were all standing beside each other on the firing line, rifles grounded at our feet, I said, “Dean, you’re going first.”

  Dean snatched up his sniper rifle and crouched low, ready to spring into action. “What am I doing?”

  “On the command to fire, you’re going to sprint to the hundred yard line, fire one round into each of the three targets from a kneeling position, run back here and fire three rounds into the same targets from the prone.” I paused until he nodded, and then gave him the command.

  Dean had lost a lot of weight over the past year and he was more nimble than before. Like a man possessed, he raced to the firing line and dropped to his knee. In one swift motion, he fell into a solid firing position and pulled the rifle to his cheek. As soon as he got his eye on the target, he froze for a split second. He then lifted his head to stare downrange, then turned to glance over his shoulder at me.

  “What are you doing?” I hollered. “Turn around and shoot the damn target!”

  Dean jerked his head back around and immediately fired off three rounds in rapid succession. He sprang to his feet and sprinted back to where we stood. As soon as he reached us, he dropped to a prone position and fired off three more shots, working the bolt like a piston. When he was done, he rolled onto his back and glared up at me.

  “Not a word,” I said. “Ray, you’re next.”

  Once Ray was fifty yards down range and approaching the hundred yard line at breakneck speed, Dean turned back to me. “What the hell are we doing this for?”

  “We have to prepare mentally to take out every threat,” I explained. “I failed myself in the past, but I won’t fail y’all.”

  Dean’s jaw clamped shut and he nodded his understanding.

  Once Ray had returned and fired his last three rounds, he rose slowly to his feet. “That’s messed up.”

  I started to explain my position to him, but my cell phone interrupted me and I grunted. I’d always preferred ignoring my phone during sniper training, but considering the sniper team was constantly on call, I had to at least check it.

  I pulled out my phone and saw that it was a text message. The number looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it. The message was brief: Please call me as soon as possible. It’s an emergency.

  “As soon as possible,” I said aloud. “I’m in the middle of sniper training, so I guess it’s not possible that I call back now.”

  “Who is it?” Jerry asked. “Sally?”

  Dean winced. “Too soon, Jerry…too soon.”

  I laughed and showed them the message. “Any of y’all recognize the number?”

  They shook their heads.

  I knew it couldn’t be sniper-related, because all of those calls were routed through our newly-elected sheriff and former detective commander, Corey Chiasson, so it had to be about a case. I considered ignoring the call and continuing with training, but the message did mention in being an emergency. Hoping it was worth the interruption, I reluctantly hit the button to return the call. I heard it pick up on the second ring.

  “Hey, London, it’s Dawn Luke. Do you have a minute?” Her voice was soft—even softer than I remembered—but I wasn’t fooled. I’d only met Dawn a few times, but I knew she was a no-nonsense detective who could handle her own in any situation. She worked the southern part of Magnolia Parish, which was a world all its own. Her former partner, Brandon Berger, had been promoted to commander of the police academy after nearly losing his daughter to the job. Since Brandon’s transfer out of detectives, she had elected to work alone and refused to take on a new partner. She solved more cases than any other detective on the force—myself included—so the sheriff was happy to grant her every wish.

  In addition to being a good detective and a tough-as-nails cop, she was one of the most beautiful women to ever wear a badge, and I found myself not minding the interruption at all.

  “Yes, of course I’ve got a minute,” I said, walking away from the other snipers and cupping the phone with my hand to block out the soft breeze. “What can I do for you?”

  “An alligator poacher was shot and killed early this morning. Normally, that wouldn’t seem like a big deal—or even an emergency—but the manner in which he was killed causes some concern.”

  “How’s that?”

  I could hear her take a deep breath. “It looks like he was sniped.”

  I was instantly alert. Not again! “Sniped?” I asked. “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure. I mean, the lower half of his jaw was nearly blown off, so I’m guessing it had to be a high-powered rifle.”

  “Could it have been an errant round from a hunter?”

  “The shot seemed too precise to be an accident, and the witnesses say the shot came from a few hundred yards away.”

  “How do they know that?”

  “They said they heard the bullet hit their brother a split second before they heard the gunshot.”

  Although Dawn couldn’t see me, I nodded. “That is indicative of a distant shot. Still, are you sure it wasn’t a hunting accident?”

  “The forest is thick out here, so it would be pretty difficult for a stray bullet to find its way over that distance without hitting a tree. I think the victim might’ve been targeted.”

  I mulled it over, not liking it one bit. The last thing we needed was another rogue sniper going around killing people. “What about the witnesses?”

  “What about them?”

  “What if one of them shot him from close range? Either accidently or intentionally?”

  “Not these guys. They’re all brothers and they’re a close-knit family. They’d die for each other and even commit murder for one another, but they’d never turn on their own. Nope, something reached out of the swamps and took their brother’s life, and it scared the shit out of them.”

  I knew enough about Dawn to trust her instincts, and I wasn’t at all disappointed about having to work with her. “I’m at the range so it’ll take me a while, but I’m on my way.”

  Jerry threw his hands up when I walked back to where they stood listening. “Where in the hell are you going? I thought you were going to shoot me and I was going to shoot you?”

  “I’ll have to shoot you later, Jerry.” I grabbed my rifle from the ground and secured it in my drag bag. “Make sure all of y’all take turns shooting each other’s mug until y’all are comfortable with it—and that includes mine.”

  Ray was pale. “Damn, London, this is some hardcore shit.”

  “Sniping ain’t easy, Ray, and it definitely ain’t for the weak or the cowardly.” I slapped his shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “That’s why I’ve got you behind that rifle—because you’re hardcore.” I looked over at Dean and Jerry. “All of y’all are hardcore—the best of the best. Don’t ever forget it.”

  “But where are you going?” Jerry asked.

  “Dawn Luke needs a hand on a case down south. Looks like someone was—”

  “Wait a minute,” Dean said, interrupting me. “The Dawn Luke?”

  I nodded and they all whistled.

  “Calm down,” I said. “It’s all business.”

  “Yeah, she wouldn’t want your ugly ass”—Dean puffed out his chest as he spoke—“when she can have this.”

  “You’re married,” Ray pointed out.

  Dean shook his head. “I already told my wife I was divorcing her as soon as Junior leaves for the military. Once that happens, I’ll ride in like a white knight and sweep Dawn off—”

  “What the hell ever.” Jerry snorted. “Let’s get back to work before someone overhears you and gets a
commitment order for your crazy ass.”

  CHAPTER 4

  When Dawn told me to meet at the Seasville Boat Launch, she failed to mention I’d have to take a thirty minute boat ride to reach the murder scene. She also failed to mention the dozen or so protestors lined up along the pier holding up large cardboard signs. They were chanting at a group of alligator hunters who were unloading their day’s catch. A couple of news vans were parked on the shoulder of the highway and the cameramen were filming the action taking place near the water.

  I couldn’t hear what was being said from my parking spot, so I slung my drag bag over one shoulder and my rucksack over the other, then made my way to the pier. Several of the protestors noticed me and one of them pointed, whispering something to her male counterpart. I nodded and asked what was going on. A middle-aged man with shoulder-length red hair and deep wrinkles stepped forward. He wore faded jeans and a blue hoodie that was partially zipped, exposing a dirty green undershirt.

  “What’s going on?” he echoed, pulling the gray beanie off of his head and rubbing it across his scruffy beard. “Have you seen the atrocities that have been taking place here? These barbarians are murdering the last of our dinosaur breed. They’ll soon be gone—wiped off the face of this earth—and it’ll forever throw our ecosystem into a tailspin from which it will never recover. It’s one of the greatest disappointments of my lifetime and the most devastating failure of mankind.”

  There was a chorus of agreement from the protestors milling around, and one of them shouted, “Alligators are people, too, you know!”

  “And I guess you’re here to shut us down,” said Scruffy Beard. “To violate our rights like these barbarians are violating the rights of our native lizards.”

  I looked him up and down and grinned. “What’s your name?”

  “Shannon Reed from the Great State of New York.” He dipped into a low bow and came up with a grin of his own. “And if you think I’m afraid of your iron cage of oppression, think again.”

  I shook my head. “As long as you keep it peaceful and don’t interfere with the hunters, you’ll be fine.”

  Shannon’s eyes shifted to the oblong bag hanging off of my shoulder. “Tactical drag bag,” he said, grinning his approval. “Are you some kind of sniper?”

  “Something like that.”

  He slid his grayish tongue over his bottom lip and squinted. “What kind of heat are you packing in that bag? Remington seven hundred?”

  I shook my head. “Accuracy International—the AE model.”

  Shannon whistled. “That’s a fine piece of British ingenuity. It only comes chambered in three-o-eight, correct?”

  “You seem to know your rifles. Are you some kind of shooter yourself?”

  “Something like that.” Shannon’s brows furrowed and he puckered his lips. “That’s a lot of firepower for a defenseless old alligator.”

  “I don’t hunt alligators…I hunt men.”

  “That’s reassuring. Now, let me get back to work.” After bowing in my direction, he turned to his group and hollered, “We must let our voices be heard! We must fight until every alligator is safe from the evils of mankind!”

  Shaking my head, I pushed through the group and waved at the alligator hunters as I walked by. One of them gestured toward the protestors. “Ain’t you gonna make them get the hell out of here?”

  “They’re not hurting anyone.” I continued to the south end of the pier where I found a water patrol deputy named Norm Brady launching the boat that would take us to the crime scene. He was leaning out of the driver’s window of his white F-250 pickup truck as he guided a large boat trailer down the steep ramp. I could tell he’d made that maneuver more than a few times. Atop the trailer was a 24-foot-long Boston Whaler Enforcer sporting the word Sheriff in bright bold letters along the side of the hull, just above the water line.

  Once the boat’s hull was fully submerged in the water, Norm threw the gearshift in park and dropped from the truck, his large belly jiggling when his feet hit the ground. He took a labored breath and hitched up his gun belt. “How the hell are you, London?”

  “I’m well.”

  He lifted a thick, hairy arm and pointed toward the protestors. “They’ve been here since yesterday, harassing every hunter that shows up with a catch.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. The group members were still chanting and waving signs, but they weren’t getting in the way of the hunters. “They seem harmless enough.”

  Norm grunted and wiped a stream of sweat from his forehead. “Don’t let them fool you. Their ginger-headed leader had to be arrested last year for cutting the fuel lines on a half dozen boats. That man is trouble waiting to happen. He disappears after alligator season ends and shows back up the following year for opening day. Been doing it for the past three years.”

  I turned back to Norm and watched as he finished launching the boat. He handed me the rope and I held onto it while he parked his truck. Once he returned to where I stood along the edge of the concrete pier, I deftly jumped into the boat and lowered my bags to the floor. He boarded the vessel behind me and fired up the twin engines. Before pulling away, he handed me a life vest. I scowled, but he insisted.

  “We have to be an example out here on the water,” he explained. “If some of these kids see us riding around with no vests, they’ll think it’d be okay for them to do it, too.”

  Without saying a word, I snapped the vest in place and took my seat at the front of the boat, settling in for the long ride.

  The breeze was cool and the sun was struggling to find an opening in the cloudy sky, and that kept the temperature from climbing. The boat would occasionally hit a rough wave and water would shoot into the air and rain down on us. I tasted salt on my lips and asked Norm about it.

  “The Gulf of Mexico has been pushing salt into this area for decades and the fresh water is slowly retreating northward up the bayou.” He shook his head. “It’s not the best scenario, but local shrimpers love it because they can catch shrimp right out their back doors.”

  I wiped the water from my face and my hand felt sticky. I rubbed it idly on my coveralls while wondering what I’d find when we reached Dawn.

  A few minutes later, Norm explained that we were nearing the southernmost end of Bayou Magnolia. “There’s a fork up ahead where the bayou intersects with Pelican Pass,” he said. “That’s where we’re heading.”

  Although I’d worked in Magnolia my entire career and had spent a lot of time in the marsh as a kid, I’d rarely been called out this far south. I mentioned it to Norm.

  “It’s rare that any law enforcement services are needed this far south.” Norm pursed his lips in thought. “Come to think of it, other than medical emergencies and accidents, I can’t remember ever being called out here. I’m sure these people would rather we stay away and leave them to their business.”

  I wondered about the reason. Could it be because the tiny population, which consisted mainly of hunters and fishermen, meant tinier problems? Or did these people take matters into their own hands and solve their problems via their own sense of law and order? Whatever the case, I didn’t mind not frequenting the area. I loved feeling the solid ground under my feet.

  A few minutes later we reached the fork Norm described and he steered the boat to the left, entering the narrow canal. He shot a thumb over his shoulder to where Bayou Magnolia continued flowing south. “The bayou ends a few miles farther down. It spills into the lake at a place called the Cut.”

  I looked in the direction he pointed, but the tall marsh grass and trees had already obstructed my view of the bayou. “Is it Lake Bentley?”

  “No…Devil’s Lake. Lake Bentley’s west of here.” Norm grunted. “Devil’s Lake is where all the kids go to cut up. Some are into water skiing, others into hydro sliding, but it’s mostly a bunch of horny boys trying to show off and get lucky with the girls.”

  I couldn’t blame them, but I didn’t say so. Norm seemed to be annoyed by their actions
, and it made me wonder how he had spent his time as a young boy.

  We hadn’t gone but a few hundred yards down Pelican Pass when he said we were almost at the scene. “It’s about a quarter mile farther.”

  I suddenly grew alert and scanned both banks of the pass, looking for any signs of a shooter. I didn’t know what we were dealing with and I didn’t like being out in the middle of the canal where we were exposed, so I pointed to the southern bank where a giant oak tree hung low over the water. “Get under those branches. We’ll hump it the rest of the way. We’re too exposed in the middle of the canal.”

  “Ben flew over the entire area earlier and cleared it,” he said. “Everything’s fine.”

  Ben Baxter was the department’s helicopter pilot. He stood just about six feet tall and was bald with a pot belly. He was a secretive man and didn’t talk much. None of us knew exactly how old he was or if he had a family or where he’d come from before landing his job at the sheriff’s office, but we all trusted him with our lives. That man could land a helicopter in a coffee can during a CAT 5 hurricane. While he was an excellent pilot, he was no sniper.

  “A good sniper can hide from a helicopter,” I explained to Norm, removing my life vest and digging my ghillie suit from the rucksack. I quickly slipped into it and pulled the zipper up to my neck.

  “But Dawn and all made it just fine when they came through here.” Norm wiped sweat from his brow and scowled. “Come on, London, it’s just down the pass. Maybe five minutes by boat. There’s no need to walk.”

  I knew he didn’t relish a long walk through the swamps, but I didn’t care about what he wanted—I cared about staying alive. I pointed to one of the larger branches jutting out from the oak tree. “Let me out there and then you can go on alone if you want to risk your brain stem.”

  Norm gulped and quickly reduced speed. Without saying another word, he maneuvered the boat into the shadows of the thick branches. As he did so, I quickly unzipped my drag bag and pulled out my rifle, moving my thumb over the safety switch. If we took on gunfire, I wanted that rifle in my fists, not in its case.