by BJ Bourg
“Leroy.”
“That’s Septime’s boy,” Wellman said. “He’s the oldest of my grandkids.”
“I’m six,” the boy said, lifting all five fingers of his right hand and one finger of his left hand. “You want to see my new pet? It’s a baby raccoon. I caught him myself.”
“No,” Wellman said, interrupting him. “You’re staying inside until I tell you it’s safe to go back outside. Now get back in the kitchen and let us work.”
The boy frowned, but did what he was told.
Patrick dragged a table to the middle of the room and hollered for his men to join us. Wellman pulled a map off the wall and stretched it out on the table. When Patrick’s men—four lanky fellows with bad intentions written all over their faces—joined us, he traced the curvy land that made up the northern banks of Devil’s Lake. “If I’m Trinity, I’m setting up along this shoreline somewhere to get a shot at any kid who shows up in a boat.” He pointed to a clock on the wall. “Kids are in school until a little after two and they don’t start showing up on the lake until about three o’clock, so there’s our window.”
“The lake should be empty, because the sheriff’s going to sound the alarm first thing in the morning,” I reminded him. “I’m not willing to risk any innocent lives.”
Patrick nodded. “Mr. Boudreaux and I spoke about it after we left your office. Most of the kids out here, they get home while their parents are still at work, and they don’t watch the news.”
Wellman nodded his agreement. “These kids are like me when I was young. As soon as I’d get home from school, I’d hit the marsh…and nothing was going to stop me.”
I turned to Jerry. “Call the sheriff and tell him to have public announcements made at every school in the parish first thing in the morning.”
Jerry nodded and grabbed his cell phone, turning from the group to make the call.
Wellman shook his head. “Like I said, nothing would keep me out of the swamps.”
“I have to try.” Turning back to the map, I drew a line with my finger from the Cut, where Bayou Magnolia spilled into Devil’s Lake, and stopped when I reached the western bank of the lake. “I’d set up here. From this area along the western bank, the point of aim value would be zero for any boat coming through the Cut. Also, I’d have a clear shot at any kid stepping out of this house.”
I heard Wellman take a short breath. “You think this guy’s going to target my family…my grandkids?”
I nodded. “I hate to say it, but I do. Your family is the only one left on this side of the lake, so there are no other families to target.”
Wellman’s shoulders drooped, and I wondered if he was beginning to regret squeezing the other families out of their homes. No time for that now, I turned to Dean and Ray. “Y’all are Sierra Two and I want y’all here”—I stabbed my finger at a spot on the western bank of Devil’s Lake about a hundred yards south of the Cut—“keeping an eye on the northern and eastern banks, just in case the killer wants to target a kid on the lake tomorrow. If y’all see that bastard, don’t hesitate—take him out immediately.” I then turned to Patrick. “I want one of your men to set up with Jerry along the northern bank. They’ll be Sierra Three and they can cover the western bank, just in case Trinity targets someone at the camp here.”
Patrick nodded to the tallest of his four men. “Buck, you’re going with Jerry.”
I glanced at Patrick’s other three men. “I need y’all here to keep this place safe. I’d position myself deep in one of the rooms upstairs. Open every window on the second floor so Trinity doesn’t know where y’all are hiding and keep the rooms dark. It’s the highest spot out here, so y’all should have an advantage over him.”
They looked to Patrick, who nodded his consent. “Okay, boss,” one of them said. “We’re on it.”
They immediately turned away and hurried out of the room. I heard their boots pounding on the floor above us as they began setting up their sniper hides.
As the rest of the men geared up for their assignments, I grabbed my rucksack and dragged it to a corner of the room to do the same. Dropping to the floor, I began smearing camo paint on my face, neck, and hands. Jerry sat nearby going through the same process, but Dean and Ray simply pulled on camouflage gloves and hoods. Like me, Jerry preferred feeling his way around with his bare hands rather than wearing gloves, and he didn’t want to obstruct his peripheral vision with the camouflage hood, but Dean and Ray liked the ease of slipping in and out of their gear.
Dean pulled out a can of mosquito repellant, but I stopped him before he could spray it. “No mosquito spray on this mission. We have to look, feel, and smell like the marsh. The slightest contrast could give you away…if that happens, your ex-wife will get all of your shit.”
“Damn, London,” Dean said. “Why don’t you just say what you’re thinking?”
“He usually does.” Jerry smiled, but it was a forced one. His mind was on the operation we were about to embark upon, and he knew there was a chance that one—or more—of us wouldn’t be going home.
My phone vibrated in my pocket and I lifted it to check the indicator screen. It was Sally again. I scowled and rejected the call. While I was thinking about it, I turned the phone off and dropped it in my rucksack. I didn’t allow cell phones on sniper operations, because it could compromise the entire mission and risk the safety of my men. Out there in the bush, a vibrating cell phone could give us away and result in a high-powered rifle round crashing through our cranial vault faster than twice the speed of sound…not something I cared to endure if I could help it.
Once Patrick and I were ready, we slipped out a back door and faded quietly into the swamps behind Wellman’s camp. We had studied the map and plotted the route in our heads. If all went according to plan, we could safely reach the location of the massacre a little after midnight. If we could survey the scene within two hours, we would be returning right before daybreak. Any later and we’d be forced to move in the light of day…and every sniper knows that movement is not their friend, unless the enemy’s doing it.
CHAPTER 37
Magnolia Parish Substation, Seasville, LA
Dawn didn’t like that London left her behind, but she knew she didn’t have the training—or the desire—to go crawling around in the swamps. She called the local FBI office and passed along the report they’d received from Orville.
“Sorry, Sergeant Luke, but we don’t have any agents in that area at the moment,” said the duty agent.
“That’s not true and you know it.”
“Sorry, but I’m not at liberty to discuss any undercover operations in which we may or may not be partaking.”
“Well, just let your superiors know your team is in real trouble.” Dawn then hung up the phone and fired up her computer. While waiting for it to boot up, her mind drifted to London. She’d always found him handsome and was secretly attracted to his strong and confident ways. And he wasn’t like most guys she’d met over the years, who looked at her like a piece of meat. She couldn’t help but notice that the first thing they noticed about her was her breasts—leaving her feeling as though she needed a shower—but not London. He looked her in the eyes and he treated her as an equal. He’d also never made a pass at her, which was refreshing, yet troubling. What if he doesn’t find me attractive?
Dawn pushed the thought from her mind and turned her attention back to the computer monitor. She’d been too busy of late to check her email, so she took the opportunity to do it now. There were a dozen messages announcing different promotions and demotions within the department, and one farewell message from the sheriff to a recent retiree. She deleted most of them and was about to turn away when the subject line of one particular message caught her eye. It was from the evidence custodian, Cindy Folse, and the subject line read, quite simply, “IBIS hit”.
Her hand shaking in excitement, she quickly clicked on the email and drummed her fingers on the desk while waiting impatiently for the page to load. When
it finally popped into view, she read the message, which was void of particulars:
——
Dawn,
There’s been an IBIS hit on the first bullet you submitted from the sniper shooting case. Of course, an examiner will have to physically compare the bullet from your case with the bullet from the case in IBIS to verify they were fired from the same weapon. Also, the examiner was able to compare the bullet from the first shooting with the bullet from the second shooting and he can confirm they were fired from the same weapon.
Thanks,
Cindy
——
“What the hell?” Dawn flung the mouse across the desktop. “What are the details of the IBIS case?” Her mind raced, wondering what she should do next. She could wait until morning when Cindy returned to work…
“Oh, screw it!” She pulled up the electronic employee Rolodex and scrolled through it until she found Cindy’s cell phone. She snatched up the office handset and dialed the number. It rang six times and went to voicemail. Not to be denied, she located Cindy’s home number and dialed it. A man answered on the third ring.
“Hey, this is Dawn from the sheriff’s office. Is Cindy there?”
“Cindy,” the man hollered, causing Dawn to wince and move the handset from her ear. “Someone named Dawn is on the phone.”
When Cindy came on the line, Dawn apologized for calling at night on a Sunday. “Look, I just got your email about the hit on the sniper bullet, but it doesn’t offer particulars.”
Cindy, who was always pleasant and willing to help, offered to run to the office and send the information. “I can scan the document from IBIS and email it to you.”
Dawn chewed on her lower lip. She felt guilty about making Cindy leave her house, but she needed that information. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“It’s five minutes from my house. Not a problem.”
Dawn thanked her and then sat at her desk, waiting impatiently for the email to arrive. She refreshed her inbox a dozen times over the next ten minutes. Nothing. Finally, after a bathroom break and grabbing a cup of coffee from the kitchen, she returned to her desk and heard the new message alert. She quickly opened it and printed the document that Cindy had forwarded to her.
Settling back in her chair, she sipped from the steaming cup of coffee as she read the report. It seemed the IBIS hit was tied to another case from Magnolia Parish, and the report provided a case number. The last two digits of the case number indicated the year of the complaint, and this one was from four years ago. Her curiosity thoroughly aroused, and excited that there might be a break in the case, she pulled up the department’s complaint database and entered the case number.
When it came up, she began reading. As she did so, her mouth started to drop open. It seemed the shooting from four years ago had involved a sheriff’s office weapon, and she was intimately familiar with the case. Her heart was pounding so hard in her chest that it hurt as she read the detective’s narrative, reliving every moment of that night. When she reached the part where it was about to identify the sheriff’s deputy from whom the weapon was recovered, she stopped reading. She already knew the answer…it was her ex-partner, Brandon Berger.
“But how can that be?” she said aloud. “The weapon was seized as evidence.” Unless someone signed it out and put it back in circulation! She snatched up the handset and smashed the redial button. Cindy answered almost immediately and asked if she’d received the report.
“I got it—thanks.” Dawn licked her lips. “Did you happen to notice who signed the weapon out of evidence?”
“It was recovered from Detective Berger and then…” Cindy paused, thinking. “If I remember right, it was turned over to London.”
“London?”
“Yeah, since he’s in charge of the sniper team it went to him.”
Dawn’s lower lip was starting to bleed now. “Any idea who he might’ve assigned it to?”
“You’d have to ask him. I only know about evidence, not department property.”
Dawn dropped the handset in the cradle and fumbled with her cell phone. She stood up and paced the floor while waiting for London to answer. “Come on…pick up, pick up.”
When London didn’t answer, she called Norm. He sounded groggy when he answered. “Sorry if I woke you,” Dawn began, “but I need a favor.”
“If it involves a boat and going out on the water tonight, the answer is no.”
“London’s out there on the island and I need to reach him as soon as possible.”
“Call him.”
“He can’t answer his phone.” Dawn hesitated, not sure how much she wanted to reveal. “Look, there’s been a major breakthrough in the case. The shooter might be one of ours.”
She could almost hear Norm’s ears perk up. “One of ours? Like, he could be a cop?”
“Don’t you repeat that!” Dawn warned. “It’s highly classified information.
“No, no, I won’t say a thing. Mum’s the word.” He was silent for a few seconds. Finally, he sighed. “Where do you want to meet and where do we need to go?”
“That’s the spirit!”
CHAPTER 38
Somewhere on the Boudreaux/Simoneaux Island
I settled into a prone position beside what felt like a large tree. It was so dark in the dense swamps where Patrick and I were that I couldn’t tell if my eyes were open or closed most of the time. I knew Patrick was a few feet to my right, because I could hear his steady breathing. The faint rustling sounds from his direction told me he was getting in position, too.
If my sense of direction was still what it used to be, the spot where Norris was killed was directly ahead of us, maybe thirty yards out. Moving so slow that it was painful, I positioned my rifle in front of me and lowered my cheek to the stock so I could peer through my scope. The night vision adapter turned everything green, so I was unable to distinguish between different colors. Things only appeared light green, dark green, or a shade of green in between. When I spotted the first body, I knew the dark green colors indicated blood—and there was a lot of it.
I heard Patrick groan silently and I knew he’d also seen the body. I scanned the ground ahead of us and saw the rest of the bodies. I couldn’t tell which one was Dave, but I was sure he was among the downed agents. He was the team leader for the local FBI office, so he would’ve definitely been leading the operation.
“They all look dead,” Patrick whispered. “Every last one of them.”
“I’m going check them to be sure.” I eased to a seated position and pulled some night vision goggles (NVG) from my drag bag, strapped them to my head. I then pulled my AR-15 from the bag and flipped the selector switch to fire. “Cover me.”
“Don’t be crazy, London,” Patrick hissed. “There’s no cover out there. You’ll be exposed.”
“Then make damn sure you get the bastard if he gets me.” Without waiting for a response, I eased out from beside the tree—staying in a low crouch and keeping my rifle at the ready—and inched forward, one step at a time, stopping often to listen. Other than the buzzing from the thousands of mosquitoes swarming around my head and an occasional grunt from nearby alligators, all was deathly still.
I moved slowly enough that the motion wouldn’t be easily detected from a distance, pushing forward until I reached the first body. Lowering myself to the ground, I felt for a pulse. The body was cold to the touch and void of a pulse. I couldn’t discern facial features in my goggles, so I moved on to the next agent. He was also dead…and the next, and the next. I counted seven dead agents in all—every one of them shot through the head.
When I slinked back to Patrick’s location, I told him what I’d found. “Let’s head back to Wellman’s camp,” I whispered. “There’s nothing we can do for them now. I’ll come back once the island is safe.”
I slipped my Accuracy International sniper rifle into my drag bag and secured it inside, along with my NVG. After shouldering the drag bag, I gripped my AR-15 firmly in
my hands and set off in the direction from whence we’d come, moving like a tortoise, but slower. Patrick followed suit and fell in behind me, inching one foot forward, and then the other.
Movement was painfully slow at first, because it took about twenty minutes to fully recover my night vision after having used the NVG to check on the federal agents. Once I could differentiate between the various shadows again, it became easier to navigate the soupy ground under my feet. As I approached patches of water now, I could either avoid them or lower my foot even slower, not even causing a ripple. Before I’d regained my night vision, I didn’t know I was stepping into water until I felt the wetness seeping into my socks.
On one occasion, I was about to take a step, but noticed a dark patch of ground shift slightly in front of me. I froze—my right foot suspended in the air—and watched as the large alligator lumbered toward our right, seemingly unaware—or uncaring—that I had been about to step on its back. Patrick groaned behind me and I turned so I could hear what he was saying. While I didn’t catch it all, it sounded like he was saying something about hating “those big damn lizards”.
We pressed on and, although the air was cool, sweat poured down my face. I wondered if my camo paint was holding up. It definitely didn’t deter the mosquitoes from drilling for blood all over my face and neck. Knowing the danger we would be in if we were detected, I didn’t even bother blowing them away from the front of my face. Instead, I allowed them to drink freely from the wells they’d dug, and I just hoped my blood was toxic to the little bastards.
From my estimation, we were still about five hundred yards from the back of Wellman’s camp when the trees around us began to rapidly take shape. I turned to the east and could see the sky starting to brighten. Shit! We were about to be fully exposed and vulnerable.
I reached behind me with my left hand and pointed to the ground, letting Patrick know I was going into a sniper crawl. Moving in slow motion, I faded downward and melded into the ground, advancing on my belly, with the right side of my face pressed against the damp earth.
