London Carter Boxed Set: Books 4 - 6

by BJ Bourg

  Dawn stood and paced back and forth. “What kind of chance do they give her on this new treatment?”

  “I thought she told you.”

  “Told me what?”

  Darby hung his head. “If she starts this new treatment, there’s a good chance it could kill her before it starts to help her. They said if she survives the first week, she’ll be doing better than half the patients who’ve tried the experiment so far.”

  Dawn felt weak. She leaned her back against the porch post and slid down it until her butt hit the ground. “And if she doesn’t try the treatment, what happens?”

  “They give her two months—if she’s lucky.” Darby punched the chain that was holding up the swing. “Ain’t life a bitch?”

  Dawn stared blankly ahead, a numb feeling coming over her. She had spoken to her mom several times over the past few weeks, but she never gave her a timeline. Had she known her mom only had two months left, she would’ve come sooner. She said as much to Darby, but he only kicked at the porch floor.

  “She didn’t say anything to the rest of us, either,” he grumbled. “Heidi overheard her talking on the phone to her doctor last week. When I confronted her, she said she didn’t want to burden us with the news.”

  “Burden us?” Dawn asked incredulously. “I think we have a right to know what’s going on with our mother.”

  Darby nodded, staring blankly out into the night. “Do you know what she told me?”

  “What’s that?”

  “She said she only wanted to live long enough to see your beautiful face one more time and know that you’re okay. She said once that happens, she can go in peace.”

  Dawn gasped and began sobbing uncontrollably.

  CHAPTER 14

  Sunday, November 18

  When the alarm went off at five o’clock, I cursed myself for scheduling sniper training so early on a Sunday morning. At the time of the scheduling, I thought it would be a good idea to make the new snipers crawl around in the dew-soaked grass while being attacked from all angles by mosquitoes, but—having stayed up until three-thirty—I was suddenly not so motivated.

  I had finished booking Rory and was getting ready for bed when Dawn had called late last night, upset and in tears. After eating dinner with her family, she’d learned that her mother had less time to live than expected. “I thought she had time, you know? That the treatment could sustain her life a bit, but it’s worse than I thought. They’re saying they can try this experimental treatment, but it might kill her. She’s thinking about not doing the treatments, but if she doesn’t, she’s going to die for sure. I’m so scared that I don’t know what to do.”

  Never good at consoling anyone, I simply listened, interjecting sparingly to offer words of support or encouragement. Her voice seemed to grow stronger as we spoke and, although she didn’t cheer up, she sounded determined to convince her mom to continue fighting and at least try the treatments.

  Before hanging up, she told me how much she missed me and then paused for a long moment, as though there was something important on her mind.

  “What is it?” I’d pried. “What do you want to say?”

  “If my mom doesn’t go forward with the treatments, there’s a good chance she’ll only last a couple of months.”

  I had frowned to myself, told her how sorry I was to hear it.

  “Um, I don’t know how to ask this.”

  “Ask what?”

  Dawn had been quiet again and I told her just to take a deep breath and blurt it out.

  I had heard her take a deep breath, and then she said, “I really want my mom to meet you before she dies.”

  “Done. As soon as this case is wrapped up, I’m on my way.”

  She had showered me with thanks and we’d spoken for a bit longer before finally ending the call so we could each get some sleep. As tired as I was at this moment, I was glad she’d called. I felt honored that I was the person she wanted her mom to meet, and I was glad she was able to come to me when she was down.

  The alarm went off a second time and I rolled out of bed to begin my day. It didn’t take me long to shower, eat, and dress for training, and I was pulling up at the range within the hour. Much to my surprise, I was the second person to arrive. When I parked and stepped out of my truck, I saw Rachael organizing her gear on one of the shooting tables.

  I glanced at the time on my phone. “You’re early.”

  “I try,” she said. “I just got on this team and I don’t want to do something stupid like being late on my first day.”

  I smiled, pleased at her enthusiasm. I pointed to the rifle I’d issued her last week. “Have you taken it out for a test run yet?”

  “No…not this one. I’ve been shooting my dad’s old rifle—it’s an old Remington 700—but I didn’t want to take a chance with the new rifle. I’d hate to do something to screw it up and have to buy it back from the department.”

  “Did you log your shots and keep the targets you shot with your dad’s rifle?”

  She nodded and reached into her gear bag, pulled out a stack of targets. When she handed them to me, I held them up to the light and flipped through them, nodded my approval. She had a wide array of targets—bull’s eye targets, hostage rescue targets, and some as simple as a picture torn from a magazine—and the shot placement was exceptional on nearly all of them. She’d hit the face targets between the eyes every time, and some of the bullet holes were touching.

  “Were these all shot from the same distance?”

  “Yeah…they were all shot at a hundred yards. I’ve never shot from farther than that.”

  “Well, you will today. You’ll also shoot from twenty-five and fifty.” I handed the stack of targets back to her, grabbed my target folder and staple gun, and then trudged through the dew-soaked grass to set up a few targets at various distances along the long-range shooting alley. I stapled some basic marksmanship targets—one-inch squares, diamonds, and circles—at the one hundred-, two hundred-, and three hundred-yard lines, and then returned to the overhang.

  My two veteran snipers, Jerry Allemand and Ray Sevin, had arrived and were talking to Rachael and my other new sniper, Andrew Hacker. For Rachael and Andrew, this was their first training session. They had already displayed exceptional marksmanship skills during the tryouts, and it was time to begin honing those skills.

  I nodded to Jerry. “I want you coaching Rachael and”—I turned to Ray—“I want you coaching Andrew.”

  They both nodded and moved toward their respective trainee, guiding them through pulling out their rifles and getting ready to shoot. Andrew started to rest his rifle on the concrete slab under the overhang, but Ray stopped him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Andrew, a solid fellow with a square-shaped face and a thick Cajun accent, cocked his head to the side. “I’m about to lay down and shoot.”

  “You’d better not let London catch you lying on the dry concrete,” Ray said, and pointed toward the wet grass.

  “Yeah,” Jerry said in agreement, “unless it’s hot like a frying pan. If you’re looking too comfortable at any one time, he’ll find a way to make you miserable—like guiding you toward an ant pile, releasing a truckload of mosquitoes all over your ass, or making it rain on you.”

  Without hesitation, Rachael dropped to her belly in the dew-soaked grass and stretched out behind her rifle. Andrew fell in beside her, about four feet away. Ray and Jerry took up positions beside them, softly talking them through each step of the preparation process.

  I dropped to the ground with my rifle and set up in a prone position several feet from them. I then began describing how to properly assume the prone position, and walked them through the integrated act of rifle shooting. As I led them through dry-firing exercises, Ray and Jerry whispered in their ears, teaching them the same checklist I’d taught them as new snipers. Like a pilot preparing for takeoff, snipers go through a mental checklist each time they fire, focusing on things like utilizing bone support
, proper grip, proper breathing, focusing on the crosshairs, trigger control, and so on.

  After watching them dry fire for a while under the glow of the nearby lampposts, I balanced a quarter on their barrels near the muzzle and had them do it all again. When Rachael fired, her quarter shook a little, but remained in place. I nodded my approval and turned to Andrew. When he fired, his quarter fell to the ground.

  “What the hell?” he asked.

  “You jerked the trigger,” Ray said, leaning close to coach him on how to avoid that mistake again.

  Andrew’s next shots were better. After he and Rachael had dry-fired about a hundred times with the quarters in place, I told them to load their rifles and shoot a three-round group at each of the targets.

  Andrew glanced downrange and scrunched his face. “I can’t even see the targets from here.”

  “Look through your scope,” I said.

  He rested his cheek against the stock and peered through the scope. “No kidding! I can see the target—even in the dark.”

  I pointed to the lampposts. “That little bit of light is enough to illuminate your target at night if you’re using a quality scope.”

  “The moon is an awesome source of light,” Jerry said, “unless it’s cloudy.”

  Ray laughed, then rubbed his shaved head. He knew what was about to happen and he was anxious to see how’d the new recruits would do. “Come on, why don’t y’all shoot something already?”

  Once Rachael and Andrew had loaded their rifles, I made sure they’d shoved their earplugs in place and then told them to fire at will. Rachael took her time, methodically firing one shot and then the next, while Andrew blasted away at a quicker pace. I had recruited him from the high risk entry section of the SWAT team and he was accustomed to double-tapping and firing rounds in rapid succession with little regard to long-range accuracy, so I knew I’d have to work on getting him to break some bad habits.

  After they’d fired their nine shots, Ray and Jerry talked them through making their rifles safe and we walked to the first target, which was a one-inch white circle surrounded by a one-inch thick black ring. Rachael’s three bullet holes were completely inside the white circle and were all touching. Andre hadn’t fared as well. One of his bullets had impacted within the one-inch circle and the other two were at eleven and one o’clock in the black ring.

  Andrew whistled when he saw Rachael’s target. “Damn, you’re good.”

  Even in the dim light I could see her face flush with pride. She thanked him and we moved to the two hundred-yard line. Ray let out a holler when we reached the targets. “I knew it—y’all did what I did the first time London put me through this.”

  Rachael frowned when she saw that her bullets had impacted about four and a half inches below the white circle. “I missed.”

  “Me, too,” Andrew said. “We’re both low.”

  I waited to see if they would figure it out, but they didn’t. We moved to the three hundred yard line and Rachael gasped. “My bullets aren’t even on the paper.”

  “Damn, I missed by over a foot,” Andrew said, staring in shock at his target. “I put my crosshairs right on the circle.”

  I nodded and folded my arms in front of my chest, standing between their target stands. “Any idea what happened?”

  Rachael pursed her lips, deep in thought, and Andrew just shook his head in dismay.

  “Ever heard of bullet drop?” I asked when neither of them offered a solution to the problem. They both said they hadn’t, so I went on to explain the relationship between the line of sight, line of departure, and trajectory (or path) of the bullet. “The spot where your line of sight intersects with the bullet’s trajectory is the point of impact. I’ve already zeroed your rifles at one hundred yards, so, if you’re doing your part, the bullet will impact wherever your crosshairs come to rest. There could be a slight variation from individual to individual and you may need to fine tune your zero, but, as you’ve already seen, you’re hitting your target at one hundred yards.”

  I pointed to the target in front of them. “From the second the bullet leaves the muzzle, gravity begins acting against it, trying to pull it to the earth. Thus, your bullet will continue to drop until it falls to the ground or makes impact with its target—whichever comes first.”

  “So, what do we do?” Andrew asked.

  “We adjust the scope?” Rachael guessed. “Or just aim high?”

  “That’s right…you could compensate by aiming high, or you could adjust your scope.” I pointed to the target. “At three hundred yards, the bullets we’re shooting will drop thirteen and a half inches when zeroed at one hundred.”

  “That’s a complete miss.” Andrew grunted. “I’ve been on SWAT for almost ten years and they’ve never taught me this.”

  “You’ve learned a little about it with pistol shooting,” I explained, “because you have to aim a little higher at twenty-five yards than you do at seven.”

  “I mean, I knew bullets dropped a little, but I didn’t know they dropped thirteen inches,” he said.

  “They’ll drop over thirty-five feet at a thousand yards.”

  “That’s insane.” Andrew shook his head. “I’ve got a lot to learn.”

  I slapped his back. “That’s why we’re here.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Bent Fork, Arkansas

  Dawn awakened to the sound of hens cackling. She stretched and smiled as she remembered her mom’s response to that sound. “Someone just laid an egg,” her mom would say—every damn time. It grew tiresome back when she was a kid, but now Dawn yearned to hear her say it again.

  After rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Dawn dropped her feet to the rug beside her old bed and glanced around. It had been dark when she came to bed last night and she hadn’t bothered turning the light on. She had been exhausted and emotional and just climbed into bed and called London.

  Now, with the sun streaming in through the curtains—the same curtains that had hung from the windows the day she left—she could see everything in the room. She gasped when she realized everything was exactly as she’d left it. Her old rock climbing shoes were on the floor near the closet, with her harness hanging on a peg nearby. The blue jean shorts she’d worn the day before she left were still draped over the back of the wooden chair at her desk.

  “Damn, this is eerie,” she whispered, padding across the floor to her desk. She didn’t remember the last thing she’d done at the desk, and she was curious to see what it was. She frowned curiously when she saw the handwritten note laying on the desktop. Lifting it to see what it said, she groaned and laughed out loud when she read it. She crumbled the paper and tossed it into the wastebasket next to the desk. “Thank God I hadn’t been so stupid!”

  She grinned playfully to herself and lifted the blue jean shorts from the chair, hefted them between her fingers. “I wonder if I still fit these.”

  Making sure her door was locked, she peeled off her jeans—she hadn’t had the energy to change last night and had slept fully clothed—and stepped into the leg holes of the shorts. She had to wriggle and jerk on the waistband, but she finally guided them up her legs and over her hips. She strode to the mirror and gasped when she realized how short they were. She turned to see her backside and shook her head. “My ass cheeks are hanging out of these things. How did I walk around like this in public?”

  Fighting to get them off, she draped them back over the chair and took her night bag to the private bathroom attached to her room. She took her time showering and dressing, and then started putting away her clothes. She would be here for a while, so she might as well make herself back at home. After all, it was her room.

  She grabbed her hanging clothes and headed for the closet, then stopped dead in her tracks, staring at the closet door. The last memory she’d had about the night she almost killed her dad was throwing her shotgun into that closet and slamming the door shut. Her heart racing, she tiptoed toward the closet—as though someone were watching her—and
slowly reached for the knob.

  Surely, in all of these years, someone has taken the shotgun out of here, she thought. The knob squeaked when she turned it and she paused, listening for movement to indicate that someone in the house had heard it. Ever since she’d awakened, there had been a steady bustling of activity and a drone of conversation from the kitchen, and it went unchanged. She eased the closet door open and caught her breath when she saw the shotgun leaning against the back wall, just as she’d left it.

  She dropped her clothes and gingerly lifted the gun in her hands, activating the release switch and pulling the forearm to the rear to work the pump action. The spent shotgun shell flipped end over end out of the ejection port and landed on the floor several feet away. Her hands sweating and her knees weak, Dawn kept the pump action open and shoved the shotgun deep into the closet, behind her clothes. She never wanted to see it again.

  Her legs were still wobbly when she walked out into the kitchen, where her mom and Heidi were sitting around the table talking. Her mom was sporting a pink apron and she held a plastic spatula in her hand.

  “Hey, dear, we were just cooking breakfast,” Priscilla said when Dawn bent to kiss her. “We tried not to make too much noise. I didn’t want to wake you up, because I know you have to be tired from the long drive.”

  Dawn nodded and glanced around, looking for her brother. “Where’s Darby?”

  “He went to town to get some grits,” Priscilla said. “As soon as he gets back we’ll have breakfast.”

  Dawn smiled idly and poured a cup of coffee. She didn’t even have to check to see if it was still hot—her family kept hot coffee on the stove all day long. Taking her cup of coffee and a slice of buttered toast with her, she walked out to the front porch and sat on the swing. The house was situated high up on a hill and the front overlooked a valley that stretched for miles below them. To the rear of the property, the mountains rose high into the sky and stood like a century protecting their property from any evil that might sneak up behind them. While the view of the mountains was awesome and reassuring, the valley view was her favorite. As a little girl, she would sit here and imagine she was a queen overlooking her kingdom. She felt powerful, sitting so high above the fray and—