by BJ Bourg
“What’s up, London?” he asked, stopping to stare at the colored photograph I’d just stapled to the cardboard. It was a blown-up version of his law enforcement identification card. “What the hell’s going on? You want me to practice committing suicide?”
I smiled and shook my head, stabbing his mug shot with my index finger. “That’s my target.” I shot a thumb to the target stand beside mine. “That’s yours.”
He stepped closer to the target and his face scrunched up in confusion when he saw my photograph on his cardboard. “Why are you shooting me and I’m shooting you? Did we run out of bin Laden targets?”
I stared down at the dark ground and stabbed the toe of my boot into the soft mud of the berm. When I didn’t say anything, Jerry frowned. “This is about Gina, isn’t it?”
During the many years I’d run the Magnolia Parish Sniper Team, I’d prepared myself and the other snipers to mentally take out anyone who posed a threat to human life—men, women, grandparents, and even children—but I hadn’t prepared us to take the life of a cop we knew…someone we considered a brother or sister. I didn’t like the way I had reacted when I realized I’d shot Gina, and I didn’t like the nightmares that followed. It made me feel weak. Unprepared. “We’re going to shoot colored photos of every person in the department, from the sheriff to the school crossing guards,” I explained. “And we’re going to keep doing it until we feel comfortable enough to take any one of their lives if they turn rogue.”
Jerry scowled. “London, I don’t think I could ever shoot you, even if you did go bad.”
I pierced his eyes with my own. “If necessary, you will take that shot, and it’s my job to make sure you’re prepared if the time comes, so get ready to—”
“London, can I have a word with you?”
Although the shrill voice was two hundred yards away, I knew it was Sally Piatkowski. I turned and saw her standing near the shooting tables, shielding her eyes from the glow of the floodlights.
“What the hell is she doing here at this hour?” Jerry asked.
I sighed and handed him the staple gun. “I’ll be right back.”
“I thought y’all broke up?”
“We did,” I said. “But I don’t think she’s the type who takes no for an answer.”
I strode across the bumpy ground and stopped when I was several feet from Sally. “How are you?” I asked, trying to sound pleasant.
“Don’t play games with me, London.” She shoved a long lock of blonde hair behind her ear. “Why haven’t you returned my calls?”
“You said we’re not right for each other.” I shrugged. “There’s nothing more to discuss.”
Even in the dim lights I could see that her sky blue eyes glistened in anger. “So, like that”—she snapped her fingers—“you can just walk away from me?”
“Look, I’m not the type to beg women to stay with me. They either want me or they don’t. You had doubts about us, so I made it easy for you.”
“I might’ve had doubts, but I didn’t want it to be over.” She took a step toward me and her face softened. “Come on, London. Let’s give this one more shot. We were good together.”
Sally and I both looked away when bright lights jostled toward us and a white police cruiser roared through the gravel parking lot and skidded to a stop near the shooting station overhang. Dean Pierce shut off the car and jumped out, dragging his rifle from the back seat. “What’s going on, boss?” he called, approaching us at a brisk pace.
I turned to Sally. “I really need to get back to training.”
She turned and stormed away, bumping into Dean as she passed him.
“Excuse you,” Dean complained. “Why are you here anyway? You’re not a sniper.”
Without responding, Sally jerked the door to her detective car open and jumped inside. After slamming the door shut and kicking up gravel, she sped away. Dean scowled and shook his head. “What the hell’s her problem?”
“Long story,” I mumbled.
“I’ve got all day.” Dean flashed a large smile, revealing a row of stained teeth from his earlier years of tobacco abuse.
“Well, I don’t,” I said. “I’ve actually got a surprise for you and Ray, so wait here while Jerry and I finish up.”
CHAPTER 2
Somewhere in the swamps south of Seasville…
It was early morning on the second day of alligator season in the eastern zone of Louisiana and the Simoneaux brothers had already harvested four alligators, all of which were over nine feet in length. The only problem—they had illegally taken the animals from Wellman Boudreaux’s land.
Orville Simoneaux peered through the forest toward the edge of Pelican Pass and spotted a dark shadow that marked the location of their boat. The large cypress trees surrounding them began to slowly take shape as the distant rising sun scared away the utter darkness of the previous night. It was still hard to see, but they could at least make out the shadows of the trees now.
Orville’s cheeks were red and he fought to catch his breath. The bib of his overall hung at his waist—just below his outstretched belly—and the morning breeze felt cool against the sweat coating his bare torso. He licked his fingers and ran them over his thick brown mustache as his gaze came to rest on the beam of light from the flashlight. It illuminated the lifeless creatures near his feet. His back ached and his legs were fatigued. “Three down, one more to go.”
Quentin, Orville’s oldest brother, wiped his sweaty palms on the front of his overalls and turned off the flashlight. He was the best dressed of the three, having worn a T-shirt with his overalls. It was stained in places, but it had sleeves. “I don’t think Norris was pulling his weight that time.”
Grunting, Norris rubbed his muddy hands across the blood-stained apron that covered his large belly. He always complained about doing laundry but he didn’t want to look like a complete slob, so he’d started wearing the apron to keep his clothes clean. “Shit, I have to pull more than my own weight now that your old ass hit fifty. Were you even trying?”
“Stop the yapping and let’s go,” Orville said. He was the more cautious of the three brothers and the only one without a criminal record. “We need to get that last gator before Wellman and his boys wake up and check their lines.”
“We’ll hear that motor coming from a mile away,” Quentin said. “You know how they feel the need to have the biggest and best of everything.”
Norris nodded his agreement. “Besides, those lazy bastards don’t wake up until noon anyway.”
“Just the same, we need to get this done and get out of here.” Keeping his hand close to the revolver in his waistband, Orville turned away from the dead alligators and headed back across the dense swampland toward the Boudreaux property. For the last three years he and his brothers would cross that stretch of land on the first evening of alligator season and watch as Wellman and his two sons, Maxille and Septime, set their lines. They would then return before sunrise the next morning and take their pick of the catch. When they first decided to start stealing from his lines, they walked away with seven gators on day one. Wellman became suspicious and put an armed guard at each of his lines that year. Since then, Orville insisted on only taking a few of their catch at any one time. Once they had dispatched the alligators and removed them from the lines, they would carefully reset the lines—using the same bait they’d watched the Boudreaux family use—and then leave the area.
On this morning, they slinked their way through the tall cypress trees, careful not to make unnecessary noise. The strip of land was mostly bare of undergrowth, but thick roots jutted from the dirt and stretched like veins across the ground. One wrong step and they could spill onto their face. This terrain forced them to maintain a slow pace in the deep shadows. Once the sun rose above the distant horizon, they would be able to see well if it wasn’t too cloudy, but it would also leave them exposed.
As they approached the northern bank of Devil’s Lake, which was Boudreaux land, Orville looked
overhead, trying to penetrate the clumps of thick Spanish moss that hung like gray icicles from the tree branches. He didn’t see any game cameras, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. While Wellman was old fashioned and not very tech savvy, his youngest son, Maxille, had spent a little time in college and knew a thing or two about smart phones and such.
“What the hell you looking for…God?” asked Quentin.
Orville pushed his finger to his lips and whispered, “Keep your voice down.”
Quentin smirked and shook his head, but he didn’t say another word as he slid the rifle from his shoulders. After a few seconds slipped by, he began scanning the trees himself.
Orville knew his brothers were smart enough to appreciate the danger they were in. Their father had told many stories about the olden days and how trespassers were routinely shot in the swamps for illegally hunting on private property. “Those who owned the land,” he would say, “they knew how to make it look like a hunting accident—and that was if they reported it. Most of them would push the bodies into the water and let the gators take care of them.” He knew his dad was telling the truth, because he had read news accounts over the years of many people who had disappeared in the swamps, never to be seen or heard from again. In fact, his own grandfather had vanished when he was young and they never found a trace of him.
Crouching as low as his large frame would allow, Orville approached the tree to which one of the alligator lines was attached. He’d seen it earlier and the thick branch had been bent nearly in half, indicating there was a large alligator on the other end. As he neared the water’s edge he suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. The branch was no longer bent and the rope was no longer taut.
“Hold up, Orv,” Quentin called in a hoarse whisper from behind him. “Don’t move. That big bastard is on the bank to your left—and he looks pissed.”
Orville shifted his gaze and squinted, trying to find the beast amongst the thick undergrowth. When his eyes locked on it, he gasped and his heart rate quickened. It had to be close to twelve feet long. He reached slowly behind him. “Hand me the twenty-two.”
Never taking his eyes off the alligator, he waited until Quentin placed the rifle in his hands. He then brought it around to bear on his quarry. The two-liter bottle taped to the barrel made it difficult to take a precise shot, but Orville had done it enough times to know his point of aim. He took a breath and held it, then squeezed off the shot. The muffled report startled a few ducks that had been floating on the water nearby, and they sprang into the air and flapped away. The alligator’s head jerked and it stretched its legs out as though in shock, and then slowly relaxed into the afterlife.
Handing the rifle back to Quentin, Orville picked his way to the alligator and grabbed the rope. “Shit! Did you bring the extra hooks?”
“No,” Quentin said. “He swallowed it?”
A branch snapped in the distance and Orville’s head jerked up. “Where the hell did that come from?”
All three brothers crouched low and scanned the area, eyes wide and mouths agape. Orville pulled the pistol from his holster and cocked it.
“Let’s get out of here,” Norris hissed.
“Not without that gator,” Orville replied. He scanned the forest, trying desperately to penetrate the shadows in search of any sign of life.
“Just cut the line so we can get out of here.” Quentin sounded impatient. “That was probably a deer or a wild boar. Besides, the sun’s coming up and someone might’ve heard the shot, so the longer we stay here the better our chances are of getting busted.”
Orville knew he was right. Although the plastic bottle had stifled the shot, it could still have echoed across the open water on that peaceful morning. The trees were thinner along the lake and they were more exposed than Orville liked. The quicker they got into the dense forest the better. He’d maintained a clean record by being cautious, so without wasting any more time, he whipped the skinning knife from his belt and, with a quick flick of his wrist, freed the alligator from the line. He tossed the line into the water and reached for one of the alligator’s legs. Quentin had slung the rifle over his shoulder and he and Norris joined Orville, each taking a leg.
“Ready?” Orville asked. “On three…one, two, three!”
The muscles in his lower back cried out in pain when he straightened and bore his share of the weight. His legs burned and his shoulders ached as they began dragging the large beast across the rough ground. As they moved closer to their property, they encountered patches of soft marsh and they’d often sink into the mud and stumble forward. They dropped the alligator on more than one occasion. Each time they did, it became a little harder to lift it up again.
“Why don’t we just drive our boat around next time?” Norris asked when they finally crossed onto their own property and stopped for a break. He sat on the alligator’s head and wiped a rivulet of sweat from his face.
Orville leaned his back against a tree and tried to catch his breath. “If we get caught on their side of the lake we’re done,” he explained for the umpteenth time. “Out on the open water, we’d be sitting ducks, but here”—he waved his hand around the thick trees—“we’re well protected. You could hide an army in these trees and no one would know it.”
Quentin was standing a few feet away from Orville and was staring into the direction from which they’d come. His brow was furrowed and he idly shifted the rifle on his shoulder.
“What is it?” Orville asked, his eyes following Quentin’s. “You hear something?”
Quentin shook his head slowly. After nearly a full minute, he finally said, “I keep getting this feeling like we’re being watched—followed, even.”
Norris snorted. “You’re just getting paranoid in your old age.”
“It could be.” Quentin shifted the rifle again and licked his dry lips. Without taking his eyes away from where he was staring, he said, “I think we’d better get the hell out of here and bring those gators home.”
Orville moved beside Quentin and followed his gaze, trying to penetrate the shadows. Fog had formed over the lake and was drifting through the trees toward them, making the swamps look spooky and dangerous. A chill reverberated up and down his spine. Squinting to see better, he asked Quentin if he’d seen or heard anything.
“No, it’s just a feeling I got.” Quentin rubbed his graying beard nervously. “You know how I get those feelings like somebody walked over my grave.”
Orville nodded and watched a patch of fog drift like a ghost through the trees about thirty yards away. Once it passed, visibility in that area improved and he could distinguish one tree from another. Nothing moved and there wasn’t even a peep of sound. What if there’s something to Quentin’s feeling? When they were kids he’d claimed to have had a bad feeling one day, and they later learned their grandfather had disappeared. Even though he’d never been the superstitious type, Orville had never forgotten that incident. Neither had Quentin and he would often remind Orville and Norris that he could feel the future.
Orville couldn’t help but wonder if their luck had finally run out. What if the Boudreaux family had installed hidden cameras on their land and now had evidence proving he and his brothers were illegally hunting on their property? He didn’t want to start a war with them and he couldn’t afford to go to jail, and neither could his brothers. For a brief moment, he thought about bringing the alligators back, maybe leaving them at the edge of the lake like a gift, but quickly dismissed the thought. It had taken them so long to drag the animals across the property that it would be lunchtime before they could get it back. Their chances of getting caught would be greater by that time for sure. Besides, he knew Quentin and Norris would never go for it.
Orville turned his back to the path from which they’d come and bent to grab the alligator leg he’d been using as a handle. “Let’s get out of here before those bastards show up.”
“Yeah, Quentin,” Norris said, grabbing the leg on the opposite side of the alligator. “Sto
p acting like some crazy voodoo—”
Orville felt a whisper of wind zip through his thick hair and he heard a splat at the exact moment Norris’ voice cut off. When he looked toward his younger brother and saw that the lower half of his jaw was hanging by a piece of torn flesh, he screamed and stumbled backward, losing his balance and crashing onto the knotted ground beneath him.
Gunshots filled the air as Quentin began firing back with the twenty-two, cursing as he did so. Orville’s eyes were glued to Norris’ face for a long moment, and then he rolled over and puked.
CHAPTER 3
The Magnolia Parish Shooting Range…
Jerry was still bitching about having to shoot me when we reached the overhang where Dean and Ray Sevin were waiting near their rifles.
“What are you crying about?” Ray asked in his slow drawl.
Jerry waved him off. “You’ll see soon enough.”
I studied the three snipers as they zipped up their coveralls and pushed plugs into their ears. I was two members short of a six-member team due to the tragic passing of Kenneth Lewis and the resignation of Alvin Reed, but I had a solid group. Dean, Ray, and Jerry would die for their country and the citizens of our parish, and I would put my life in their hands any day of the week.