London Carter Boxed Set: Books 1 - 3

by BJ Bourg

  I whispered to Patrick, who was four feet to my right. “If he makes a break for it, he’s heading for those trees.”

  “He can’t outrun my bullet,” Patrick said, a hint of eagerness dripping from his words.

  “Remember, you were sworn in as a deputy, which means deadly force is a last resort.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

  I wasn’t convinced he’d stick to the plan, but the sheriff was willing to deputize him and I needed the extra pair of eyes and trigger finger, so here we were.

  “Watch the front yard,” I said, “and I’ll watch the back.” Jerry and Ray were set up on the western side of the house, where there weren’t many windows, and the entry team was out front.

  “All teams ready?” the sheriff called when the sun was head and shoulders above the horizon.

  We each took turns acknowledging we were ready, and then he ordered them to move on the house.

  My hand gripped the rifle firmly and I took long, slow breaths, readying myself for what might follow. The entry team leader spoke into his mic to begin the countdown. “Ready, ready, ready—”

  “Standby,” Patrick called. “There’s movement at the front door. Someone’s exiting the house.”

  I shifted my sights so I could take in the front yard as well as the rear. A man in a military uniform strode from the front door. He wore glasses and a hat. He was built like Eric, but I couldn’t make out his facial features—and he had a limp I hadn’t noticed on Eric Friday night. Perhaps he’d injured himself during his escape after shooting Roger? Or during his struggle with Sally?

  “Command Post, be advised our target just exited the dwelling,” said the leader of Team One.

  “Go!” Sheriff Chiasson yelled over the radio. “Take him now!”

  Team One burst out from behind the pickup truck and converged on the man, shoving their rifles in his face and screaming at him to get down. The man threw his hands up, clearly surprised, and they forced him onto his face. As they cuffed him, Team Two rushed by and entered the house while Team Three hurried toward the rear and secured it.

  I turned my focus back toward the back yard to cover Team Three, and asked Patrick if he could see the man’s face.

  “I can see straight down his right ear canal,” he said, his voice strained.

  “Focus, Patrick.” I scanned the back yard. Team Three was guarding the rear and everything was clear. “Can you see the left side of his face?”

  “Negative.”

  I pressed my thumb against my chest to activate my radio. “Team One, does the suspect have a scar on the left side of his face?”

  Before they could answer, the radio erupted in excited chatter as Team Two began hollering at someone inside the house, ordering them to show their hands.

  I inspected every inch of the back yard, searching for the smallest indication that a sniper was concealed there. Nothing stood out. I shifted focus to the ditch. It was mostly barren down the middle, but thick grass grew along its banks. It was also clear. The radio traffic subsided somewhat as I began scanning the tree line. Team Two announced that they had a female in custody.

  “She identified herself as Stephanie Boyd,” one of the members announced. “She claims she’s the wife of Eric Boyd.”

  After that transmission, there was a moment of pause over the radio.

  “Team One,” I said, cutting in. “Does the subject have a scar on the left side of his face?”

  “Negative, Sierra One,” one of the operators said. “There are no scars on the left side of his face. His identification shows Wade Baker.”

  The leader of Team Two then came over the radio and called the house clear.

  I cursed to myself and Patrick cursed out loud.

  “The bastard got away!” Patrick spat the words. “I knew y’all would screw this up. I should’ve come on my own. You bring more than twenty cops out here and you really expect to sneak up on the son-of-a-bitch? I swear, I thought you were smarter than that…”

  I tuned out his rant and continued scanning the back yard. Something seemed curious about the landscaping of the back yard, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

  Patrick started to move beside me and said, “I’m out of here. This monkey f—”

  “You’d better keep your ass down!” I said it a little harsher than I meant, but I wasn’t about to apologize. “This mission is over when I say it is…not one second sooner.”

  I hadn’t taken my eye from my scope, but I could feel him settle back into his position. One of the SWAT operators was walking on the opposite side of the concrete sidewalk and that was when it hit me—I couldn’t see his boots.

  “Patrick, check out the concrete sidewalk in the back.”

  “I’m on it. And…?”

  “It’s elevated more than normal—at least a foot higher than the rest of the yard.”

  “So?”

  I followed the sidewalk to the bridge, and then dipped my sights to examine the shadows under it. “So, I think there’s a tunnel leading from the house to the ditch.”

  I heard Patrick suck in air. “You think he got away?”

  “There!” I hissed. “Check out that patch of greenery west of the bridge.” I keyed up my radio. “Team Three, the suspect is in the ditch north of your location. Approach with extreme caution.”

  I planted my crosshairs where I figured his head was located and watched as he moved slowly and smoothly, indiscernible to the untrained eye.

  “Holy shit,” Patrick whispered. “Good call.”

  I didn’t respond. Resting my right index finger gently against my trigger, I watched as Team Three fell into formation and began approaching the ditch.

  “He’s at one o’clock,” I said over the radio.

  The team leader adjusted his team’s approach and they inched closer, their rifles trained on the ditch.

  I suddenly realized the bush wasn’t advancing any longer. He heard them! A gun barrel began to slowly rise from under the ghillie suit and it was pointed toward the direction of the team.

  Without a second thought, I immediately pulled the trigger, and then cycled another round into the chamber, ready for a follow-up shot.

  CHAPTER 47

  When my rifle round exploded, the members of Team Three dropped to their knees and trained their rifles toward the ditch, watching and waiting.

  The instant my scope settled back on the sniper, I knew he was dead. I keyed up my radio and told them they were clear to advance. I continued watching as the team made their way to the sniper and dragged his lifeless body from the ditch. The leader ripped the headpiece off the ghillie suit and I sighed. It was Eric Boyd.

  “It’s over,” I told Patrick, reaching for my spent shell casing. “We got him.”

  Patrick didn’t make a sound or utter a word as we gathered up our rifles and strode across the property. When we reached the ditch, I looked down at Eric’s lifeless body. His eyes were open and his face was pale. It appeared my bullet had entered the back of his head somewhere, because it blew out his top front teeth and parts of his lip.

  Patrick had a strange look on his face as he stared down at Eric, and I felt a tinge of guilt for being too quick on the trigger. I knew Patrick should’ve been the one to take the shot, but had I hesitated, Eric might’ve gotten off a shot and injured or killed one of our men—and I was tired of burying good cops.

  Dawn pulled up and jumped from her cruiser. Holding her camera against her chest to keep it from bouncing, she ran toward me and didn’t stop until she was inches away. She looked up into my eyes.

  “I heard you got him,” she said, breathless from her run. There was something about her expression that excited me. An interest, maybe? “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “It’s over. He’s gone.”

  “Good riddance.” She turned and began shooting some preliminary photos of the body with her camera. When she was satisfied, she made her way into the ditch and toward the bridge, looking
under it. “There’s a tunnel down here. It leads into the house.”

  “That’s what I figured.” I grounded my gear and dropped in the ditch to follow her into the dark tube. The tunnel was narrow, but large enough to fit a regular adult. It was basically a metal culvert recessed into the earth, leading from the ditch to the house.

  Dawn and I crawled forward, a few inches at a time, the light from her cell phone leading the way. It was warm in the enclosed space and it smelled of rotten swamp mud.

  After about eighty feet, Dawn stopped and snapped a picture. She then began wrestling with something on the roof of the tube. She let out a grunt and her foot shot back, kicking me in the shoulder, but she called out triumphantly that she was in. I watched her get swallowed up by a hole in the roof of the tube. When the bottoms of her feet disappeared into the darkness above me, I climbed up through the hole, too, finding myself in a dark closet.

  Dawn opened the closet door and light came flooding inside. We were standing in the master bedroom. The mirrors in the master bath were fogged up and steam was still floating from the hot water spilling from the shower faucet.

  “He beat a hasty retreat,” Dawn said, reaching in to turn off the water. “It’s almost as though he knew this day would come.”

  “All good mercenaries have an exit strategy.” I led the way through the house and into the back yard, where Sheriff Chiasson and Hibbitts were standing over Eric’s body.

  “I’ve got Melvin coming to process the scene,” the sheriff said. “Are we sure this is our guy?”

  “Positive.”

  “Thank God.” He sighed as though someone had lifted a giant oak tree off of his back. “If you need anything at all, just say the word.”

  I pointed toward the front of the house, where Wade Baker and Stephanie Boyd sat handcuffed in the backs of two patrol cruisers. “I want them transported to the criminal operations center so Dawn and I can interview them. I don’t want anyone else talking to them.”

  “Done.” He turned and began barking orders. Afterward, I heard him tell Hibbitts his agents could interview them as soon as we were done.

  I got in with Dawn and we followed the deputies to the criminal operations center, where they escorted the prisoners inside.

  Dawn and I met with Stephanie in the first interview room, where Dawn led the interview. She introduced us and asked Stephanie if she was okay.

  “Where’s my husband?” The woman was overweight, but attractive. She seemed pleasant enough…even under the circumstances. “Why did those men handcuff me? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Ma’am,” Dawn began, “what exactly do you know about your husband’s activities?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What’s he do for a living?”

  “He teaches young kids to become good soldiers.” She lifted her chin. “He’s good at his job, too, and it’s good for him. He was lost for a time, there, after he retired. He started drinking heavily and would stay out late at night. You know how it is when some people leave the military. I was really worried he’d become a statistic—that he would take his own life.” She sighed. “This program saved his life by giving him purpose, and it saved our marriage by making it easier to be around him.”

  “I see. Well, I understand y’all move around quite a bit.” Dawn pulled out the printout from Eric’s address query. “Utah, North Dakota, Kentucky, Nebraska, New Mexico, Mississippi, Tennessee, Louisiana. That’ a lot of moving around. Are y’all running from something?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Who, exactly, does your husband train?”

  “High school students interested in joining the military.” Stephanie looked from Dawn to me and back to Dawn. “Why won’t you tell me why I’m here?”

  “I’ll get to that.” Dawn laid out news clippings detailing the eight sniper-style attacks that had occurred over the past ten years, beginning with the slaying of Patrick’s son and ending with the recent attacks. “I’d like you to look at the dates you lived in these areas”—she pointed to the address printouts—“and then compare them to the dates of these sniper attacks.”

  Stephanie was quiet as she compared the dates and took her time reading the details of each case. Her face seemed to lose its color as realization set in. “Do you think…are you saying Eric’s involved with these murders? That he killed innocent people?” She shook her head. “That’s preposterous. Eric’s a good man. He would never hurt anyone.”

  “He might not get his hands dirty, but he certainly trains young kids to kill innocent people.”

  “That’s hogwash. He teaches them how to be good soldiers.” She raised her chin defiantly. “Eric’s a good man—well respected. We’ll get a lawyer and sue you if you try to shame him publicly with this nonsense.”

  “Instead of making idle threats, why don’t you tell me why Eric left the military?”

  “Eric never did agree with the War in Afghanistan, but he was a good soldier and a good leader, and he followed orders without question. He was so dedicated that he refused to come home on leave. He’d spend his free time out there with his men. I didn’t like it, but I understood his dedication to his friends.”

  “Then why’d he retire?”

  Stephanie frowned. “He never told me, but I had my suspicions.”

  “And?” Dawn pressed.

  “A few of his closest friends were killed right before his last leave, and I think it took a toll on him.” Stephanie hung her head. “When he came home I could see he was a changed man. He was distant and cold. I tried everything in my power to get through to him, but he wouldn’t respond to me. When he went back off of leave, he put in his paperwork to begin the retirement process.”

  “Was he better after he retired?”

  “No, not at all. I begged him to get help, but it was no use. He was always out late at night and he’d come home smelling like booze. He wouldn’t even touch me. I was at my wits end and finally turned it over to the Lord and put it in His hands. That’s when Eric had this brilliant idea to mentor future soldiers.” She smiled warmly. “I know it was God answering my prayers.”

  Dawn changed gears. “Ma’am, where was your husband when the SWAT guys entered your house this morning?”

  “He was in the shower.”

  “Where were you?”

  “The kitchen.”

  “And Wade?”

  “He lives with us. He was sitting in the kitchen with me having our morning coffee. Why are you asking these questions?”

  “I’m curious, ma’am…why didn’t you run when the team came through the front door?”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Good answer.” Dawn nodded as she turned on her camera and flipped through her images. “What about Eric? Did he do anything wrong?”

  “No.”

  “Then why’d he escape through the tunnel?”

  “What tunnel?” Stephanie’s face twisted in confusion, then her eyes slowly widened. “That gunshot I heard—was that Eric? Did y’all shoot Eric?” She stared wildly around the room. “Where the hell’s my husband? I demand to see him now!”

  Dawn slowly turned her camera so Stephanie could see the display screen. “Why was Eric dressed like this and why did he point a gun at one of our SWAT operators?”

  Stephanie screamed in horror when she saw the photograph of Eric wearing a ghillie suit and holding a rifle in his dead hands. She clawed at her face with long fingernails, as though trying to rip the image from her mind.

  “I’m sorry to do this, ma’am,” Dawn said in a soft voice, “but I need you to tell me why he escaped through that tunnel and why he pointed a gun at our officers?”

  Stephanie sat there bawling, shaking her head, and repeating over and over that Eric was a good man and she didn’t know what was going on.

  Dawn held out her hand and asked for my phone. Without saying a word, I handed it over. Dawn accessed my voicemail and held my phone in Stephanie’s direction. “I want y
ou to listen carefully.”

  Stephanie wiped her face on her shirt sleeve and stared at the phone. “What is this?”

  “Just listen.” Dawn played the voicemail that recorded Sally’s last words and her last minute on earth. When Eric’s voice was heard in the recording, Stephanie recoiled in horror and began bawling again. She shook uncontrollably and began banging her head on the desk, screaming, “Why, Lord? Why is this happening to me?”

  Dawn spent the next twenty minutes trying to calm her down and get her to talk, but it was no use. We finally called for a medic to tend to her and then left the interview room, entering the dark observatory where Sheriff Chiasson was standing with Patrick and Hibbitts.

  “Did you have to show her the picture and play that recording?” Sheriff Chiasson asked, wiping his brow with a white handkerchief.

  Dawn nodded. “I needed to know if she was telling the truth.”

  “She knows nothing about her husband’s extracurricular activities,” I said. “Nothing about him screwing other women and nothing about him training murderers.”

  I turned and moved to the opposite side of the observatory and peered through the other two-way mirror. Wade was sitting with his arms crossed and his feet planted firmly on the ground. He was staring intently at the door, as though he would charge as soon as it opened.

  “Hibbitts, I need you to tell me everything y’all found out there in the swamps.” I said. “I want to know as much as I can about the crime scene before Dawn and I sit down with him.”

  CHAPTER 48

  Two hours later…

  Dawn and I entered the interview room where Wade was sitting. He was mid-thirties and stocky. It was clear he’d spent a lot of time in the gym pumping iron, which was odd for a sniper. Snipers know big muscles get tired faster, so they strive to be lean and mean.

  I jerked a chair from behind the desk and placed it directly in front of Wade, held out my hand. He eyed it suspiciously, but finally shook it.