Proving Grounds: A London Carter Novel (London Carter Mystery Series Book 2)

by BJ Bourg

  PROVING

  GROUNDS

  A London Carter Novel

  (Book 2)

  __________________

  BY

  BJ BOURG

  www.bjbourg.com

  PROVING GROUNDS

  A London Carter Novel by BJ Bourg

  This book is a work of fiction.

  All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or

  reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author, with the exception of brief

  excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  Copyright © 2017 by BJ Bourg

  ISBN-13:

  ISBN-10:

  Cover Art © 2016 Christine Savoie of Bayou Cover Designs

  PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 1

  Thursday, August 30

  Glass suddenly exploded from the side window of the first squad car. I turned quickly and was just in time to see blood, bone and glass smash into the opposite window, causing it to shatter and spill onto the cement. Where Sheriff Burke’s head once was, there was now an empty mass of broken flesh and bone. Everything above his ears was gone. I dropped my phone, dove to the ground and scrambled on my elbows and knees to the rear of a nearby detective car, pulled my rifle around and flipped open my scope caps.

  Behind me, Jerry screamed over the radio. “Dean, where’d that shot come from?”

  The radio was silent except for a brief moment of static. Jerry repeated the radio traffic—more silence. Just as I shouldered my rifle and turned it toward the water tower, the second squad car exploded in broken glass and someone screamed that Captain Carmella Vizier was down. Footsteps pounded the cement all around me as officers scrambled for cover, trying to seek out the shooter’s position.

  Just as I attained proper eye relief, I caught a flash of movement through my scope. A dark figure disappeared around the southern side of the water tower. I moved down to the bottom of the catwalk where Dean was supposed to be…he was gone. On the opposite side of the water tower a length of rope dropped toward the ground. Before my mind could process what was happening, a dark figure raced down the rope as the killer rappelled toward the ground. Without thought, I dropped my crosshair to the sniper’s feet and squeezed off a shot. I thought I saw the figure lurch slightly. I aimed at the knees for my second shot and fired twice in rapid succession. The sniper’s arms went limp, and he crashed toward the ground at breakneck speed.

  “I got him!” I hollered, confusion scrambling my thought process as I wondered what in the hell Dean Pierce had to do with Bethany Riggs, or Elizabeth James.

  I pushed myself to my feet and bolted across my property, keeping my rifle poised. My legs were pumping at their full potential by the time I reached the street and raced across it. I jumped my neighbor’s fence, landed at a stumbling run and straightened out as I caught my stride and zipped across his property and through a patch of barren fields. I was still fifty yards from the water tower when I saw a dark spot in the thick grass, still attached to the rappelling rope. I slowed to a fast walk and leveled my rifle at the figure on the ground. I took several deep breaths to help slow my heart rate. I stalked quietly toward the downed sniper, every one of my senses on high alert, straining to detect even the slightest hint of life, my right index finger brushing the trigger on my sniper rifle.

  “Don’t move!” I called out, but when I got a little closer I realized I was speaking to the dead. The body, dressed in typical ninja-like SWAT garb, was twisted like a pretzel and blood oozed from three bullet holes—one in the neck and two in the torso. Unless it was the odd angle of his body, it looked like Dean Pierce had lost a few pounds. A sniper rifle—like the one I’d issued to all the snipers, including Dean Pierce—was positioned on the ground several feet away. I approached the body and used the muzzle of my rifle to strip the ballistic hood and the goggles from the sniper’s face.

  I jerked awake, staring wildly into the darkness. It took me a full second to realize I was in my bedroom. I’d kept my shades and curtains pulled tight, which made my room darker than the belly of a coal mine, and it was only the familiar hum of the ceiling fan above my bed that gave my location away. The breeze was cold against my sweaty chest and I shivered. I closed my eyes and was about to slide back under the covers when the alarm from my cell phone began screaming from the nightstand. It was four-thirty in the morning. I’d selected the most obnoxious alarm I could find as my wakeup call, and it didn’t disappoint.

  I pried my eyes open again and reached for the phone, knocking it over in the dark. Grunting, I rolled out of bed and fished it off the floor, silencing it and clearing the dozen missed calls from last night. I was tempted to set it to snooze, but I had to be at the range within the hour for sniper training and I didn’t want to be late.

  After rushing through a shower and a cold breakfast of cereal and milk, I headed for the shooting range. As usual, I was the first to arrive and busied myself turning on the floodlights and setting up the course. The smell of freshly cut grass clung to the early morning air as I trudged the two hundred yards across the wet uneven ground to the target stands. A gentle breeze caressed my flesh, but it wasn’t enough to keep the aggressive Louisiana mosquitoes away. Ignoring the pricks from their tiny needles, I attached cardboards to the wooden frames and then began stapling colored photos in place. I was shooting the staples into the last photograph when my longtime partner, Jerry Allemand, walked up behind me. He wore the same faded drab green coveralls and black boots I’d issued him years ago, and his .308 sniper rifle was slung over his shoulder.

  “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 sho
t 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 lo
oking 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.