by BJ Bourg
Dawn played the recording again and then asked if I recognized Eric’s voice.
“I only talked to him for a few minutes at the party, but it sounds like him.”
“Do you think it’s enough to get a warrant?”
I pursed my lips. “I doubt it, but we can try.”
While Dawn began preparing affidavits for arrest and search warrants, I called the sheriff and told him what we’d learned.
“Hold on, London,” the sheriff said, “let me put you on speaker phone so Special Agent Tucker Hibbitts can get in on the conversation.” After a few seconds, the sheriff came back on the line. “Okay, London, repeat what you just told me.”
When I was done, a man with a heavy country accent introduced himself as Tucker Hibbitts. “My team and I have been tracking this particular killer for about eight years. We believe he’s recruiting impressionable young people to join the military as Trojan horses. They enlist in the military, go through boot camp, and get their orders like regular soldiers. Hell, they talk, eat, act, and shit like real soldiers. The only difference is that they’re ruthless and have no real loyalties other than to their cause, which is to wage war on the Unites States from the inside.”
“Have they succeeded?” I asked.
“Did you hear about the military sniper who turned on his own squad and killed a dozen of them before they finally got him?”
“Dean Pierce, my sniper who lost his life this morning, told me about it.”
“That kid was a plant. What about the terrorist who strapped bombs to little kids and sent them in the midst of our troops—did you hear about that incident?”
“I saw it on the news.”
“He wasn’t a foreign terrorist…he was another plant. We’ve had seven confirmed attacks on our soldiers by members of this group.”
“How do you know they’re all connected?” I challenged.
“Every one of these seven traitors came from a town in the United States where sniper-style murders have taken place—and the victims in each case were a man, a woman, and a child. We don’t know how, but they’re all connected.”
“If what you’re saying is true, these young people are being recruited and then battle-tested before being sent off to war.” I was thoughtful, appreciating the mental aspects behind such training. “They have to prove they’re mentally capable of killing a man, woman, and child, and this is done before they’re faced with the actual situation.”
“That’s correct.”
“Brilliant concept, if you think about it.” I realized quickly that they didn’t share my appreciation for the tactics, so I asked for the locations of the small towns connected to the traitors.
“North Dakota, Tennessee, Kentucky, Nebraska, New Mexico, Mississippi, Texas…and now Louisiana.” Hibbitts was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was somber. “We got close a few years ago in Tennessee—maybe too close. We sent a team of SWAT operators after him in the mountains, but only one made it out alive. That was a bad day in our history.”
“Today was even worse,” I said, secretly writing a note to Dawn to run an address query on Eric Boyd. “Why’d you send your men after him again if they got wiped out the first time? Didn’t you learn your lesson?”
“We sent highly trained snipers this time. We figured the best way to take out a single bad sniper was with a team of good ones.” He sighed. “I guess we’ll drop a bomb on the bastard next time.”
“Any of the traitors from Utah?” I asked.
“No, why?” Hibbitts asked.
“No reason.” I’d moved to stand behind Dawn and watched as the computer screen lit up with address results on Boyd. He’d moved around a lot, that was for sure, but it was no coincidence that he’d lived in small towns in every state Special Agent Hibbitts had mentioned…including Utah, where Patrick’s son was killed.
“Include that in the warrant,” I said aloud to Dawn.
“What warrant?” Hibbitts asked.
“We’re going after Eric Boyd. If you want in, you’d better get your ass to Payneville within the hour.”
After hanging up with the sheriff and Hibbitts, I called Patrick. “How’s it going over there?” I asked.
“All’s quiet. Your guys are wrapping up the crime scene investigation and we’re about to leave. Jerry said we’re heading to your criminal operations center.”
“Good. We’re preparing an arrest warrant for the Trinity Sniper.”
Patrick was quiet for a long moment. Finally, he asked in a low voice, “Do you really know who’s responsible for killing my son?”
“I have an idea.”
“Who?”
“Not over the phone.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want you going rogue on me. I’ll need your help on this one.”
CHAPTER 46
Tuesday, September 4
It was nearly daybreak and a cool breeze was blowing in from the north, helping to keep me comfortable in my thick ghillie suit. I had moved into position on Sergeant Eric Boyd’s property under the cover of darkness and set up in the open field east of his house. I wanted the sun to come up behind me, which would blind him and keep me hidden if he scoped that area of his property. During the night, I had taken clumps of the surrounding vegetation and attached it to my suit, so I could blend perfectly into the background. I couldn’t afford a mistake on this operation.
My earpiece whispered to life and Jerry radioed that he was in position with Ray. “I’ve got eyes on the operators,” he said. “They’re ready to go.”
Seven members of the FBI’s high-risk entry team had joined forces with our fourteen-member entry team, and they had made their way stealthily through the dark to positions of cover in front of Eric’s house. Team One took cover behind a large pickup truck, while Team Two crouched in a large ditch in front of the house, and Team Three set up behind the only tree on the property.
While the property was black as sin, there were motion-activated floodlights on all corners of the house, so the teams remained at least fifty feet from the house. We knew the lights could work against us by exposing the entry team if they approached the house, but they could also alert us if Eric tried to make his escape. We decided to hang back and use it to our advantage.
Sheriff Chiasson’s voice suddenly came over the radio. “Command Post to Sierra One, any movement from the house?”
“Negative,” I whispered, pressing my left thumb against my chest to activate the button for my throat mic. “Everything seems quiet.”
“Ten-four,” the sheriff called. “All teams standby. We go at daybreak.”
The radio went silent and remained that way until the sun started peeking over the horizon behind me. I kept my right eye glued to the ocular lens of my scope, slowly scanning the windows on the eastern side of the house. White shades were pulled shut, leaving no room to see inside. I scanned the back of the house, noting that a narrow concrete sidewalk led from the back of the house to a wooden bridge that crossed a deep ditch. Beyond the ditch, thick forestland bordered the rear of the property.
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.”