by BJ Bourg
“We’re ready and standing by,” I said, swinging my rifle around to check on his position. He was set up on the oil tank directly to the west of us, and his partner was a fellow they called Lizard. I then checked the tank directly to our north, where Ray and an agent named Snail were positioned. Ray waved to let me know they were ready to go.
“I see you’ve got a female sniper on your team,” Spider said, turning his rifle scope to the above-ground oil tank positioned on the opposite corner of the stage from us. It was northwest of us and it completed the four corners that surrounded the massive shell parking lot where the stage was located. It was where Rachael and an agent named Python were positioned.
“She’s Rachael Bowler,” I said. “She and Andrew Hacker are the newest members of my team. They’ve been onboard for about a year and a half now.”
“Is she any good?” Spider asked.
“Good?” I chuckled. “I sent her to the FBI sniper school in January and she took the Top Shooter Award—and there were snipers from the Marshal’s Special Operation Group, the ATF, the US Marines, and even your agency. Now…you tell me if she’s good.”
Spider whistled. “Damn, that’s impressive. I noticed her earlier and I like the way she carries herself. To be honest, she’s the first female sniper I’ve ever seen.”
“I’ve met three female snipers over the years who were every bit as good as their male counterparts.” I shook my head. “But not Rachael—she’s better than most of her male counterparts.”
I heard sirens in the distance and turned my rifle toward the east, where I saw the convoy heading along the main highway. There were several black Suburbans, six patrol cruisers, and four motorcycle cops spaced out along the procession. The sheriff’s black Tahoe was leading the way.
“Head’s up,” called Lizard, who was the leader of the Secret Service sniper team. “The Veep is approaching the gate.”
During our briefing earlier in the morning, Lizard had designated different zones for each of the sniper teams to hone in on, and Spider and I were responsible for the area on the southern side of the gate until the vice president made it to the large gravel lot.
I dialed my scope to its highest power and began scanning the protesters near the gate. I spotted a new recruit who was fresh from the police academy standing with the protesters. His name was Abraham Wilson and he had joined the force after being hailed a hero for an incident that occurred in the Blue Summit Mountains of Tennessee last summer. I’d met him while working Denny Menard’s murder case last November, and I liked what I knew of him so far. It certainly didn’t hurt that his father was a former detective, but he seemed to be a bit ahead of where his dad was at his age. Brandon Berger, who ran the police academy, told me the kid had some special ground-fighting skills that were unmatched by anyone he’d ever met. Coming from Brandon, that was high praise.
Abraham wore tattered jeans and an old white T-shirt and he held a sign that read, “Browning doesn’t give a VEEP about our drinking water!” Had I not recognized him, I would’ve thought he was a real member of the protesters. I would’ve also been alarmed, because I could make out the slight bulge in his waistband that indicated he was packing heat. As I scanned the crowd, I recognized a few other faces from our patrol division and narcotics division. They were spaced out nicely and seemed to be alert and ready for anything.
“We’re coming through the gate,” called Sheriff Corey Chiasson over the police radio.
Each team radioed that they were standing-by and ready, but the convoy made it through the gate without incident. Once the vehicles had stopped near the back of the stage, the Secret Service agents and our deputies piled out. Some of them joined other officers who were already standing in positions around the stage, while several of them waited until they were given the “all clear” for the vice president to exit her vehicle.
I caught sight of Dawn getting out of the passenger’s side of the sheriff’s Tahoe, and I allowed my gaze to remain on her for a brief moment. Her brown hair was blowing in the breeze as she stopped to adjust the collar on her light green long-sleeved button-down shirt. Her dark blue pants were snug and accentuated the tan leather holster that was strapped to her belt. She carried a baby Glock—chambered in .40 caliber—and she knew how to use it. At five-three and 125 pounds, she was not an intimidating figure, but many an unsuspecting criminal had learned the hard way that small things can cause a lot of pain.
After scanning her surroundings carefully, Dawn joined a Secret Service agent and moved toward the door to one of the Suburbans. The Secret Service agent opened the door and stepped back, making room for the woman of the hour—Vice President Courtney Browning—to step out and greet the adoring crowd that had been eagerly awaiting her arrival.
CHAPTER 4
The Veep’s brown hair was pulled up into a neat bun and her lipstick matched the red leather jacket she wore. She didn’t waste any time getting to the stage. After clambering smoothly up the back set of metal steps in her high heel shoes, she stepped out onto the stage and waved her hands high into the air, smiling fondly as she greeted her loyal fans, who erupted in cheers and screams when she made her appearance.
In the ensuing noise, we all knew it would be difficult to hear a threatening action, so we had to be especially watchful. I scanned the faces in the crowd, looking for anyone who wasn’t genuinely happy to be there. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t find a single person who didn’t have love in their eyes while they listened to her speech. She was confident in her delivery and passionate about the subject, and the crowd hung on her every word, stopping often to drown her out in cheers of agreement.
Sheriff Chiasson stood off to the vice president’s right with a Louisiana state representative, and Zachariah Bailey stood to her left with our parish president. There were a number of alert Secret Service agents on the stage, their watchful eyes never wavering.
I searched for Dawn and located her standing on the ground level beside the stage and nearest Sheriff Chiasson. She was close enough to be in danger if someone opened fire on Vice President Browning. I didn’t like it, but I knew it was her job.
I sighed. The more time I spent with Dawn, the stronger my feelings for her became, and I began finding myself worrying every time she left for work. While we teamed up on as many cases as we justifiably could, there were lots of times when she was working on one side of the parish while I was working on the other side and I’d hear her call on the radio that she was in a foot pursuit or going out with a suspect who was notorious for resisting arrest. Although there were often other officers much closer to her than I was, I’d find myself dropping everything I was doing to start heading in her direction. She’d once told me she did the same for me.
While it felt good to care about someone again, I didn’t like how worried I felt, and I began to wonder if it was taking years off of my life. It made me feel normal when Dawn told me she felt the same way and we’d joked that we were good for each other, but giving each other gray hair—
“What do we have here?” I had been panning the open area between all of the oil tanks and had reached Jerry and Lizard’s location when I saw something that got my attention in a hurry. Because of their positions along the edge of the tank, I could only see part of Jerry’s body and the front of his rifle, but Lizard was in full view. To the casual observer, they simply looked like two snipers doing their jobs, but something looked off to me.
“What is it?” Spider asked.
“What’s up with Lizard?”
“What do you mean?”
While I kept my eyes on Lizard, I heard Spider shift beside me and I knew he was zeroing in on their position. I studied Lizard a moment longer before responding, trying to make certain of what I was seeing. Perspiration was heavy on his forehead and it dripped down his face. Was he in pain? I focused on Lizard’s right hand and dialed my scope as high as the power would allow.
“Look at Lizard’s knuckles,” I said, mumbling because of the s
tock against my cheek.
“What about them?” Spider asked.
“They’re bleeding.”
“So? Haven’t you ever cut your hand when getting into position?”
“Maybe on one knuckle,” I said, “but not when three knuckles have matching scrapes. It looks like he punched a wall or something.”
I could almost hear Spider thinking beside me. Finally, he shifted again and I knew he was turning his attention back to the crowd around the stage.
“And he’s sweating profusely,” I pressed. “I think something’s up with him.”
“It’s this damn Louisiana heat,” Spider said, grumbling. “Lizard’s from northern Virginia and he’s not used to the humidity down here. Hell, none of us are.” After a brief pause, he said, “Now, stop scoping my men and focus on any potential threats in the crowd.”
As I lingered on Lizard, I began to wonder if I was being overly suspicious. If I’d learned one thing in my profession, it was that not everyone was who they appeared to be or made themselves out to be. I glanced at Jerry. He wasn’t sweating at all and neither was I. It was warm out, but far from the heat we were accustomed to. Maybe Spider’s right, I thought. Maybe these guys can’t handle our humidity.
Just to be sure, I swiveled around until I could see Python. I then checked on Snail. They weren’t sweating.
“Where’s Python from?” I asked.
“Maine.”
“He’s not sweating.”
“What is your fascination with Lizard?” Spider asked, starting to sound impatient. In my peripheral vision, I saw him come off his rifle and turn to face me. “If you don’t get to work looking for bad guys, I’ll have you removed from this detail immediately.”
I shifted my scope back to Lizard one last time just to be sure I was wrong. His face was pressed against the stock of his rifle with his index finger positioned alongside the trigger guard. I started to pull away when I saw him take a deep breath. As he exhaled softly, he seemed to settle in, his body relaxing downward.
“What the hell…?”
I turned my rifle quickly toward the stage, scanning for hostiles. I saw none. When I swiveled back to Lizard, he had just reached his respiratory pause (that point at the end of a normal exhale when the body naturally pauses in preparation for the next breath) and his index finger reached for his trigger.
Without hesitation, I instantly moved my crosshairs over Lizard’s ear hole and pulled the trigger. For a split second, I saw Jerry flinch in surprise as blood and brain matter exploded out the side of Lizard’s head and misted over him.
CHAPTER 5
The crowd below us erupted in chaos at the explosion from my rifle, stampeding away from the stage in all directions and seeking shelter wherever they could find it. I caught sight of Dawn rushing up the steps and toward the vice president, where a team of agents had formed a protective circle around her and were ushering her off the stage. Dawn went around them and covered their retreat, scanning the crowd with her pistol. Sheriff Chiasson was beside her—his own pistol in hand—and was scanning the crowd as well.
“You son of a bitch!” Spider bellowed from beside me. “Drop that rifle or I’ll kill you where you are!”
I immediately placed my hands on my head and scooted back from my rifle. “He was going to kill the vice president.”
“That’s bullshit!” With his rifle aimed at the back of my head, he grabbed his radio and barked into it, demanding to know what happened. It scratched to life and someone said Lizard was down but they hadn’t seen where the shot came from.
“I’ve got the bastard,” Spider said. “Get an arrest team up to Position One right away.”
In my earpiece, I heard a calm and familiar voice. “I’ve got him in my crosshairs, Sierra One. Say the word and I drop him.”
It was Rachael.
“Negative,” I said. “Stand easy. There was only one hostile.”
“Who’re you talking to?” Spider demanded, glancing out toward the stage and the other oil tanks. “Who’s in your ear? Who are you talking to?”
“You’ve got your people and I’ve got mine,” I said, slowly turning so I could see his face. He seemed like a confident man when we’d first met, but he was unsure of himself now. “Look, we’ll do this your way. I’ll go peacefully into your custody until we can sort this out, but you need to make damn sure there are no other bad guys in your—”
My words were cut off by gunfire from below. Ignoring Spider, I jumped back on my rifle and scanned the ground below us, searching for Dawn. I could sense Spider springing into action beside me. He began barking orders into his headset, directing his snipers to cover different sectors and asking anyone if they had any intelligence.
More gunshots erupted from the area of the stage and I shifted to zero in on that area. I saw Dawn squatting at the corner of the steps with two Secret Service agents, and they were firing toward the base of the oil tank Ray and Snail were positioned atop. When I scoped the area, I saw movement behind a metal gate and someone began firing a fully-automatic rifle in Dawn’s direction. Dawn ducked behind the steps and the gunfire turned toward the vice president’s motorcade.
Dawn was at least a hundred yards away, so I knew her pistol was no match for the automatic rifle.
“Damn it, does anyone have a shot?” Spider screamed into his radio.
“I’m on it,” Rachael mumbled coolly over the radio.
Just as she finished speaking, I heard a boom from the area of her oil tank and the automatic gunfire abruptly ceased.
“Suspect down,” Rachael reported.
As the last echoes of gunfire faded into the distance, everyone held their positions and watched, waiting for any sign of more hostile action. I turned my attention toward Jerry’s position and saw that he had wiped the blood from his face and was peering through his scope, unmoved by the body lying beside him. He seemed to be scanning the area of the motorcade. I looked in that direction and saw a Secret Service agent sprawled on the ground, blood covering the front of his dress shirt. Another agent was bent over him, trying to render first aid, but it looked hopeless.
As our sniper teams continued providing protective over-watch—scanning the thinning crowd for outside threats—the agents and deputies on the ground began slowly and cautiously moving from their positions of cover to assess the damage, triage the dozen, or so, injured rally attendees, and search the area. They waved off the frightened and uninjured civilians, ordering them to put their hands on top of their heads and move to the opposite side of the large parking lot, where other officers were waiting to search, photograph, and identify them.
I knew Vice President Browning was secured in one of the armored Suburbans—I couldn’t tell which one because of the dark tint covering the windows—and I surveyed the area around the entire motorcade. Several agents stood guard outside the vehicles and I closely examined their faces, looking for the slightest hint of issues with any of them. Once I felt comfortable with them, I turned toward where I’d last seen Dawn.
She had moved away from the steps and was now working with the two agents who had taken cover with her, and they were moving in on the dead would-be assassin that Rachael had put down. Although I could plainly see Rachael’s bullet had found the mark, I covered their approach anyway. When they reached the body, Dawn kicked the automatic rifle away and the agents flipped the lifeless figure over and handcuffed him.
I caught movement to my right and swiveled over to it just in time to see Sheriff Chiasson appear from behind his Tahoe. His voice suddenly boomed over the police radio, asking the deputies by the gate if everything was secure. Someone responded that they had moved the stunned crowd back without any resistance.
“They’re all freaked out,” called a voice that sounded a lot like Abraham Wilson. “We won’t be having problems with any of them today.”
“Ten-four,” replied the sheriff. “Don’t let any of them leave. We’ve got an army of federal investigators en route from
New Orleans to take over the investigation. If need be, we can get them food and water, but they’re not going anywhere until the feds interview them.”
My police radio went quiet for a while and then Spider got a phone call. When he hung up, he said the motorcade was fixing to leave with the vice president. “They’re taking her to a secure location in New Orleans.”
I only nodded, scanning the area below for even the slightest threat. I could feel Spider’s eyes on me, but I didn’t acknowledge him. After a few long minutes, he broke the silence.
“How’d you know Lizard was bad?”
“Just a hunch.”
“You killed him on a hunch?” Spider asked incredulously. “What if you had been wrong?”
“I didn’t shoot him on a hunch,” I explained. “I had a hunch he was bad, but I didn’t shoot him until he confirmed it for me.”
“How’d he do that?”
“His training gave him away.”
“What are you getting at, London Carter?”
I sighed and turned away from my rifle, fixing Spider with a hard gaze. “What’s one of the first things snipers are taught about trigger discipline?”
He shrugged. “Never put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to engage your target.”
“And that’s exactly what he did,” I said. “When he was ready to engage his target, he put his finger on the trigger. That’s when I stopped him.”
Spider nodded thoughtfully, staring toward the oil tank where Lizard’s body could still be seen as he had fallen. “I can’t believe he turned rogue. He was one of our best guys and a solid leader. Been on the team for ten years.”
“What’s his real name?” I asked, turning back to my rifle.
“Trace Mullins. He’s got a wife and two daughters.” Spider shook his head. “What on earth are we going to tell them?”
CHAPTER 6
Tuesday, May 27