by BJ Bourg
It was four in the morning when I walked into the dark conference room at our office in Payneville. Located in the central part of Magnolia Parish, Payneville was home to our criminal operations center and where the detective bureau was located. Every detective had a desk and computer set up there, but some detectives—like Dawn Luke—operated primarily out of substations to the north or south.
The feds had set up a satellite office inside the conference room and were wired into the helmet cams of their tactical team members, who were preparing to raid the home of Trace Mullins, which was located in a small neighborhood an hour north of Roanoke, Virginia.
“What are we watching?” I asked Spider, taking my seat next to him and looking up at the giant television on the wall. I had just finished my statement to the federal investigators and they had invited me to sit in to view the raid of Mullins’ home. The sheriff was at one end of the table and he nodded his head solemnly in my direction.
“They just made their way through a neighbor’s yard and they’re approaching the back door.” Spider pointed toward the screen. “Screen one is tapped into the team leader’s helmet.”
I watched the camera bobble slowly as the leader crept closer and closer to the back door. His pistol was extended out in front of his body, the muzzle moving wherever his camera moved. The perspective was similar to that of a video game. Once the leader reached the back door, the camera dropped low and he turned to look behind him and wave. In the darkness, we saw a figure peel from the back of the stack and make his way to the front of the line with a battering ram in his hands. The camera was focused on the operator with the ram until he stopped in front of the door and smashed it in. At that point, three other operators rushed past the team leader and disappeared inside, with the team leader on their heels. The camera recorded as much detail as it could in their haste to reach the two bedrooms located upstairs in the house.
After making their way up the stairway, the first operator peeled off and entered a door to the right, while the second and third operators continued to the next door down the hall. The leader followed the first operator into the bedroom and he nearly bumped into him as they both skidded to a stop when they took in the scene before them.
“Dear Jesus,” said the team leader in a low voice. “What has happened here?”
“Medic! Medic!” one of the other operators cried over the radio from the other room. “We need a medic in here—we’ve got a live one!”
We could hear footsteps pounding up the stairway and down the hall as we watched the team leader scan the room with his camera. Someone to my right gasped out loud when the camera closed in on the bed and we saw a woman’s nude and bloodied body come into view in the dim light from someone’s flashlight. It was obvious she had been stabbed multiple times. Her body was positioned in such a way that suggested sexual assault. Her hands were bound and there was a strip of tape across her mouth. There were pieces of tape around her ankles, but the tape between her feet had been cut loose to separate her legs.
“What in the world is going on?” The Secret Service commander stood slowly to her feet and stared in shock at the television screen.
“Is that Lizard’s wife?” I asked, leaning close to Spider and keeping my voice low.
He nodded. The glow from the television screen made his eyes appear haunting. “That’s Sandi. He’s got two little girls…”
Spider’s voice trailed off and tears came to his eyes.
The commander reached over and keyed up the base station radio mic on the conference table. “What’s the status on the children?” There was a sense of urgency in her voice. “Damn it, how are the girls?”
A radio scratched through the large speakers in the room and we all held our breaths, waiting for news from the other room. After a long pause, a hoarse voice said, “You can cancel the medic. It’s no use…they’re gone. They’re both gone.”
CHAPTER 7
Friday, May 30
It was a little after five in the evening when I walked wearily into the living room and sat on the couch beside Dawn. It had been a long day at work. I would’ve been looking forward to the weekend, but Dawn was heading out to see her family again and I was on primary call for the bureau, so I couldn’t join her. Karla Boudreaux was on secondary call and I could’ve asked her to cover for me, but I was never one to shun my duties.
While I still loved my job as much as I ever did, I was beginning to realize there was one thing I loved more than all of it—and she was sitting right beside me. I put a hand on Dawn’s bare leg and rubbed the area just above her knee. She leaned her head on my shoulder, but her eyes were fixated on the television. She muted the volume when a commercial came on.
“It’s been nonstop, wall-to-wall coverage all week,” she said. “But the investigation doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. Have you heard anything from Agent Buckner?”
I told her that Spider (Agent Ross Buckner) had called that morning and provided some details, although it seemed like he didn’t want to be responsible for leaking too much information. “They believe there were three men involved in the hostage taking and murder of Trace Mullins’ family, but they’ve got no clue who the men are. Their only lead is a white pickup truck with temporary tags and a bumper sticker of a dog peeing on an image of the White House.”
“Are they still working off the theory that these men took his wife and daughters hostage and ordered him to kill the vice president or they’d murder them all?”
I nodded, frowning. “Spider said the coroner believes they were killed hours before the assassination attempt.”
“Wow, they never had a chance.” Dawn shook her head. “Those are some ruthless bastards.” After a brief silence, she asked about Agent Stuart Bagford, who was the protective detail leader from the Secret Service who had opened fire after I shot Trace Mullins (Lizard).
“Spider said Bagford’s fiancé was found murdered in her apartment, and it looks like she was also murdered long before the attack on the vice president.”
“Look”—Dawn pointed toward the television, where a reporter with long blonde hair was standing in front of a two-story home—“it’s back on.”
“I’m standing in front of the home of Secret Service Agent Trace Mullins,” the woman began, “where police made a grisly discovery here early Tuesday morning. Details are still sketchy and officials remain tightlipped, but a source close to the investigation confirmed that Agent Mullins was one of two agents who went rogue in an assassination attempt on Vice President Courtney Brown in Louisiana at the beginning of the week that left three dead and a dozen others wounded.
“According to this source, a sharpshooter from the Magnolia Parish Sheriff’s Office stopped Mullins before he could carry out his attack. Moments later, another sheriff’s office sharpshooter shot and killed Agent Stuart Bagford, but not before he opened fire on the VP’s motorcade and killed another Secret Service agent. While officials won’t verify the names of the local sharpshooters, we reported earlier this week that our unnamed source informed us that London Carter, who is the leader of the Magnolia Parish Sniper Team, was responsible for foiling this attempt on the VP’s life. You might remember the name London Carter from several high profile incidents over the past…”
I winced when they plastered my commission picture up on the television screen. I didn’t like it when people talked about me, especially on such a platform.
“Oh, my man’s a celebrity,” Dawn said coyly, the corners of her mouth curling up into a seductive smile.
I waved her off and turned back to the television, where they had moved off of me and the anchor in the studio was asking the reporter if there was a connection between the assassination attempt and the murders of Trace Mullins’ family.
“Federal investigators won’t comment, citing the ongoing investigation,” the reporter responded, “but my source tells me investigators initially explored the idea that Mullins had killed his family before leaving for New Orleans, bu
t an investigator from the medical examiner’s office ruled that theory out, saying the bodies had not been dead that long. And when they found Stuart Bagford’s fiancé stabbed to death and sexually assaulted in her uptown apartment, they began to think both cases were related to each other, especially when they discovered that Bagford was working with Mullins in the assassination attempt.”
“Do the federal investigators have any leads?” the anchor asked.
“While there has been no official word yet, my source tells me they suspect three men, but that’s all we know at this time.”
“Were the men’s families killed because the plot was foiled by Mr. Carter and his sharpshooters?”
“According to my source, the families were already dead when Sniper London Carter acted to save the VP.”
“What about the order of the hostage incidents—did they happen at the same time? If so, are authorities looking for two groups of terrorists?”
“My source tells me Mullins’ family was taken hostage sometime during the evening hours on Sunday, and then later that night he was contacted via a video chat application and ordered to assassinate the vice president in exchange for their safe release. As for Bagford, it seems his fiancé was kidnapped early Monday morning and a video was sent to his cell phone hours before Mullins was shot by the local sharpshooter.
“You know, the real mystery that’s baffling federal investigators is how London Carter was able to determine Mullins was going to assassinate the vice president when no one else suspected a thing—”
I smashed the power button on the remote, shutting it off. “I’ve heard about enough of this garbage.”
Dawn turned her head to face me. “Will you go to the interview?”
“I don’t want to.” Three national news organizations had been hounding the sheriff all week, begging for an interview with me, but I’d been resisting. The sheriff thought it would be an excellent idea, but I wasn’t so sure. I preferred to remain hidden in a sniper hide somewhere far away rather than being in the national spotlight. Somehow, the news organizations found my cell phone number and began calling me directly. After answering two unfamiliar numbers and getting two reporters, I stopped answering unfamiliar calls. If it was someone who really needed me, they’d leave a message and I’d call back.
Without saying a word, I snaked my hand behind Dawn’s back and pulled her toward me. She went with it and straddled me on the sofa, wrapping her hands around my neck and staring down into my brown eyes. She pouted.
“It’s getting harder and harder to leave you,” she said. “And there’s always that worry in the back of my mind that something will happen again…”
Her voice trailed off and I could see she was still troubled by the shooting. It had been a year and a half since it happened, but the memory of it still seemed to bother her. She’d told me often during the past year how she couldn’t bear the thought of losing me, and it was usually when we were talking about that incident.
“If I lost you,” she said just then, “I’d survive, but I wouldn’t be happy about it.”
“You don’t have to worry about a thing,” I said smoothly, pulling her lips to mine. As we kissed, I reached under her shirt with my left hand and twisted the snap on her bra with my thumb and index finger. She shuddered when the bra straps fell free.
“You’re starting to get good at that,” she whispered between kisses.
“Lots of practice,” I said, and flipped her onto her back on the sofa.
CHAPTER 8
An hour later…
“Maybe I should just stay home,” Dawn said, looking around the living room, searching for her panties and bra. Her body was tanned and tone and I just sat for a minute, appreciating how beautiful she was. She caught me watching her and I saw her face blush as she smiled in embarrassment.
I smiled and stood to pull on my jeans. As much as I wanted to selfishly agree that she should stay home, I knew it was important for her to spend time with her family. “Your dad has been looking forward to this climbing trip since the winter,” I said. “You really should go.”
She sighed and lumbered through getting dressed. When she was done, she glanced at her watch. “I guess I’ll drive half way tonight and then finish the ride in the morning. If I get there by noon we can get a few good climbs in before we have to make camp.”
“Just be careful out there in the mountains.” I stepped close and touched her face. “I want you coming back to me in one piece.”
“My dad’s the best belayer I know, and as bad as he was to my mom, he’d died before letting me get hurt on the rocks.”
I nodded and was about to say I’d kill him if he let her get hurt, but my cell phone rang and interrupted our conversation. I shook my head, knowing it could only mean one thing—I was being called out to work a case. In our haste to disrobe, I’d tossed my cell phone to the side and began to hunt for it. Following the ringing sound, I searched until I found it in the crack between two of the sofa cushions. “This is London,” I said when I answered.
It was Headquarters and the dispatcher said there had been a burglary in Seasville and they needed me to respond. “We have a deputy on scene and he’s asking for a detective.”
“Text the address to me and I’ll be on my way shortly.” I hung up and placed my phone on the coffee table. I wrapped Dawn in my arms and kissed her one last time before helping to bring her luggage to her Jeep Wrangler. I then stood in the driveway and watched her drive away, hoping for a safe trip. Although I knew I should be growing accustomed to watching her drive away to visit her parents, it wasn’t getting any easier, and I began to wonder what was happening to me. You’re getting soft, old boy, I said, not liking it.
Knowing it would be a long and boring weekend without Dawn, I sighed and went inside to retrieve my phone and pistol. I then headed out the door, glancing at the text message from dispatch as I did. I squinted when I saw it, pulled it closer to be sure. “That house is on Dawn’s street—or what used to be her street.”
Dawn had spent nearly every night at my house since I’d returned from the hospital, and we’d often joked that her house would be declared abandoned property because most of her stuff was already at my place and the only time we went there was to cut the grass. When I had suggested she officially move in with me, she hadn’t hesitated and we’d hauled her stuff over to my place on the very next night. Lying in bed one night, she told me she used to be paranoid about sleeping over because she was worried that she snored. She said her mom snored something awful and she was afraid she was just like her. While she did snore a little, I’d never said a thing about it because I didn’t want her to leave.
I thought about calling Dawn to let her know there was a burglary on her street, but decided against it. I didn’t want to interrupt her trip any more than I already had. When her mom had first gotten sick Dawn would spend a lot of time in Arkansas—nearly every weekend—but once they received news that Priscilla Luke was cancer-free, she started visiting every couple of weeks to once a month. It had actually been nearly two months since she’d been up there last and her dad was looking forward to taking her rock climbing like old times, so it was important that she went. I’d gone with Dawn a few times, but my double duties (sniping and detective work) didn’t always allow for it…much like this weekend.
I turned up my good-time radio, which was mostly tuned in to country music, and tried to clear my mind as I drove. I didn’t want to think about Dawn being gone and I didn’t want to think about the assassination attempt on the vice president. The sheriff had told me VP Browning wanted to fly me to Washington D.C. so she could meet me and personally thank me for saving her life, but I was hoping she’d forget about it. I liked Louisiana just fine and I didn’t feel the need to go to Washington. I’d been there as a kid and, while it was informative and I learned a lot about the history of our great country, that had been enough for me. I’d take the swamps or any other wilderness terrain over city streets any day.
“Headquarters, I’m ninety-seven (at the scene),” I radioed to dispatch once I pulled into the driveway of the complainant’s home. It was two houses before Dawn’s and on the same side of the street. There was a marked patrol car in the driveway.
The sun was setting behind the house and was in my face. I had to shield my eyes when I stepped from my truck in order to make out the facial features of the couple walking toward me. The man’s hair was gray and his face weathered, while the woman’s face was smooth and her hair dark—well, except along the very roots, where it was white as freshly-driven snow. They both wore sandals, straw hats, shorts, and matching shirts from Cozumel.
“Can you believe this?” the man asked in a heavy Cajun accent. “We just get back from a five-day cruise and we come home to find out someone broke into our house.”
I almost asked where they had gone, but resisted the urge. “Where’s the deputy?” I asked.
“He’s around back checking the house. He said it wasn’t a good idea that we go inside until he makes sure it’s safe.”
“Yeah,” the wife said. “He told us he didn’t want us touching anything either, because he said we might contaminate the crime scene.”
“Can you show me where he went?”
The man nodded and I followed them up the driveway and around the back of the house, where the concrete slab wrapped around and covered all of the back yard. A large in-ground pool was located at the center of the back yard and two lounge chairs were positioned in the shade of the back carport. A nice setup, for sure, and they never had to cut grass back there.
The couple stopped near the back door and the man pointed to the busted doorframe. “Bastards kicked open that door. The deputy is inside.”
I motioned for them to step across the street to the neighbor’s house. “Let me help him clear the house first, just to make sure no one’s still inside.”