N.O. Justice, page 1
N.O. JUSTICE
* * *
An Alex Shepherd Novel
C.W. LEMOINE
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. The views in this book do not represent those of the United States Air Force Reserve or United States Navy Reserve. All units, descriptions, and details related to the military are used solely to enhance the story's realism and credibility.
Cover artwork by EBook Launch
Copyright © 2021 C.W. LEMOINE
All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
N.O. Justice (Alex Shepherd, #3)
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
This book is dedicated Michael Hayes. You were a good friend, captain, and the best reader. Rest in peace, my friend. Semper Fi.
"Revenge is an act of passion; vengeance of justice. Injuries are revenged; crimes are avenged.”
— Samuel Johnson
THE ALEX SHEPHERD SERIES:
ABSOLUTE VENGEANCE: THE ALEX SHEPHERD STORY (BOOK 1)
THE HELIOS CONSPIRACY (SPECTRE SERIES BOOK 7)
I AM THE SHEEPDOG. (ALEX SHEPHERD BOOK 2)
Visit www.cwlemoine.com and subscribe to C.W. Lemoine’s Newsletter for exclusive offers, updates, and event announcements.
Prologue
Trooper Darryl Simmons had only been out of the academy for just over a year. He had joined the Louisiana State Police at the age of twenty-six after two tours in Afghanistan with the Army and earned his degree in Criminal Justice at Southeastern Louisiana University. It was his dream job.
He had quickly proven himself in his new profession, earning the Aggressive Criminal Enforcement (ACE) Award after recovering six stolen vehicles with arrests in twelve months. It was the reason he had been hand-selected to DUI enforcement and trusted to work his own flexible hours.
It was an assignment he enjoyed immensely. He had become a Drug Recognition Expert and Standardized Field Sobriety Test (SFST) Instructor with a conviction rate just shy of 100%. The only case that had been thrown out was due to a local jurisdiction’s handling of the suspect at the scene of an accident, so the evidence was not admissible in court.
But that was all behind him, and Simmons was sure tonight’s shift would bring his numbers up to appease his superiors. He had already made two arrests that were slam dunks, and he still had three hours left to go in his shift. Simmons was confident he would at least get another drunk or ticket to finish out the evening, maintaining his place in the lead for stats in his small DUI unit.
It was just after 3 a.m. and Simmons was sitting in his unit parked in a church parking lot on a narrow stretch of two-lane highway between the small towns of Folsom and Sun in Southeast Louisiana. Simmons was just finishing up his report when he looked up and saw a small sedan with only one headlight approaching from the south on Highway 25.
The car passed by the lighted church parking lot, and Simmons saw a black Honda Civic with partially lowered, dark-tinted windows, and a broken license plate light. Having enough equipment violations to reasonably make a traffic stop, Simmons turned on his headlights and pulled out onto the highway behind the car.
As he accelerated to catch up with the car, he observed the vehicle slowly cross the centerline and then weave back toward the shoulder. When he was within a few car lengths, the driver apparently noticed him and brake-checked Simmons in an attempt to get him to back off.
Simmons called in the stop to dispatch and activated the blue emergency lights on his fully-marked Chevrolet Tahoe. The vehicle once again hit his brakes, but this time more gently, and pulled onto the shoulder.
Simmons pulled up behind the car and angled the nose of his vehicle to the left, giving him both cover in case the driver started shooting and protection against a vehicle rear-ending his Tahoe while he was conducting his roadside investigation. He called the driver out of the vehicle using the unit’s PA system as he grabbed his hat and killed the front emergency lights. He left his lightbar’s takedown lights and spotlight on the vehicle. His rear emergency lights remained on to warn any approaching motorists or potential backup of the traffic stop.
The driver stumbled out of the car, squinting and shielding his eyes with his right hand as he turned to face the bright LED lights. He left the door open as he pulled up his pants and staggered to meet Simmons at the rear of the vehicle. He was a black man with a shaved head who appeared to be in his mid to late thirties. Simmons estimated he was at least 6’4” and over three hundred pounds, nearly half a foot taller than the 5’9” state trooper.
“Step over here,” Simmons said, directing him away from the highway to the right rear corner of the Civic.
Simmons immediately noted the distinct odor of an alcoholic beverage and marijuana on the man’s breath and clothes as he neared. Simmons knew this would lead to another arrest, but he was careful not to let his guard down. He was alone on this stretch of highway, and backup from the local sheriff’s office could be anywhere from 10-20 minutes away since he was so close to the parish line.
“Man, why the fuck you hasslin’ me?” the man asked as he reluctantly complied.
“I’m Trooper Simmons with the Louisiana State Police. The reason I pulled you over tonight is your headlight was out, and you crossed the double-yellow line back there. Have you had anything to drink this evening, sir?” Simmons asked, maintaining a bladed stance with his right leg slightly back in case the man lunged toward the Glock 17 on his right hip.
“You pulled me over for a fucking headlight?” the man asked angrily as his right hand went into his pocket.
“Sir, keep your hands out of your pockets,” Simmons warned.
The man stopped and stared at Simmons. “I need a cigarette.”
“You can get a cigarette later. For your safety and mine, I need you to keep your hands out of your pockets.”
“Man, shit. This is bullshit,” the man said as he slowly removed his hand from his pockets. “I’m just trying to go home, and you are just harassin’ me.”
“What’s your name, sir?” Simmons asked as he observed the man’s dilated pupils.
“Terry,” he replied, leaning against the trunk of his car.
“Terry. Okay, what’s your last name?”
“Haynes,” Terry replied with a look of disgust.
“Okay, Mr. Haynes, where are you coming from this evening? Have you had anything to drink tonight?”
Terry shifted, still leaning against the car. “Man, I ain’t answering shit. I didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”
Simmons took his pen from his pocket and rested his finger on the top. “Okay, Mr. Haynes, I’m going to need you to stand up straight and look at the tip of my pen.”
Terry lazily stood, swaying slightly. “Follow the tip of my pen with your eyes and your eyes only. Do not move your head, do you understand?”
“Yeah,” Terry mumbled.
Simmons held the pen a few inches from Terry’s face. He then moved it from side to side, looking for the involuntary jerking of the eyes known as horizontal gaze nystagmus. As he moved the pen, Terry tracked it by moving his entire head.
“Keep your head still, Mr. Haynes,” Simmons warned.
“Man, fuck this,” Terry snapped.
Having established enough probable cause to make the DWI arrest, Simmons put the pen back in his shirt pocket. As he did, a car sped by, and Terry lunged toward Simmons.
Simmons, ste pped back, dodging Terry’s first punch but stumbled and tripped on a pothole on the shoulder. Terry connected with a right cross, and Simmons fell back into the grass by the ditch.
Simmons was dazed by the massive man’s hit but was determined to stay in the fight. As he reached for the Taser on his belt, he accidentally knocked the body-worn camera out of its holder, causing it to fall into the grass. He drew the Taser and fired as he scrambled to his feet.
One of the prongs connected and stuck in Terry’s shoulder, but the other missed, causing the Taser to be ineffective. Simmons started to rip the cartridge out to install a new one, but there was no time. His NFL lineman-sized attacker was surprisingly quick and already within striking distance.
Simmons managed to hit the red panic button on his radio, sending out a tone to alert dispatchers and other units that he was in the fight of his life. “Stop resisting!” he yelled.
Terry once again swung but, this time, Simmons surged toward him and bear-hugged him, staying inside Terry’s massive wingspan and taking him to the ground as his collar mic fell from his shirt.
As they went back to the ground, Terry grabbed Simmons and turned his body, landing on top of Simmons as the two hit the asphalt. Terry started pummeling Simmons as the much smaller trooper did his best to block the blows.
Simmons did his best to fight back, but he was no match for the much larger man who had the upper hand. As he started to feel himself losing consciousness, he felt Terry reaching for the Glock 17 in his holster.
Using his last bit of strength, Simmons punched Terry in the throat as hard as he could, causing him to choke and fall backward momentarily.
As Terry recovered and started back toward him, Simmons drew his weapon and fired rapidly from the hip, hitting Simmons six times in the chest and abdomen until the man fell face down into the grass next to the shoulder.
Simmons struggled to his feet and grabbed the collar mic that was now swinging by its cord. “Shots fired! Shots fired!”
Chapter One
It was only June, but it had already been a long, hot summer. And tempers, much like the temperatures, were on the rise.
At least, that’s what the nightly news told us every night before bed. I personally hadn’t seen any of the rioting, violence, or negative attitudes against police yet. For the most part, Fredericksburg was a sleepy Texas town and people seemed to be happy staying inside to avoid the heat.
And the ones that were out seemed to appreciate and support law enforcement. Although I was a School Resource Officer (SRO) for the Gillespie County Sheriff’s Office, I spent summers assisting various shifts in criminal patrol with my K-9 partner, Kruger. Almost everyone we encountered on the road told us how grateful they were that we were out there every night. We hardly ever paid for a meal in public. It was almost too much.
But on the opposite end of the spectrum, the rest of the country seemed to be in disarray. The shooting death of Terry Haynes by a Louisiana State Trooper near my old home in St. Tammany Parish had ignited riots and violent protests against law enforcement across the country. It was a war against law enforcement, and “Justice for Terry” was their battle cry.
It was a hotly debated topic among friends and family alike. My co-workers with the sheriff’s office were almost unanimously in support of Trooper Simmons’s actions. Terry Haynes had been solely responsible for his own death. Had he not decided to fight a state trooper on the side of the road while both drunk and high, he might still be alive.
But others, including the more liberal side of my fiancée’s family, felt that Haynes had been stripped of his right to due process and that this was more of the systematic racism present in law enforcement. They tended to side with the protesters, and although they didn’t believe Haynes had been executed in cold blood as some of the more radical rioters suggested, they did feel that Haynes was clearly a victim.
The Louisiana State Police was still investigating but had released the dashcam footage to try to ease tensions. Instead, it only seemed to make matters worse. The angle that Simmons had parked his unit made it hard to see what was going on, and as the fight progressed, the two were off-screen. All that could be heard was the sound of the two men scuffling. During the struggle, Trooper Simmons’s radio toned out before he yelled for Haynes to stop resisting and then shot him.
To make matters even worse, the media had discovered that Simmons had been wearing a body camera, but officials had yet to release the footage. The Louisiana State Police had explained that it wouldn’t have done any good in the incident because it had been knocked off during the fight, but of course, that didn’t seem to matter to anyone.
To the people protesting, none of the circumstances surrounding the death of Terry Haynes really mattered. Their reality was that another unarmed black man had been gunned down by police in cold blood for the simple crime of having a burned-out headlight. Enough was enough.
A few years ago, I might’ve been passionate about this issue. I probably would’ve been just like my co-workers, getting into debates with friends or family that sided with Haynes and explaining that law enforcement was a dangerous job without the benefit of perfect 20/20 hindsight.
I had felt passionate about that when I was a shift corporal with the St. Tammany Parish Sheriff’s Office. Working the streets was hard, and even when you did everything right, sometimes the best you could do was break even. The thin blue line of law enforcement was all that separated the innocent from the criminal element in the world, and some people just didn’t get it.
But that was Alex Shepherd – a part of me that had been buried with my family, only to be resurrected for a short time when my new friends in Fredericksburg found themselves in danger. But after the threat had passed, that part of me was once again dead and gone. After nearly losing everything yet again, I had locked it away in the depths of my soul and thrown away the key.
I had replaced it with a new identity, an identity I had created named Troy Wilson, or more formally, Deputy First Class Troy Wilson. Unlike the late Alex Shepherd, Troy Wilson was actually happy.
Despite a rocky start with my new identity, I had managed to bury my past and find true, lasting happiness as Troy Wilson. I loved my job as the SRO for Fredericksburg High School (FHS). I loved the people I worked for and with. And most importantly, I loved my new fiancée, Jenny Jenkins.
Jenny was a teacher at FHS, and although I had saved her life from some really bad guys, I credited her with saving mine. She had taught me how to love again and showed me it was okay to be happy again. She knew about my past, and it didn’t bother her one bit. It was like she could see right into my soul, as broken as I thought it was.
So, it was hard to care about the rest of the world’s politics and drama when everything in my life was finally back on track. Jenny and I were planning a fall wedding and using the summer slowdown to relax and just enjoy being in love. The rest of the world simply did not matter to me.
And why would it? I found myself in bed with my arms wrapped around the woman I loved in post-coital bliss. My best friend and K-9 partner, Kruger, was curled up at the foot of our bed next to Jenny’s miniature dachshund, Tank. It was exactly what I needed after a long day on duty.
I’m not sure why, with all of that going for me, I decided to turn on the evening news that night, but I did. The breaking news story was enough to jolt me back to reality like a cold bucket of water being dumped on me.
I shot upright in the bed as I read the headline and turned up the volume. Startled, Tank yelped and jumped off the bed, scrambling for cover while Kruger gave me a confused look.
“What’s wrong?” Jenny asked as she slowly sat up next to me and put her arm on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
I said nothing as I turned the volume up. The station cut to a female reporter standing in front of a hospital.
“Thanks, John. What we know so far is that earlier this afternoon, at around 2 p.m., Corporal Cindy Parker was dispatched to a medical emergency involving a small child just outside of Covington, Louisiana. When she arrived at the address, she was ambushed by two armed men who, police say, fled before deputies arrived,” the reporter said.
“Is that your old department?” Jenny asked.
I said nothing as footage from Sheriff Leon’s press conference started. I had worked for him as a corporal in St. Tammany Parish. He was a good man who really cared about his people. I could see the pain and anguish in his eyes as he stood in front of the crowd of reporters on screen.
