Mercy Kill

by Lori Armstrong

  “Did you just leave him there?”

  “No. But I couldn’t face Dawson and his suspicion about me finding yet another body, especially when he already thinks I’m a walking catastrophe, so I called Kiki. She’s taking credit for my accidental police work.” I drained my Coke. “I need to go home. Thanks for the ear.”

  “Anytime, doll.”

  Anna wasn’t around when I returned to the cabin. Chances were she was at Pete’s Pawnshop, pawing through junk and jawing with Pete. I didn’t get her fascination with the place, but I was secretly happy she wasn’t underfoot.

  So far, Anna’s purchases, besides the TV/DVD player, consisted of a crusty milk can, a rainbow crocheted tissue box, and a pair of spurs. When I asked her about the spurs, since she’d never ridden a horse, she handed them to me as a gift and explained the spurs were a daily reminder for me to face my fears.

  Maybe it was snarky, demanding to see what she’d bought for herself. She showed me a tiny plain tin box. I opened it, expecting to find a treasure, but there was nothing within.

  Anna explained the box represented her: small, unadorned, tough on the outside, but inside … empty.

  I’d stopped asking about her purchases after that.

  With no campaign events scheduled, and no job demanding my time, I looked forward to a night at home. But I needed something to take my mind off finding Victor’s body. Or from wondering if Cherelle had played me. Or from wishing I’d never agreed to run for sheriff.

  I wasn’t in the mood to target shoot, but I could quiet my mind and keep my hands busy by catching up on reloading.

  Catch up. Right. I had bins of shell casings. Not only because I’d spent a lot of time shooting, but in my boredom, I’d stumbled across my dad’s storage cache of casings. His “storage” method consisted of throwing spent shell casings in Sheetrock buckets in the barn. It’d taken me a solid week to sort, throw out, clean, and organize the shells.

  Not all shooters reload their ammunition. I did it in a limited capacity. Shells were damn expensive and harder to come by for larger calibers. Since my dad taught me to shoot, he’d also taught me to reload. The tangy scent of brass reminded me of him, and today I had the overwhelming urge to connect with some part of him.

  A clement breeze, overloaded with the scent of the chokecherry blossoms, eddied around me as I headed to the storage shed. I grabbed the reloading bench and carried it into the cabin. Most people didn’t reload in the house, but the shed was too small, too dark, and just plain uncomfortable. Any activity with firearms, including bullets, made Hope nervous, so I’d hauled everything—the bench, the tools, the die sets, the scale, the tumblers, and the cans of gunpowder—from the barn to the cabin. If I wanted to set up my reloading bench in the damn kitchen, I could. My house, my rules.

  I’d already “cleaned” the cases by tossing them in the tumbler with ground walnut shells. Then I sealed them in plastic bags so they were ready to reload when I had time.

  I chose the die I needed for pressing out the spent primers and resizing the cases, screwing it into the top of the loading press. Getting the first case properly sized took the most time.

  My mind was blessedly blank as I focused on each step. I’d managed to finish half the lot in blissful silence when I heard a car in the drive. Anna had returned.

  She wandered in and tossed her ball cap on the couch. “Hey, you’re doing something useful, imagine that.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Do you ever just sit around and do … nothing?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “Sad. You want a beer?”

  “Nah.” Mixing alcohol and gunpowder? Not a good idea.

  Anna plopped down next to me after helping herself to a Corona. “So. Reloading, huh?”

  I tapped powder into the scale and adjusted the weights. “Yep.”

  “I’ve never reloaded.”

  “You’ve never had to buy your own ammo,” I pointed out.

  “True. And usually I don’t have time to hang around and pick up brass. I’m too busy hauling ass away from the scene.”

  We drifted into companionable silence as she sipped her beer and watched me work.

  “How many empty casings do you have?” she asked.

  “Depends on the caliber. I’ve got bins in the tool shed if you wanna take a peek. I must have a thousand of this type for my dad’s Remington 722 bolt-action varmint rifle. Because it’s an off caliber, .222, it’s hard to find casings.”

  Anna whistled. “Man. I guess it’s true what they say about rednecks having a secret arsenal.”

  “Ain’t a lot to do out here besides shoot, A-Rod.” I tipped the powder into the shell.

  “No kidding. Don’t mind telling you, I never thought I could miss the millions of people in California, but I do.” She picked up a casing. “So what was the last varmint you shot with your dad’s rifle?”

  “Prairie dogs.”

  “I don’t know if I could kill a prairie dog. They’re so cute.”

  My mouth stayed firmly shut. Anna had no issue shooting a person? But she balked at shooting a rat with a brain the size of a dime? I ignored the dichotomy and said, “I should’ve smoked the damn mountain lion that crossed my path, but I didn’t.”

  “I’m actually really happy you didn’t kill it.”

  I bristled. “Whatever pity that kept me from shooting her that morning came back to bite me in the ass. A couple days later she got into the herd and attacked a calf. The mama cow stomped the hell out of her and eventually killed her, but the calf died anyway.” That’d been a fun conversation with Jake.

  “You people have such a different life out here. It’s like you’re from another planet.

  “Says the woman who grew up in L.A.” I changed the subject. “What’d you do today?”

  “This and that. Hung out with Pete and Re-Pete.”

  “What’d you buy?”

  “A funky old cane. You should check out Pete’s place, Mercy. He brings in all kinds of new stuff every day.”

  “After he buys it for pennies on the dollar and jacks up the price,” I muttered. Not nice, Mercy. “How’s their coffee shop biz?”

  “Opening next week. Since I’m ‘citified,’ they wanted my opinion on their new pumpkin-spice coffee.”

  “And?”

  “And I told them they didn’t have to put actual chunks of pumpkin in for it to be authentic.”

  I stopped measuring powder and looked at her. “Are you serious?”

  “No.” She laughed. “You never used to be so gullible, Gunny.”

  “Seems to be a theme today.”

  “Trouble on the campaign trail?”

  I shrugged. I couldn’t tell her about Victor. Doubtful she’d shed tears for him anyway. “I’m just having trouble processing a couple of things.”

  “Like?” she prompted.

  Like are Shay Turnbull and John-John’s claims true? Am I predisposed to a connection with the newly dead?

  “Like making a decision and not knowing whether it is the right one.”

  Anna drained her beer. “Be specific. We talking life-and-death decisions? Or dealing with those murky gray areas?”

  “Murky gray,” I admitted.

  “You’ve always had trouble with them, Gunny.”

  I bristled again. “No, I haven’t.”

  “Yes, you have.”

  “Name one time.”

  “The time we were on convoy detail and you couldn’t take out that old man.”

  Goddammit. I hated that I’d goaded her into bringing it up because I’d tried like hell to forget it’d ever happened.

  During our stint at the start of the Iraq War, while we were awaiting new transfer orders to St. Mere, aka Camp Fallujah, we were stationed at Camp Ramadi and tasked to provide escort “services” along with the marines as part of their Tactical Movement Team. Our job was to protect the supply convoys traveling between Camp Ramadi to Combat Outpost to Camp Corregidor and back. />
  At the time, that area was the most dangerous stretch of road in all of Iraq, nicknamed “the Gauntlet.” Our convoys were consistently subjected to IEDs, sniper fire, mortar rounds, grenades, RPGs, Molotov cocktails. Basically, anything they could throw at us—or shoot at us—they did. “They” meaning rebel kids as young as five and old arthritic men. The insurgents used every dirty, inhumane trick in the book, and the hell of it was, it worked … at first. Our side sustained plenty of casualties.

  Those of us unfortunate enough to be in the forefront of the first wave of “protection” passed the intel back to the powers that be, who revised the ROE (Rules of Engagement), which details the level of force authorized, in addition to the EOF (Escalation of Force), which provides criteria for reaching that deadly force threshold. The rules were in place for a reason, but it was frustrating when we were subjected to restricted ROE—usually at the behest of whoever was in command.

  Normally on the convoys, we were assigned to the gun trucks. None of the marines or our fellow army soldiers blinked at having a woman manning the machine guns. The most qualified person was selected for the job. Gender was a nonissue, and what defined “combat” was a murky area at best. Getting hit with mortar rounds every damn day at base camp meant we were all in combat situations, regardless of whether we were officially deemed in the field or not.

  With limited manpower, each vehicle averaged four soldiers. One of our sniper team members was on each truck, usually running the M240B or the M2, along with a marine driver and the TC (Truck Commander) who operates the radios, monitors in-vehicle chatter, and is linked to the main battle command system BFT (Blue Force Tracker). The third person was a spare gunner in case something happened to the first gunner—sadly, that was a frequent occurrence.

  Corporal McGuigan, a young marine, was behind the wheel. As the highest-ranking officer, Captain Thrasher took the passenger seat as the TC. In this particular procession, I was relegated to the backseat of the Humvee, the designated spare, while my team member A-Rod manned the turret.

  Since it was a convoy situation, if we took sniper fire, we weren’t allowed to stop, pinpoint the source, and remove the threat, which was usually our job on the sniper teams. Instead, we had to duck and cover, wearing full battle rattle, and keep the convoy moving. That always chapped my ass, but like a good soldier, I did my job, shut my mouth, and snapped off a “Yes, sir.”

  We rolled out at 2200, so by the time we saw the sun come up hours later, we’d almost be at our destination. The “no unscheduled stops” had been drilled into our heads from day one.

  About four hours into the slow-going desert trek, we were advised to take a tactical pause—army speak for a piss break. Answering the call of nature was no big deal for the guys. Although most female soldiers balked at any kind of special treatment because of our gender, the darkness was a godsend for quick, private relief. The women I served with had incorporated unique tricks to emptying full bladders while in the midst of several hundred men and when confined in a vehicle. Consequently, I didn’t need to relieve myself and opted to remain inside the Humvee.

  Turned out to be a smart move on my part, because we immediately came under attack from small-arms fire.

  Chaos ensued. I heard shouts outside the vehicle, shouts in my headphones as everyone was ordered to cease fire. When I saw two of the other drivers dragging McGuigan behind our vehicle, I immediately scrambled out to check his injuries before Captain Thrasher barked at me to get my CLS (Combat Life Saver) bag.

  McGuigan was dazed. The Kevlar vest had kept the sniper bullet from piercing the kid’s chest. A bullet had grazed the inside of his right thigh, just missing the femoral artery. It bled like a son of a bitch. I managed to get him patched up enough until we reached camp with medical facilities. McGuigan also sustained an enormous bruise on the back of his skull after smacking his head into the vehicle when he’d gone down. I made him as comfortable in the backseat of our Humvee as quickly as I could.

  Without making eye contact with me, Captain Thrasher snapped, “You’re driving. Let’s go.”

  I hated to drive. I tended to pass the buck to a subordinate whenever possible, but this time I didn’t argue. Thrasher outranked me, and every TC I’d ever dealt with would only give up his command post if he took direct fire and died.

  Hours on the road without further engagement or incidents lulled me into a false sense of security. Around sunrise, when the shadows lengthened and played tricks on weary eyes, I saw something in the road two hundred yards ahead. I’d glanced at Thrasher, but he was fiddling with the headset. I briefly closed my eyes, reopened them, expecting a mirage, but I realized it was a person in the middle of the damn road. An old man dragging a goat tethered with a rope. At one hundred yards out I took my foot off the gas.

  Thrasher looked up and said, “Why are you slowing down?”

  “Civilian in the road, sir.”

  Thrasher swore and then spoke to A-Rod through his headset. “Sergeant Rodriguez. Eliminate the obstacle in the road.”

  “Roger, sir.”

  The vehicle started to shake; A-Rod had fired up the M240B. The gunfire started and stopped abruptly. Over the headset I heard A-Rod say, “Sir, the gun jammed, and I missed the target. Give me a sec.”

  “No time.” Thrasher faced me. “Run that fucker over, Master Sergeant.”

  My grip increased on the steering wheel. “I’m just supposed to hit him head-on and watch him splat like a bug on the windshield?”

  “Yes. And that’s an order.”

  When I was behind my gun scope, I saw targets, not people. Procedure is simple: Aim. Verify. Shoot. I rarely remembered the faces of the targets I’d been ordered to eliminate, but this was different, this was an old man, probably someone’s grandfather. Wearing tattered dishdashas. Tethered to a goat. Probably the only livestock he owned. I saw the man’s face and his haunted, desperate eyes.

  Which was probably why I swerved to miss him at the last second and set off the IED buried on the side of the road.

  Dirt exploded across the windshield. I heard pieces of shrapnel chinking against the side of the vehicle. The Humvee rocked on its wheels, and we bounced hard before coming to an abrupt stop.

  My ears rang, my head pounded, my body ached. The smell of burning rubber and oil was thick in the confines of the Humvee. And the taste of salt and dirt coated my lips and tongue.

  Completely rattled, I squinted out the window, trying to take stock of the situation. Another man, not the old decrepit man who’d willingly sacrificed himself in hopes of taking a few of us out with him, was racing across the desert like a world-class sprinter.

  Son of a bitch. The triggerman. We would’ve been fucked either way. I reached for my gun the same time the man’s head burst into scarlet mist and chunks of his body flew up like he’d been tossed into a meat grinder gone haywire.

  As activity burst around me, I didn’t budge. I couldn’t believe I’d felt an ounce of sympathy. My hesitation, or dare I say my show of … humanity … disturbed me. The tip-off would’ve been obvious even to a wet-behind-the-ears private. No one stands by the road, alone, in a desert, in the wee small hours, defiantly facing down a U.S. military convoy.

  And if they did? They certainly didn’t live to tell about it.

  The IED didn’t significantly damage the Humvee, nor did A-Rod sustain anything but superficial injuries. She didn’t say a word when Thrasher and his commanding officer chewed my ass up one side and down the other.

  I’d convinced myself I was doing A-Rod a favor by letting her drive, but the truth was, I needed to feel the stinging sand and scorching rays on my face to burn away my shame.

  For years after that incident, I never faltered in my responsibilities. I pulled the trigger—literally and figuratively—every single time.

  Until I’d run across that lioness.

  I’d never let sentimentality affect my judgment again. Never.

  “Mercy? You still with me?” Anna said.<
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  “Yeah.” I put a bullet on top of the casing and pushed the ram down, seating the bullet to the proper depth. “Just reliving that fun time when I realized I’d fucked up and nearly got us all blown up.” I looked at Anna. “Has it ever happened to you?”

  “What? Freezing up to the point that I didn’t take out my target?”

  I nodded.

  She took a drink of beer as she measured me. “Nope. Not ever. Not when I was enlisted, not now that I’m a private contractor. Then again, we’re different, Gunny.”

  “How so?”

  “You follow orders. I follow my gut instinct. Sometimes, doing what’s wrong is the only thing that feels right.”

  A chill ran down my spine that didn’t have a damn thing to do with the cool breeze blowing in.

  Three raps sounded, and Sheriff Dawson appeared in the open doorway.

  Why hadn’t I heard him drive up?

  “Mind if I come in?”

  I said, “Sure. You here on official business?”

  His face took on a guarded expression, as if he couldn’t believe my antagonism right off the bat.

  Quickly, I amended, “I only asked if you were off duty because if you are, I’ll offer you a beer.”

  Dawson relaxed into the door frame. “I’ll pass. But thanks.”

  “So you just out making the rounds?”

  “Yes and no. I’m here to give you a heads-up.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “A homicide.”

  I played dumb. “Another one? You’re kidding me. Who?”

  “Deputy Moore found Victor Bad Wound’s body this afternoon at Mulligan’s.”

  “Holy shit. Really? How long had he been missing?”

  “No one knows because it wasn’t officially reported.”

  I frowned. “Huh. How’d he die?”

  “Multiple gunshot wounds. We’re tentatively placing time of death between twenty-four and forty-eight hours ago.”

  “So you came by to … warn me a shooter is on the loose or something?”

  “Not exactly.” He shifted his stance. “You crossed paths with Victor a couple of times.”

  “Unavoidable when Saro’s group started coming into Clementine’s. I broke up a fight involving his nephew at Stillwell’s, and Victor and Saro cornered me. But that was the extent of my contact with him.”