Mercy Kill

by Lori Armstrong

  I ground down on my molars so hard I swore that chips of my teeth sliced my tongue.

  “Take the shot.”

  “Stop talking. Stop moving.”

  “Why won’t you shoot me? Afraid to show everyone your true self ? Mercy, the merciless killer?”

  “I’m warning you. Stand down.”

  Anna kept blabbering. “Show them how a sniper snuffs out a life without a second thought.”

  “Last warning.”

  “Really? But you are having second thoughts, aren’t you?”

  Yes. Make her shut up. Make this stop.

  “You can’t kill me, can you?”

  Yes, yes, I can.

  “I remember a time when your cold-blooded efficiency scared even me, Mercy.”

  You can put an end to this.

  “Those days are long gone. You won’t do it.”

  “You sure?” The fog of indecision lifted. My purpose clicked.

  Site.

  Adjust.

  Aim.

  Breathe.

  Fire.

  “Yep. You’ve lost your edge. You’ve gone soft. Sentimental. Useless.”

  I fired. Twice. One in the chest. One in the face.

  Chunks of blood, bone, and brains splattered across the hostage’s face. He screamed as he and Anna crumpled to the ground.

  I didn’t bother to check to see if I’d made the kill shot.

  Law enforcement shouts of “Move in. Go, go, go!” filled my ears.

  How many times had I heard those orders after I’d cleared the obstacle in my crosshairs?

  Too many.

  But I was glad I’d called the sheriff’s department.

  I let my chin fall to my chest; my gun sagged by my side. I backed up. Ten, twenty, thirty steps. I didn’t care if I fell on my ass. I needed distance. In mind and body.

  Numbness spread. I welcomed it. But it wouldn’t last. It never did. My subconscious would play this scene over and over, mixing it into the soup of combat nightmares for a little spice and variety.

  You fell right into her trap. You could’ve wounded her. Instead, you took the shot and killed her.

  I did my job.

  More shouts, more footsteps. Tan uniforms blew past.

  But one uniform stopped directly in front of me.

  Dawson.

  Rough fingers nudged my chin up. I didn’t want to look in his eyes, afraid of what I’d see, so I squeezed mine shut. Tears leaked past my defenses anyway.

  “Mercy.”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “What?”

  “Anything,” I whispered.

  Silence.

  My knees buckled, spots swirled behind my lids, and my gun hit the ground.

  Dawson clamped his fingers around my biceps and held me upright. Not speaking. Not really touching me. Just keeping me from collapsing.

  When the light-headedness didn’t dissipate, I breathed slowly. Steadily. Trying to level the adrenaline in my system. Trying to keep it together.

  “Sheriff ?” someone shouted.

  Duty called. Dawson had more important things to do than babysit me. “Thank you. I’m fine now.” I attempted to retreat, but he held fast.

  “You’re far from fine. Let me take you home.”

  “That’s okay. You’ve got work to do.”

  “I’ll delegate.”

  “Dawson—”

  “Look at me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Goddammit. That was not a request.”

  I opened my eyes.

  Something dark and fierce stared back at me. “I am not leaving you alone.”

  My gaze flickered to the action by the barn.

  But Dawson’s right hand slid up and curled around my jaw, holding my damp face in place, keeping my physical focus on him. “Nothin’ you need to see over there.”

  “But—”

  “Listen to me. There’s nothin’ you need to see. I’m getting you out of here right now.”

  “Last time I shot someone you threw me in jail. Is that where you’re taking me?”

  “You’ll never let me forget that, will you?” he murmured.

  “Probably not.”

  “No. I’m not taking you to jail.”

  “But what about taking my statement?”

  “I’ll get it later.”

  Why was Dawson being so goddamn nice to me? I’d just killed a woman. Not any woman. A friend. A good friend. A friend who’d pulled my ass out of the fire more times than I could count. And I shot her. I just pulled the trigger and ended her life.

  How many more pieces of your soul can you lose before it’s gone completely?

  “Hey, Sergeant Major. Come back to me.”

  I looked in Dawson’s eyes since he was about an inch away from me. I flinched. Shuddered. The coldness was overtaking me.

  His thumbs skated over my cheekbones. “Let me help you, Mercy. Please.”

  “How?”

  The determination in his eyes didn’t waver. “I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out.”

  At least he hadn’t lied and given me platitudes about everything being all right. We both knew it wouldn’t be.

  Someone approached from behind, but Dawson never looked away from me. “What is it, Deputy Moore?”

  “The ambulance is en route for the hostage.”

  “Good.”

  “What do you want me to do next?”

  “Secure the scene. We’re leaving, and you’re in charge, Deputy.”

  “Ah. Sure, boss. But I’ve never—”

  “Then it’s past time you learned. Besides, this is linked to the FBI’s case, specifically Agent Turnbull’s case, and he’ll be here any second to take over. Defer to him.”

  “This is the feds’ case?”

  “Yes. And I’ve never been so glad to say that in my life.”

  Dawson’s hand fell from my face. He came alongside me, blocking my view, draping his arm over my shoulder. I leaned on him. At another time in my life I would’ve been resentful, prideful, mindful of appearing weak. Right now I didn’t care. I just wanted to curl up in a ball and hide.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Three weeks later …

  Being cooped up in the house made me antsy. Six guns and six hundred rounds of ammunition should’ve been enough to blow my blues away. But it wasn’t.

  The first week following Anna’s death had been a blur. Dawson dealt with Agent Turnbull. He dealt with the county prosecutor. He dealt with media and speculation. Then he dealt with me.

  Dawson hadn’t let me retreat to the cabin, which would’ve been my preference. He hadn’t let me crawl into a bottle, which had been my intention. I appreciated that he didn’t push me to talk. He didn’t hover, but he didn’t leave. Dawson was just there for me in a way no man had ever been. Not even my father.

  I was tired of keeping him at arm’s length. Denying us both a chance for something real. Something permanent. Something good.

  In typical Dawson fashion, once he’d sensed the change in me, he’d gone on the offensive. He moved in. Completely. Bringing his dog, his horse, his guns. The fact I let him share my gun vault and my bed was a good indication I had strong feelings for him.

  And he fit in with my family, too. He asked Hope for advice on the best way to connect with his son. Sophie baked his favorite cookies and set a place for him at the dinner table. Jake asked for his help setting up their new trailer. Even Poopy charmed him with gummy grins and cute baby antics.

  I didn’t ask if everyone in Eagle Ridge was aware of the change in our relationship. To be honest, I didn’t care.

  So while everything was going swimmingly on a personal level, on the professional front, I was back to square one. I realized, like Dad, I needed more than ranch work to fulfill me. Jake and I had a long talk, an honest talk, and we were both pleased with the result.

  Dawson asked me if I’d consider applying for the deputy position left vacant after Bill O’Neil’s resignation. I decl
ined. I’d finally drawn a line between Dawson the sheriff and Dawson the man, and I intended to keep it that way.

  While I contemplated my place in the universe, I lined up my shots. It wasn’t pointless to keep up with a skill that’d defined who I was—and who I still am. I practiced because I liked it. Because it soothed me. Chances were slim I’d ever use my sharpshooter skills in another occupation. While that was bittersweet, I’d finally accepted it.

  I’d also accepted that I needed professional help coping. Not only with killing Anna, but also with the aftermath of my military retirement.

  During my outprocessing, the army shrinks detailed the stages of the loss I faced in the transition from soldier to civilian. Loss of purpose, loss of power, loss of camaraderie, loss of skills, loss of structure … blah blah blah. Yeah, whatever. I’d convinced myself I was truck tough. Rock solid. Good to go.

  I’d been so insistent that past combat and deployment issues would never affect me that I hadn’t recognized it had affected me. Isolation. Physical exhaustion. Insomnia. Irritability. All of which culminated in excessive drinking, rigorous training, violent thoughts, and depression.

  And nightmares.

  So I called the VA and self-identified. In the past I’d secretly sneered at those combat soldiers who admitted needing professional help with combat-related stress issues. But when I took a good hard look at myself, I picked up the phone. Dawson volunteered to drive me, but I declined. I wasn’t afraid that he’d see me as weak or in a bad light, but Rollie was a better choice, and he’d been happy to take me.

  Shoonga started to bark at something beyond the tree line. Not his squirrel-chasing bark but the one that warned me an animal was nearby—of the human variety. I flipped the safety off the Sig and waited.

  Agent Shay Turnbull appeared.

  Great.

  He whistled, and Shoonga quieted down. Damn dog even wagged his tail. Neat trick. I’d ask him how he did it. If I didn’t shoot him first.

  “Sergeant Major.”

  “Agent Turnbull. How’d you find me?”

  “Followed the sound of gunfire.”

  “Wrong. Try again.”

  “Okay. Jake gave me directions.”

  Jake, that traitorous jerk. “Did you come to say good-bye?”

  Turnbull laughed. “Don’t sound so hopeful.”

  “A girl can dream.”

  He stared at my gun, then at me, mirth gone. “Mind putting the safety back on?”

  “Afraid I’ll accidentally shoot you?” I flashed my teeth at him. “Sorry. If I shoot you, it’ll be on purpose.”

  “You have a warped sense of humor.”

  “I have a warped sense of everything, Agent Turnbull.”

  He studied me intently. Too intently. It set my teeth on edge.

  “What?”

  “How are you holding up?”

  Placating bastard. “How would you be holding up if you’d killed one of your fellow agents after they’d gone rogue?”

  “Who says I haven’t been in the same situation?”

  Not what I’d expected. “You wanna compare stories?”

  “I’ll pass on reliving that ugliness, thanks. I just wanted to say I’ve been there. It sucks ass. You did what you had to, Mercy. You probably can’t see it now. But you will eventually.”

  My flip response stuck on the roof of my mouth.

  A minute or so passed. While he looked at the bluffs in the distance, the rise of the rolling hills, the rickety fences, the twisted trees and oceans of mud, I looked at him.

  Finally, he said, “Beautiful piece of dirt you have. Can’t say as I blame you for not wanting a pipeline running through here.”

  “It’d be a few years before it’s a done deal, but I’m holding out hope that it’s not inevitable.” I set the gun on the tailgate. “You didn’t just happen by to talk about scenery and local political issues, Agent Turnbull.”

  “Astute one, aren’t you?”

  “All that woo-woo, psychic, seeing-dead-bodies part of my Indian heritage,” I said dryly.

  He snorted. “You know what it means to be Indian like I know how to run a whaling ship.”

  “Meaning … nothing.”

  “I call it like I see it.” Turnbull shifted his position. “Look, I’m sure you have questions, and believe it or not, I’m here to give you some answers. But what I’m about to tell you stays off the record. If you ever repeat it? Full denial.”

  Did I really want to hear this?

  Yes.

  “Understood. Now spill it.”

  “We knew Anna killed Victor.”

  “We … as in the FBI?”

  He nodded.

  “How?”

  No answer.

  Then it hit me. Had the FBI been following Victor? Had they watched Anna kill him and done nothing to stop it?”

  “To answer your question, no. We didn’t stand by and do nothing when Anna killed him.”

  The man was too goddamn spooky reading me.

  “When Saro spread rumors they’d killed Major Hawley, we knew she’d be gunning for Victor and Saro, and we knew Cherelle encouraged Anna to believe Victor was responsible.”

  I stared at him. “The FBI condones murder?”

  “No.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “There are certain things we know, Mercy. Things we have to stand by and watch happen. We know Saro and Victor run the drugs in Eagle River and other reservations. We know they’ve killed and buried the bodies on the rez or fed them to the wild dogs. They’ve done all sorts of bad things they should be locked up for. But because of the laws and lines we can’t cross, we can’t do a damn thing but watch it happen over and over.

  “I’m not bothered in the slightest that Anna took out Victor. Saro is off the rails with grief and anger. It’s put Saro’s organization into pure chaos. They’ll make mistakes, and when they do, we’ll finally have our chance to bust them.”

  “And if Anna would’ve killed Saro, too?”

  “I would’ve thrown her a freakin’ parade.”

  “Contradictory much?”

  Turnbull smiled. “Make no mistake, I woulda tossed her ass in jail right after the confetti fell.”

  “What about Cherelle?”

  “We’re pretty sure in those extra meetings, she figured out a way to cut Saro out of the drug deal and Hawley told her where he stashed the rest of the OxyContin. After he died she took it. And being Saro’s screen, she’d know exactly who to contact to get rid of it fast.”

  “So she’s just vanished?”

  “With that face? She’s not exactly inconspicuous. We’ll find her. Eventually.”

  “If you knew Anna killed Victor, did you also know those two punks killed J-Hawk?”

  “No. Dawson suspected a robbery from the start. But after we took over the case, we forced him to drop that line of investigation so it wouldn’t interfere with our objective.”

  Still made me feel like a douche bag for assuming Dawson was an idiot, who didn’t know the first thing about investigating, who only cared about his own agenda, when he’d had no choice but to drop the case.

  “I hear you and the sheriff have mended your fences.”

  My relationship with Dawson wasn’t up for discussion with Agent Turnbull. Ever.

  “He’s a good man.”

  I didn’t need Turnbull to tell me that. “Okay, you’ve filled in the blanks for me. But I’ve gotta ask … why?”

  Shay Turnbull studied me. “Because we want you to come to work for us.”

  Talk about blindsided. “Excuse me? You mean the FBI?”

  “ICSCU could use you, Mercy.”

  “No. Way.”

  “Hear me out. Five minutes.”

  “Nope. Have a nice trip back to wherever you’re from.” I cocked my head. “What corner of hell are you from, anyway?”

  “Hilarious. I live in Rapid.”

  “No, I mean originally. What reservation?” I sensed his irritation, but he’d answer if he wa
nted to keep me talking.

  “Flandreau.”

  “So you’re a member of the …”

  “Santee tribe.”

  “I knew you didn’t look Lakota Sioux.”

  Turnbull wasn’t sure if that was a compliment. “So back to business at hand. You interested?”

  “For the third time, no.”

  “You’re making the decision without giving us a chance to state our case?”

  “Yep.”

  “Typical. Don’t know why they freakin’ bothered when I tried to tell them it was pointless.”

  “Why’d they send you?”

  “As a test of my neutrality. To see if I could convince you to meet with ADA Shenker, despite my reservations about you.”

  I lifted my eyebrows. “Your personal reservations about me? Oh, Agent Turnbull, now you’ve piqued my interest. Do tell.”

  “You’ve had an exemplary military career, which means you can follow orders. You’ve had covert-ops training, which means you can blend. You’re extremely proficient with firearms. Since you ran for sheriff, it shows you have a sense of community and a desire for a broader sense of justice. You’ve recently enrolled in the tribe, so you’re finally embracing part of your heritage.”

  “But?” I prompted.

  “But, you don’t take help when you need it. You slide into drinking binges. You lie. You like to intimidate people who cross you with your firearms. You have an unnatural attachment to said firearms. Bottom line? You’re a wild card. I don’t like wild cards.”

  “So this ‘come to work for the feds’ wasn’t your idea?”

  He shook his head. “I argued against it. Pretty hard, actually. And I would’ve won too, except you self-identified. We both know how much the higher-ups dig shit like that.”

  “So because I admitted I needed mental help, now I’m a perfect candidate for a job … as a fed?” I laughed. Hard. I laughed until my stomach hurt.

  “Laugh it up. But we both know you’re going to say hell no, then you’ll order me off your land, probably while peppering my ass with buckshot. So why don’t you tell me to shove it one more time so I can head on home.”

  That stung. The contrary part of me itched to blow their (mis)perception of me and say yes. But Turnbull was shrewd. I wouldn’t put it past him to use reverse psychology.