A Merciful Fate

THIRTY-SEVEN

Truman and Samuel had found the narrow pass between two rocks and had been moving east for a good fifteen minutes. Truman was antsy, his gaze constantly darting around for the rock shaped like a horse head. Karl had said ten minutes from the pass, but it was an estimate.

There was no horse rock anywhere to be seen.

“Dammit,” Samuel muttered.

“No shit.”

“Was Karl wrong?”

“That narrow pass was definitely as he described,” Truman stated, remembering how it’d threatened to trigger his anxiety when he couldn’t see the way out. Now they were faced with a light spread of small pines and other trees. Karl hadn’t mentioned those.

“He said the rock structure overlooked a valley. We haven’t seen any cliffs yet, so let’s keep going. Maybe it’s on the other side of this grove,” said Samuel, giving his horse a squeeze with his legs, his back straight and chin up. His hips naturally followed the movement of the horse, making it look as if he’d ridden all his life.

Truman urged his horse to follow Samuel. They’d cantered a good part of the way, feeling the pressure to get to Mercy and Sandy. When sweat had foamed on the horses’ necks, they’d slowed to a walk, and now it seemed as if they were crawling.

After a minute Samuel pulled to a stop. “Truman,” he said in a low voice as he pointed far ahead in the trees.

An ATV.

Truman immediately scanned their surroundings. Nothing. All quiet. “Let’s move in a little closer.”

“We need to go on foot,” Samuel stated. “I don’t think backup is coming soon,” he added. “There’s no way county can get here quickly.”

“Mercy is our backup.” I hope.

Samuel gave him a skeptical look but nodded.

Both men dismounted and wrapped their reins around a tree, giving the horses enough slack to graze, and then drew their weapons. They carefully moved to the ATV while constantly watching their surroundings. The ATV was old and beat-up, and Truman wondered how it’d made the journey from Bree’s house carrying two men.

“I bet the ridge is directly east. They left the ATV here to go in quietly,” Samuel said in a hushed voice.

“Let’s go.”

The two men moved cautiously through the grove of small trees. The ground was either rocks or packed dry dirt and was covered with old pine needles that continually cracked and snapped under their boots.

A piercing scream made Truman catch his breath.

“Sandy,” said Samuel, looking pale.

Not Mercy.

Is that good or bad?

Male and female shouts sounded ahead, and Truman moved faster. As he got closer to the edge of the grove, he saw the back of a giant rock sitting on the edge of the ridge. Beyond the rock all he saw was blue sky; the ground dropped away. To the left, he made out three figures. No, four. One is on the ground. Spotting the red hair, he realized one of the men was struggling with Sandy. Relief swept through him as he spotted Mercy standing next to the rock.

He stared at the man with a weapon on her. Holy shit. Art Juergen.

How is Art involved in this?

Money. Two million dollars went missing.

“Samuel,” he whispered. “That’s the FBI agent who assisted with the robbery case.”

Shock crossed Samuel’s features. “The retired one?”

“Yes.” The one Mercy trusted implicitly.

“Mercy must be livid.”

“I suspect that’s putting it mildly.”

How long has he lied to her?

“I don’t recognize the other guy,” said Truman. “Say . . . see that?” He pointed at a shovel leaning against the rock.

“Yeah. And the ground is all dug to hell.” Samuel paused. “Holy crap. Were Sandy and Mercy digging for money?”

“That’s my guess,” Truman whispered, understanding why Mercy hadn’t elaborated in her voice mail. Searching for buried treasure sounded ridiculous.

The screaming had stopped, and Sandy sat on the ground, her head down and her shoulders sagging. Truman couldn’t hear the conversation, but the man by Sandy seemed quite pleased. Mercy’s body language verified that she was furious.

“I’ll go to the right of the rock,” Samuel said softly.

“Left for me. I’ll come in behind Juergen.” Truman was still appalled at the sight of the former agent.

Money changes everyone.

Samuel moved right, pine needles crackling under his boots. Truman went left and spotted two tied horses that must belong to Sandy and Mercy. He moved until the horses blocked the people at the rock from seeing him.

Both horses lifted their heads and swiveled their ears toward him as their gazes locked on him in alert fascination.

Please no.

One gave a high-pitched whinny in his direction.

Mercy’s center of balance was forward, and every muscle focused on Trevor’s moves, waiting for his concentration to waver, aware she’d have a split second to make a decision. Being shot by Art was a risk she’d have to take.

At the whinny, Trevor turned toward the horses, and Mercy exploded into action, surging forward.

“Hey—” he started.

Mercy snatched the loosely held rifle from his left hand and swung the butt at his head like a bat, every ounce of her strength in the swing.

He ducked, but the rifle hit a glancing blow off his face. Mercy hurled the rifle over the cliff and had his handgun out of his holster before Trevor could see straight again. She pivoted behind him, snagged his neck in a chokehold, and pointed his weapon at Art.

At Mercy’s lunge, Sandy scrambled and grabbed the shovel. She faced Art, her legs planted and slightly bent, the blade in front of her chest, ready to attack or defend.

“Behind me,” Mercy ordered, panting for breath, every nerve throbbing with energy. Sandy obeyed, stepping sideways, her gaze never leaving Art.

Trevor thrashed, and Mercy tightened her arm. “Hold the fuck still,” she said in his ear. His hands dug at her arm. She placed the tip of the barrel against Trevor’s temple, her gaze locked on Art, and Trevor stilled.

Just try me.

Trevor wasn’t the best shield, but he’d do.

I have no other options.

Art hadn’t moved during the scramble. He stood in the same position, his weapon still trained on Mercy, his face blank.

Her gamble with Art’s unwillingness to fire at her had paid off.

It could have gone so wrong.

“Damn you, Mercy. Don’t make me do this.” His voice cracked.

“You already did it when you shot my niece.” She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want to try it again? What’s one more murder?”

“Shoot her!” Trevor forced out, gasping for air.

His pulse thrummed in triple time against her arm.

“He’s more likely to hit you,” she muttered. She knew it, and Art knew it.

Does he care if he shoots Trevor?

My human shield is expendable. With Trevor dead, Art was free.

Art had to decide if he wanted another murder in his ledger. His weapon wavered, doubt in his eyes.

What will he do?

Her muscles were frozen to the point of pain, her brain scrambling through possible scenarios. None ended well.

At least I gave us a chance.

She shoved despair out of her thoughts. I’m not giving up yet.

I have to take a shot. She would have to move her weapon from Trevor’s temple toward Art, and she suspected he’d shoot the moment her hand shifted. He wasn’t going to give her a second chance. Odds were not in her favor.

It’s my only choice.

Motion behind Art caught her eye. Truman.

She kept her expression stable, her gaze sharp on Art, as she mentally deflated in relief.

Don’t give Truman away.

Apprehension halted her reprieve; Truman was in a bad position.

His weapon was aimed at Art’s back, but if he missed Art, Mercy or Sandy could be hit.

I can’t shoot at Art for the same reason. Truman could be hit.

The dilemma incensed her.

Art narrowed his eyes at her. “Who’s behind me?” he hissed. He raised his voice and called out, “My finger is on the trigger. I’ll put a bullet through both of them.”

He’s right. At this close distance, shooting Trevor means shooting me.

“Juergen,” said Truman calmly. “Put your weapon down.” Truman sidestepped slowly toward the cliff, trying to angle Mercy and Sandy out of his shot.

Art heard the crunch of Truman’s steps and shifted, staying aligned between Mercy and Truman.

“Put it down, Art,” Mercy asked. “This isn’t worth it.”

“And end up in prison for the rest of my life? I don’t think so.”

“You were a good agent, Art. I’m sorry this scum”—she squeezed Trevor’s neck, making him squawk—“this scum blackmailed you.” Trevor dug frantically at her arm, trying to loosen her hold, and she pressed the weapon into his head again. He froze.

It wasn’t blackmail thirty years ago. It was Art’s greed.

“I’ll do my best to get you in one of those country club federal prisons,” Mercy offered, knowing the murder of Tabitha Huff made it impossible.

Art laughed, a pathetic, suffocating laugh. “Quit trying to bullshit me, Mercy. I took the negotiation workshops too.”

“I didn’t,” said Truman. “Put your fucking weapon down before I blow a hole in your skull like you did to Tabitha Huff, Juergen.” He continued his slow steps, but Art kept perfect pace with him.

Art has eyes in the back of his head.

Truman’s gaze darted beyond her and to her left. He’s not alone. She imagined Truman’s accomplice attempting to line up a shot from behind the horse’s neck. It was nearly impossible.

Sandy kept a hand on Mercy’s back for balance. Small tremors flowed through her fingers to Mercy’s skin, and her rough breaths were loud in the tense air.

Art’s bullet won’t go through three of us. She’s safe.

“Truman,” said Sandy in a hoarse voice. “He shot Kaylie. He thought she was Mercy.”

Mercy flinched but held her focus.

“You shot a child,” Truman said flatly behind Art. “Tell me why I shouldn’t shoot you in the back right now.”

“You know as well as I do,” Art stated. “You could accidentally kill your woman.” He held Mercy’s gaze. “I’m truly sorry for your niece, Mercy.”

Mercy’s knuckles turned white on Trevor’s weapon. “Bullshit. You tried to kill me.” She concentrated to keep her arm steady. “You know what, Art? Remember how I told you I wanted to be friends after our one date? That was bullshit too. I refused because you were too old for me!”

Rage flashed on his face.

I pushed too hard.

She braced for his shot.

But the rage vanished, and his features sagged, turning him into an old man.

His transformation staggered her. The confident FBI agent was no more.

“I’m sorry, Mercy.” He lowered the weapon, and Sandy noisily exhaled behind her.

He looks ready to fall apart. His weapon rose a few degrees and turned toward his head.

“Art! Don’t!” she ordered. He met her gaze, and she silently pleaded with him. His hand halted, but his face filled with regret.

Mercy didn’t relax and kept her eyes locked on him. “It’s going to be okay, Art. You don’t need to do that. Everything will be fine,” she said automatically.

He knows it will never be fine again.

“Toss your gun back here,” Truman commanded. “And then remove the rifle.”

Art stretched out his arms and let the pistol dangle from one finger. He raised his chin, his eye contact staying with Mercy, looking ready for a crucifixion.

“Thank you, Art,” she said, exhaling some of her tension.

He has a long road ahead of him.

He slowly rotated ninety degrees to his left, stopping to look out over the endless view.

“Your gun,” Truman reminded him.

Art didn’t move.

Mercy backed out of Truman’s line of fire, dragging Trevor with her.

If Art fires at Truman, I won’t hold back.

Art tossed the gun aside toward Truman, his arms still outstretched. He removed the rifle and flung it in the same direction.

Thank God.

Art looked back at Mercy, remorse in his gaze.

She said nothing. It was over. Art would never be a free man again.

He sacrificed—

Art darted two steps and leaped off the cliff.

Mercy couldn’t breathe. Screams sounded in her head.

He didn’t.

Art . . .

Truman lunged toward the ridge, his desperate act too late. He stumbled, landed on his chest, and slid partway over the edge. His head and arms dangled off the cliff, as he looked straight down hundreds of feet. Sandy shrieked and grabbed Mercy’s shoulder, nearly knocking her over.

“Truman!” Mercy started to release Trevor to grab Truman, but loud thumps made her spin to her left. Samuel sprinted toward Truman. He grabbed the man’s boots and hauled him back.

Truman rolled onto his back, staring at the sky, his chest heaving. “Holy fuck.”

“No shit,” answered Samuel. The officer took a tentative step to look over the edge and stepped back immediately.

“I didn’t see him,” said Samuel in a stunned voice. “No way he survived that.”

“No,” Truman agreed, still lying on his back. He turned his head and met Mercy’s gaze.

Did that just happen?

Art is dead.

She couldn’t speak. Her knees shook.

Art is dead. The phrase echoed in her mind.

Samuel took Trevor from her chokehold, and her arm’s muscles protested as she straightened it. Samuel rapidly searched and cuffed Trevor.

“Oh my God,” Sandy said, covering her face with her hands. “I’m going to see that for the rest of my life.”

“Me too,” Mercy said hoarsely. “Are you okay?”

“My scalp is burning, but I’m fine.” Sandy dropped to the dirt and sat cross-legged, her shoulders slumping. “I just need to sit down.”

Mercy did too. Truman sat up as she walked over. She took one of his hands and lowered herself heavily beside him. “I don’t think anyone’s legs feel very strong at the moment.” She breathed hard as she looked off in the distance. The stunning vista felt tainted.

Could I have stopped him?

Truman awkwardly pulled her into his lap. “I need a moment,” he said, burying his face in her neck.

She held her lips to his temple. “You’re not the only one.”

“I can’t believe—”

“Don’t talk about it right now,” she ordered. The sight of Art leaping off the ridge would haunt her forever. It flashed on constant replay in her head.

They were silent for several seconds, each simply breathing and taking strength from the other.

“I love you,” he stated.

She pressed her face harder into his rough stubble. “I love you more.”

Samuel cleared his throat. “It’s getting late. Can we take this asshole back to the station?”

Trevor glared at him.

Mercy didn’t unwrap her arms from Truman’s shoulders. “That’s Trevor Whipple,” she said. “He admitted torturing Bree to get her to tell him the location of the money left over from the robbery.”

Truman started under her tight grip. “He’s one of the original thieves?” He looked at the man. “Where the hell have you been for thirty years?”

Trevor was silent.

“We were right about Bree. She was the driver for the robbery.” Mercy turned to Sandy, who still sat on the ground, the shovel across her lap. “Sandy . . . is the money really in a safety-deposit box?”

She slowly shook her head. “I lied,” she whispered.

I knew it.

“I thought if they believed the money was in a bank, they would drag us back to town and not shoot us right here.” Sandy’s face crinkled, and tears threatened. “I’m sorry . . . I don’t know anything about the money. Bree never told me. I was stupid to think she might have hid it up here.”

“I guess we’ll have to ask Bree when she wakes,” stated Truman.

If she wakes.

Truman jerked in her arms. “Rose is in labor,” he blurted. “I forgot to tell you.”

Joy radiated through Mercy. A month early . . . that’s not too bad. “We were a little busy, so I’ll let it go this time.” She kissed Truman’s rough cheek but then frowned at the concern on his face. “What is it?”

“The baby is breech, and Rose is dehydrated from the flu. Everyone was rushing to the hospital when we left.”

Worry for her sister made her crawl out of Truman’s lap, her anxiety spiking. “We need to go.” Babies are breech all the time.

But this is my sister.

“Your dad nearly went to the hospital instead of coming with us.”

“My dad? He’s here?” Surprise made Mercy search the area.

“He’s not here, but he brought us his horses and provided directions to get here.” He met Mercy’s eyes. “He had to choose between going to Rose or helping you. He chose you.”

He chose me.

Her head swam, and she felt as if she were peering over the cliff again.