Merciless

1

I blamed my unrealistic expectations of becoming an FBI special agent on The X-Files.

Granted, Mulder and Scully were fictional characters, but working in the FBI was nothing like portrayed on any TV shows. Disappointment made me want to crawl inside the TV and kick some ass.

Figuratively speaking, of course.

So far my new FBI job hadn’t entailed chasing down aliens-either illegal or the bug-eyed, misshapen-headed types.

I hadn’t been assigned a trippy private office that I could decorate with funky, yet prophetic posters.

I hadn’t met a weirdly wise, hip, confidential informant.

I hadn’t participated in a raid where I got to yell, “Federal agents! Everyone on the ground!”

The brass hadn’t issued me a shiny badge or one of those rocking black jackets with FBI emblazoned in big white letters on the back.

Heck, I hadn’t even been saddled with an official partner.

I was damn lucky I’d gotten a gun.

Not that I’d gotten to shoot it yet.

Instead of chasing down bad guys and busting heads, I was trapped in an overheated office building in Rapid City with other agents, flipping though a stack of paperwork, listening to Director Shenker drone on.

And holy J. Edgar Hoover, did the man love the sound of his own monotone.

I sighed. A boot connected with my ankle, and I sucked in a quick breath at the sharp pain.

Of course, Director Shenker chose that moment to pause his lecture. He peered at me over the top of his cheater bifocals-leopard print cheater bifocals, no less.

Peered was too bland a word. Glared was more fitting.

I fought the urge to squirm.

“Have something to add, Agent Gunderson?”

“No, sir.” I pointed to my empty water glass. “Just a dry throat.” I reached for the water pitcher-we’d been in meeting hell so long the ice had melted. When I thoughtfully refilled my tablemate’s glass-oops, water splashed on his notebook, obliterating the elaborate doodle he’d been working on for the past two hours.

Served the bastard right for kicking me.

“Take ten, people,” Shenker said, leaving up the PowerPoint presentation.

Didn’t have to tell me twice. I was out of the room and down the hallway before my seatmate quit scratching himself.

Or so I thought.

A hand on my shoulder spun me around so I was nose to nose with Special Agent Shay Turnbull-my unofficial trainer, my doodling seat-mate, the disher of a daily dose of snark that made me snicker like a teenage girl in spite of myself.

I shrugged him off.

“Follow me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m the senior agent, that’s why. Do you have to make everything so damn difficult?” Turnbull headed for the door marked STAIRS, assuming I’d follow.

Another ass-chewing session. I grudgingly admitted I preferred Turn-bull’s private approach rather than our boss’s public browbeating-not that I’d been on the receiving end so far.

We entered the small concrete landing to the stairwell. I rested my shoulders against the cement-block wall, half wishing I smoked. Would I look tough and cool if I flicked my Bic and squinted mysteriously at Turnbull through the smoky haze?

No. Turnbull would see right through me. He had that uncanny ability. Which sort of sucked ass for me.

“Would it kill you to look alive and at least partially interested in this training session, Gunderson?”

“Yes, it might kill me, because it’s boring me to death. I don’t see the importance of knowing riot procedure. There’s not enough population base here to even have a riot. And historically, the guys in charge call the National Guard.”

Turnbull lifted a brow. “Has it somehow escaped your notice, Sergeant Major, that more than half the South Dakota National Guard troops are currently deployed?”

I scowled at his pointed reminder of my army rank. “Doesn’t matter. Training assignment is busywork. I wanna be out there doing something. Not sitting on my ass.”

“The FBI’s success rate is based on ninety percent office work and-”

“Ten percent fieldwork, yeah, yeah, I recently lived the manifesto.” Standard training time for new FBI agents was five months at Quantico. I fell into the “special exclusion category” since at thirty-nine I was older than the federal government’s mandated final hire age of thirty-eight for federal employees. With twenty years’ service in Uncle Sam’s army, and a pension in place, I’d been allowed to skip the firearms portion and specialized tactical maneuvers of the training program, allowing me to shave off four weeks in Virginia.

Agent Turnbull studied me in his usual fashion. Not looking me in the eye, because engaging in a stare down with me was an exercise in futility. And Special Agent Turnbull hated losing. So instead, he gifted me with the half-exasperated/half-amused look of superiority he’d perfected in his ten-plus years as a G-man.

“What? You can’t fault me for hoping for something-anything-to happen.”

“I’ll say it again. Act like you give a damn about these training assignments. You’re new. You should be enthusiastic. Rah-rah! Go FBI! and all that shit.” His pocket buzzed, and he fished out his cell phone. He said, “Turnbull,” and exited the stairwell.

I didn’t move. Instead, I closed my eyes, still unsure if I’d made the right choice joining the FBI.

When I’d snapped out of the haze following the death of my former army buddy Anna, a death in which I’d pulled the trigger, I realized I needed more out of my life than being a retired soldier, part-time rancher, and full-time drinker. Since my skill set had been honed behind the scope of my sniper rifle, there wasn’t much in the way of career opportunities in western South Dakota. I was zero for two on the attempted-career front; I’d made a lousy bartender and had lost when I ran for my dad’s old job as Eagle River County sheriff. When the FBI had set their sights on me, it’d been a boost to my ego-although I’d never publicly admit that.

But again, I hadn’t found out the job offer hadn’t been about me personally until after I’d signed on the dotted line. The Rapid City FBI office was short on agents because no one in the vast resources of the FBI wanted to fill the agency opening in our state capital in Pierre, which meant the head of our division, Director Shenker, had to divide his time between that office and ours in Rapid City.

Since our district covered such a large area, and our staff was on the smallish side, we weren’t a specialized unit like in more populated areas. We handled all the federal cases: everything from homicide to artifact theft. We weren’t even partnered with other agents, although Turnbull was tasked with showing me the ropes as my unofficial partner.

Served him right, being saddled with a rookie, after flashing his specialized FBI badge at me, denoting him as part of the Indian Country Special Crimes Unit. What Turnbull hadn’t told me? There was no such division within the Rapid City FBI unit.

After some kind of hush-hush dustup, he’d been transferred from the ICSCU in Minneapolis to “train” the agents of this smaller outlying FBI office in how to deal with Indian Country crimes. Which had pissed off the agents who’d been serving the Rapid City FBI office for years, dealing with Indian crimes without the official federal ICSCU moniker-or the funding-because for all of Turnbull’s supposed training, he hadn’t seen or done half the shit in his ten years as an agent that the Rapid City agents dealt with each year.

Guess he’d gotten quite an education for being such an expert.

Of course, I learned all this secondhand from Frances, the office manager, on my third day on the job at the FBI. She’d also shared the philosophy that when you work in Indian Country, all cases deal with crimes in Indian Country.

So far, I’d suffered with 95 percent office work, reading reports to familiarize myself with current events and cases. Nothing important had gone down since I’d punched the time clock as Special Agent Mercy Gunderson-not that I hoped for a horrific occurrence. But I hated sitting around talking about crap that’d never happen, wearing a gun I wasn’t allowed to shoot.

The stairwell door opened, and Turnbull popped his head in. “Briefing room.”

After a few moments I slipped into my chair, surrounded by a buzz of excitement. There was definitely something going on.

Director Shenker shuffled through a stack of papers as he entered the room. He glanced at the clock and stepped to the coffee center to fill his mug. “I’ve just been made aware of a situation on the Eagle River Reservation. The tribal police were brought in first, but given the sensitive nature, they’ve reached out to us for help.”

The latest departmental catchphrase touted the “new spirit of cooperation” on the Eagle River Reservation between the recently elected new tribal president, the newly promoted chief of the tribal police, and the “local” fresh Indian blood in the FBI-aka me.

“What’s the situation?” Agent Thomas asked. Technically, we weren’t assigned to specific reservations, but Agents Thomas and Burke worked the northwestern part of the state. Turnbull and I concentrated on the southwestern section, and Agents Mested and Flack dealt with the central section on the west side of the Missouri River. As the lone female agent in this office it was hard not to feel like I was just there to fill a quota.

Shenker pressed his thumb between his eyebrows. “Three days ago, seventeen-year-old Arlette Shooting Star disappeared. The tribal police instituted a search of the reservation and found nothing. The highway patrol joined in searching the surrounding area and found nothing, either.”

“No sign of her at all?”

“None. The last time her friends allegedly had contact with her was before lunch at the school on Friday. She did not report to her class after lunch. Her cell phone and her belongings were found in her locker.”

“Does she have a habit of disappearing?” Turnbull asked.

“No. She’s been living with her aunt and uncle on the Eagle River rez for the last year.”

“Where’d she live before that?” Mested asked.

Shenker flipped through the pages. “Standing Rock, in North Dakota. They’ve checked to see if she’s contacted anyone in that area, but no one is admitting they’ve seen or heard from her.”

“She has family on Standing Rock?”

“Shirttail relatives. She had to move to Eagle River after her mother died and her aunt was named her legal guardian.” Director Shenker put both hands on the conference table. “Here’s why it’s a sensitive situation. Arlette’s aunt is Triscell Elk Thunder, married to tribal president Latimer Elk Thunder.”

Silence. Then shifting in seats. No one spoke.

“And while the tribal president would like to avoid the appearance of impropriety, chances are, it’s inevitable.”

My thoughts rolled back to my nephew and how frantic I’d been after he’d been missing for only a few hours, not a few days. I’d tried to call out the cavalry, but no one had listened, so I understood Elk Thunder’s intention to do whatever it took to find her. Still, it bugged me. Three days is a long time in a missing persons case.

“What’s the plan?”

I glanced at Turnbull. The shrewd man defined rah-rah! FBI. The gleam in his eye indicated he was as antsy to get out of the office and into the field as I was.

“The plan is, you and Special Agent Gunderson will meet at the tribal police station at Eagle River first thing tomorrow morning. It’s too late to do anything today. I’ll pass along updates as needed. Any questions?”

“Will we be actively searching for the girl?” I felt Turnbull’s eyes on me. Due to a cosmic debt I owed to the universe for being brought back from the dead, I’d become a sort of divining rod for the newly dead. Since Turnbull had pointed out this phenomenon to me before we’d become coworkers, I needed to know what role I’d be playing in the investigation.

Again, Shenker shrugged. “I can’t honestly say what tack they’ll take. Make no mistake-you two will be there in a secondary, not primary, capacity.”

Agents Thomas and Burke stood, as did Agents Flack and Mested. At this point the case didn’t affect them.

But Shenker wasn’t finished. He gestured to the four men. “Not done with you guys. Turnbull and Gunderson, you’re free to go.”

Yippee.

Outside the conference room, Turnbull faced me. “You’ll be all right in the field tomorrow?”

“Yes. Will you?”

He frowned. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

I flashed my teeth at him. “Because you’ve been benched babysitting me since I finished Quantico. Just want to make sure you remember field-duty protocol, since this is my virgin voyage.”

“Chances are high we’ll be sorting through paperwork, so don’t get excited you’ll actually get to pull your gun, Gunderson.”

“Dream crusher.”

Turnbull jammed his hands in his pockets as we waited for the elevator. “I don’t have to remind you not to talk about this case with Sheriff Dawson.”

Not a question. Dawson and I were living together. He and I shared the same trepidation about my going to work for the FBI. A lot of secrets, mistrust, and half-truths had existed between Dawson and me from our first meeting. Getting over that hurdle, learning to trust each other, learning to separate our jobs from who we were when the uniforms came off had been a big step in our personal life together. I hated having to withhold information from him, but the fact that he was forced to withhold information from me put us on the same level. Our jobs hadn’t created friction yet, but we were both aware it’d happen at some point.

“He’s bound to’ve heard about this missing girl,” Turnbull offered.

I shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. He’s got today off.”

“So he’ll have supper waiting when you get home?”

I’d never get used to the rash of shit Turnbull gave me about Dawson, especially since when we’d first crossed paths, I’d denied anything was going on between the sheriff and me. “Why, Agent Turnbull. You sound… jealous.”

He snorted. “Of your hour-long drive to reach home? I’ll be fed, caught up on ESPN, and sweet-talking my most recent hookup into an encore before your truck turns up that bumpy goat path you call a driveway.”

“Enjoy your Hungry Man TV dinner.”

“I’m more of a Lean Cuisine guy.”

I shuddered. Prepackaged dinners reminded me I’d had enough MREs to last a lifetime.

“If you don’t hear from me, we’re on to meet at the tribal police station at oh eight hundred tomorrow,” he reminded me.

“Roger that.” We parted ways in the parking lot.

The drive from Rapid City to the Gunderson Ranch might seem like a dull trek to him, but I loved it. I needed time alone, which had become a rarity in my life, and the hour drive was enough to change a bad mood into one of anticipation.

Dawson and I had gotten into the habit of eating supper one night a week with my sister, Hope, Jake-the ranch foreman who’d officially become Hope’s husband four months ago-and their baby, Joy. My niece crawled as fast as a lightning bug and emitted babbling noises that sounded as if she was having a conversation with herself. I’d embraced being an aunt again, and I tried not to dwell on my morbid fears of how long it’d last this time.

The day had turned chilly, and it was full-on dark when I pulled up to the house. No sign of Dawson’s patrol car. The lights were off in the kitchen, too.

So much for supper being on the table.

Neither Shoonga nor Dawson’s dog, Butch, slunk out of the shadows to greet me with happy tail wags and excited yips.

I fumbled with my key to the back door. In all the years I lived here, we’d rarely locked our house, but that was one thing Dawson had changed after moving in. I put my foot down at springing for security lights. The strobelike effect was a pain in the ass when raccoons, turkeys, or other critters decided to explore the perimeter of the house.

Inside, I kicked off my boots and headed for the bedroom to store my gun. I had an attachment to firearms, but given that my sister had accidentally killed her best friend when she was a child, and that my niece loved exploring the house, Dawson and I had moved my gun vault into the bedroom.

I shed my unofficial uniform-any color of clean dress pants and a shirt I didn’t have to iron-and hung it up, another habit of Dawson’s I’d implemented. When the work clothes were off and the guns were locked away, we’d separated ourselves from our jobs. Since two of Dawson’s three uniforms still hung in the closet, I knew he’d been called to duty.

After I slipped on my workout clothes, I scooped my hair into a ponytail and rolled out my yoga mat. Asanas would reset my mental and physical balance.

Half an hour later, I returned to the kitchen, my stomach growling. I checked my phone. No text message or missed calls. Strange. Dawson always kept me up to date on his whereabouts.

I checked the fridge and was happy to see that Sophie Red Leaf, the Gunderson family’s longtime housekeeper/cook/counselor/meddler had left a foil-covered casserole on the top shelf with baking instructions.

These days, Sophie split her time between Hope’s place and here, doing household things I could’ve done myself. Sophie was past retirement age, and I was past needing a surrogate mother, but I couldn’t imagine my life without her so I’d keep her on the payroll.

I ate supper while I caught up on e-mail. I watched TV. Then I called it a night around eleven o’clock and crawled into bed.

Around two a.m. the bedroom door opened. I heard a thud as the gun vault closed and caught a whiff of shampoo and aftershave a couple seconds before the bed dipped. Then warm male skin pressed into my bare back as his arms came around me. He sighed.

“Hey, Sheriff.”

“Sergeant Major.”

“I thought you had tonight off.”

“I did. Until Kiki started barfing in her patrol car with some stomach bug. Jazinski had already pulled a full shift, so I had to fill in.”

“Lucky you.” I repositioned the covers over us. “You really need to hire another deputy.”

“I will.”

“Soon.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Sophie made your favorite supper tonight. Corned-beef casserole.”

“I’ll have it for breakfast.”

That’s when I knew he was tired.

Dawson kissed the top of my head.

“Anything exciting happen on shift?” I asked.

“Nope.” His breathing slowed.

“Wanna hear about a day in the life of an FBI agent?”

He made a noise in the back of his throat that I took as affirmative. “I can give you very explicit information on the federal government’s procedures and policy on riots.”

Dawson made the noise again. A noise I now recognized as a snore.

Funny. That was the same reaction I’d had.