Mercy Kill

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 declined. 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 wanted 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.

“Tell you what. I’ll make you a deal. If you can outshoot me, I’ll show up at the meeting.”

And yeah, maybe it was petty, but I felt smug when Turnbull’s smile slipped. If he knew as much about me as he’d claimed? He also knew I’d placed first in every official and unofficial military sharpshooting event in the last fifteen years.

Turnbull pushed away from the pickup. “Deal.”

Sucker. “Pick your poison. I’ve got six guns.”

“I’ll use my own gun, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Suit yourself. What’s the caliber?”

“Nine mil.”

“Same as mine. We’ll gauge by the ring of three.”

“That’ll work.”

The ring of three was a standard marksmanship test. Distance marked at thirty feet. Eight bullets in the outer ring. Eight bullets in the middle ring. Two each at twelve o’clock, three o’clock, six o’clock and nine o’clock. Five bullets in the center in the shape of a plus sign. Closest mark to the line in each section wins.

I released the clip on the Sig and reloaded. I had two other clips, each held ten bullets, so I reloaded those, too. I looked over at Turnbull. “I don’t suppose you’ve got extra clips.”

“No. Didn’t know we were gonna have a shoot-out at the Gunderson corral.”

I smiled and slammed the clip in. I jogged to the hay bale and switched out the paper target. I marked off thirty feet and drew a line in the mud with the heel of my boot.

Turnbull inclined his head. “Ladies first.”

I stepped up to the line. My focus sharpened. I lifted the gun and solidified my stance. After flicking the safety off, I sited in my first two target shots in the outer ring.

Bang bang.

Then I fired rapidly, until I emptied the clip at the top of the inner circle. I ejected the clip and shoved in a fresh one. Although I still had bullets left after I finished the middle ring, I changed clips for the five shots in the center so I could squeeze them off without interruption.

Bang bang bang bang bang.

We walked to the target. My shots were damn close to perfect. Symmetrical. Precise. “Okay, hotshot, show me what you’ve got.”

Pause. “You know, I’ve changed my mind.”

I smirked. “Really?”

“Yeah. I believe I will use your gun.”

Damn. And here I’d hoped he’d decided to back out. I ejected the clip and handed him the Sig. I yanked down my target and tacked up a fresh one. We walked back to the truck in silence. As I watched him speed-load the clips, my first sense of unease surfaced.

Agent Turnbull aimed and fired. He emptied and replaced his clips almost without pause.

Bluish gray smoke eddied around us, and the ground was littered with hot brass.

He handed back my gun. The wet earth squished under our boots as we returned to the hay bale. Shoonga trotted happily along beside us, oblivious to the tension, panting from chasing his tail.

I stared at the target in complete disbelief.

His shots weren’t side by side in the inner and outer circles. No, Agent Turnbull had put both the bullets through the same hole. Not once, as a fluke, but in both rings. So instead of having sixteen holes… he’d made eight. Eight big, ragged holes, so I knew he hadn’t fired off to the side to trick me. His bull’s-eye shot was clean, meticulous, and perfect.

I’d been had. Big time. I gaped at him. Because I’d never met anyone who could shoot like that. Never.

Agent Turnbull pulled a pen out of his pocket and scrawled across the top of his target. He ripped it off the hay bale and handed it to me with a grin that rivaled the devil’s. “See you next Tuesday, Sergeant Major.”

Son. Of. A. Bitch. I poked my finger through each jagged hole. I’d known some amazing shooters, but this? This was damn near art.

When I looked up to ask him where he’d learned to shoot like that, he was gone.

Typical.

I memorized the address and phone number before I folded the target and shoved it in my back pocket. It wouldn’t hurt to just listen to what they had to say, would it?

Shoonga yipped agreement.

I loaded up. With my dog by my side and the truck windows open to savor the temperate spring breeze, we drove down the dusty gravel road leading home.