Lori Armstrong - Merciless

I considered changing the tone of the conversation, filling the dead air with talk of Dawson and Lex. But it seemed trite.

“Mercy.”

I glanced up from staring at the bottom of the partition. “What?”

“You gotta find out who killed her.”

“That’s what we’re trying-”

“Don’t feed me that federal-line bullshit. They stopped lookin’ for the killer after they made up their minds it was me, huh?”

Took about ten seconds, but I nodded.

“I didn’t tell you about the deaths of women on the rez before Verline was killed for any reason besides you are observant in a way most folks ain’t. You see things others can’t. Or won’t.”

I’d take his compliment. My most important lesson in sniper training was taking time to observe everything around me. To be patient. To be aware of the obvious, but to become a student of the obscure. But it wasn’t like him to dole out positive reinforcement, so I was immediately suspicious. “Rollie, if you know who’s responsible and you’re keeping it to yourself for some scorecard or to go vigilante-”

“I’m not. I’d tell you if I knew. I’m too damn old to take on someone that smart. Because, mark my words, whoever is doin’ this is one smart SOB. If you find this person? Then you and me? We’re square.”

I’d wondered what it would take to clear my markers with him. Working for him hadn’t done it. And I’d be glad to have the debt erased because I didn’t like owing anyone anything.

The guard pushed to his feet, and I knew our time was over.

Rollie said, “Be careful, Mercy girl. But be ruthless. That’s all this twisted fuck knows. Don’t hold nothin’ back.”

“Take care, Rollie.”

I probably should’ve gone home. But I wanted a drink and a chance to clear my head before I had to slap on a happy face for Mason and Lex.

Clementine’s was off my list of watering holes. I understood Penny’s health issues were adding pressure to John-John’s life, but if I’d behaved like him, he would’ve read me the riot act. Maybe this was an indication that our friendship had always been one-sided.

It was a quiet night on the road between Eagle River and Eagle Ridge. Perfect road conditions to make my Viper go fast. The one time I’d taken the dust tarp off her after I’d returned from Virginia had nearly resulted in Dawson arresting me. That thought made me smile.

I pulled into Stillwell’s. Last time I’d been in the joint I’d ended up in a bar fight. Not my fault. But trouble trailed after me like a forsaken lover.

But I wasn’t drowning my sorrows tonight. I’d have one drink, a bowl of pretzels, and I’d take time to reflect on the information I’d just learned from Rollie. I chose to sit in a booth in the back. After I received my beer, I took a healthy gulp and closed my eyes.

The gut feeling the FBI told me to discount got stronger. I’d been distracted by several incidents over the course of the last two weeks-but my gut instinct hadn’t ever failed me.

“Mercy?”

I opened my eyes and saw Sheldon War Bonnet at the edge of the table. Of all the people to run into tonight. “Sheldon.”

“You drinking alone?”

Like that was a bad thing. “No, I’m meeting someone.”

“I’ll keep you company for a bit. I’m meeting someone myself.” And bold as brass, Sheldon just slid across from me with his drink.

I tried not to gulp my beer, resigning myself to making polite chatter for at least two minutes. Five tops.

“I haven’t seen you in here before.” Sheldon groaned. “That probably sounded like a cheesy pickup line.”

It did. Creeped me out a little. “I don’t come in here much. Used to be my dad’s hangout. Clementine’s is more my speed. Although I don’t have nearly as much free time as I used to.”

“Working in the FBI isn’t a nine-to-five job?”

I shrugged. “Some days. It’s all still new. Still trying to put the training theories into practice.”

Sheldon smiled. “Kind of like being in the military. They train you to be prepared for all contingencies, but not all soldiers get to put those skills into practice.”

Hah. Wrong. I had a chance to use damn near everything I’d been taught and then some. “Remind me what service branch you were in again?”

His smile tightened. “Army National Guard. Seventy-second CST out of Lincoln, Nebraska. I handled internal communication.”

“Oh.” I scrambled to find something positive to say. Because an internal communications clerk with a guard unit and a black-ops soldier were light-years away in skill sets. “CST. Stands for Civilian Support Team, right? So I’ll bet your unit didn’t see any action?”

He shook his head. “We had heavy training for four years in order to receive the CST designation, and all positions within the company were frozen. No new members signed in, none were allowed to sign out. Basically, by receiving the CST, we were permanently grounded as a unit.”

“That’s the way it goes. We finished one tour-expecting we’d get a four-to-six-month reprieve stateside-but four weeks later, we were eating sand in another desert hot spot. Not fun.”

“Some of us would’ve given a left nut to see any action.” He sipped from his bottle of Michelob Ultra. “Did you get to use what they taught us in basic training?”

“I was in transportation, so I saw my share of IEDs.”

“I meant, did you get to fire M60s at hostiles? Engage in small-arms fire?” He paused. “Sorry. For a second I forgot the army’s directive about keeping women out of combat roles. You probably had to hunker down in your truck and ride out any firefights, right?”

Trying to get a rise out of me by bringing limitations of gender into the conversation? Combat jealousy was a reality with National Guard units that hadn’t been called to serve in any overseas capacity during war. I forced a laugh. “Hunker down and ride the storm out. Yeah, something like that.”

“Is this loser bothering you?”

I did a double take at seeing John-John at the end of the table. Then I did another double take when I realized that the loser in question John-John meant… was me. What the hell? I’d had enough of his insults. I drained my beer before I was tempted to toss it in his face.

Sheldon said, “Watch the insults, John-John. Rumor is, Mercy is one tough chick.”

“I take it you two know each other?” I asked.

John-John said, “Can’t get nothin’ past you, Miz FBI Bloodhound. Sheldon and I went to high school together.”

Whoa. I never would’ve guessed that. Sheldon looked at least a decade older than John-John.

“I’m surprised you two are drinking buddies,” John-John said, his gaze winging between us.

“We’re not. I’ve spent time in the tribal archives over the last couple of weeks. I was waiting for Dawson to show up, and Sheldon joined me. What are you doing here?”

“On my way to my mom’s. Unci don’t let her drink, which is dumb, since Mom’s got cancer, so I hafta sneak her a bottle. I remembered halfway to the rez I’d forgotten it at the bar. I pulled in and noticed your truck in the lot. Was gonna point out how easily you change your loyalties.”

“I’ve been banned from Clementine’s for a month, as you’ll recall. It’d serve you right if I found a new place to drink,” I retorted. “And they have happy-hour specials here.”

“I’d be over the moon if you found a new place to fight,” John-John shot back. “Lord, Mercy, most of my regulars haven’t been in the number of bar fights in their lifetimes that you have been in the last year.”

“Most of those fights came when I was working for you, winkte. ”

We locked gazes, daring each other to take this argument one step further, because we always did. But were we really going to cross the next line?