Lori Armstrong - Merciless

“I need you to drive to Besler’s grocery store in Eagle Ridge. Know where that is?”

“Uh-huh. Then what?”

“Park close to the front doors. Leave the keys under the seat. Go in the store, get a cart, and pretend you’re shopping. Take your time but don’t talk to anyone. Don’t look around, just act like you’re buying groceries.”

“Should I wear a disguise or something?”

“Just a winter scarf. Don’t look for me. I will find you. Try to stay in the back of the store.”

“You ain’t pulling my leg? You’re really gonna be there?”

“Yes. Look, it’s really important you follow these instructions to the letter. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. Don’t text or talk on your phone, either in your car or in the store. Don’t deviate at all.”

“I won’t.”

“I’ll explain more when you see me in about forty-five minutes.” I hung up. Then I stripped and wrapped myself in my robe, exiting the bathroom and closing my bedroom door.

Keeping the lights turned off fucked with my bad eye, but I had no choice except to work in the darkness. I started adding layers of clothes. A sports bra. A long-sleeved under-armor shirt. I yanked on a pair of jeans and slid on the super-thin subzero winter coat I’d saved from my Afghanistan tour. The light weight allowed me to move and kept me warm, but not too warm. For an overcoat, I pawed through the closet until I found my black duster. Two inside pockets, two deep outside pockets, long and sloppy-looking. Perfect.

Next, I needed hardware. Whatever I took had to fit on my person. The familiar smell of gun oil wafted up as I opened the gun safe. Pity there wasn’t room inside the coat for my H-S Precision takedown rifle. But this op wasn’t about stopping power. Not right away. I required firepower that used standard grade bullets. Nothing too big, nothing subsonic, nothing traceable. I wanted a gun that was light, concealable, and could be assembled in a snap.

I grabbed my AR-15.

At a little over eight and a half pounds, it was my lightest-weight semiauto. I’d had it sited with an Elcan day/night digital rifle scope and an IR flashlight, which served as an image intensifier for night shoots. I’d added a Gemtech suppressor-no more need for earplugs-and replaced the standard trigger with a three-pound Timney trigger for a no-jerk pull. The AR came apart with two easy clicks by pushing the pins from the left side of the aluminum receiver and pulling them out on the right side.

Click-click and the rifle was in two pieces.

Click-click and it’d be assembled. Snap in the clip, pull the charging handle, and it was ready to fire.

The nylon sling was still attached to the upper and lower sections. With the sling looped around my neck, even the sixteen-inch barrel and suppressor were hidden, dangling beneath my armpits.

That done, I slipped on my coat.

Next, I shoved the two magazines, each preloaded with fifteen.223-caliber bullets, into the pockets.

I balled up a nylon duffel bag and tucked it inside the largest purse I owned. I’d started keeping cash inside the gun safe, rather than the office safe, because it rankled having to explain to Hope why I always kept a significant stash on hand. I counted out the bills.

Almost done. I dropped a three-inch knife in a leather sheath, along with my black Merrill soft-soled hiking shoes into the purse. Last thing I grabbed was the monocular thermal-imaging device that had cost me an entire month’s pay. But with the compromised eyesight in my right eye, especially at night, I needed-deserved-the extra advantage. I’d lusted after the thermal-imaging devices I’d used with my sniper rifle, but the army frowned on soldiers taking home a twenty-five thousand dollar piece of equipment.

During this rapid-fire preparation, I’d calmed. I’d reached the place I hadn’t accessed since my nephew had been murdered. The black cesspool that held the memory of all bad things I’d done-without remorse. The dark spot inside me that would never evaporate completely. The hidden parts that were the truest part of me.

Methodical.

Ruthless.

Unstoppable.

Showtime.

I left the bedroom carrying my purse, letting dread slow my movements. I tugged on my gray wool cap with the ear flaps. Jammed my feet in snow boots.

At the kitchen sink I felt Sheldon watching me-no idea where he’d hidden himself outside-but I knew he was close by. I shuffled through the paperwork, several times. Turned the map sideways. Studied it this way and that. Made a disgusted noise and set the papers on the counter. I poured a glass of water, allowing myself to gaze into space. Allowing fear to show. I even gasped and clapped my hand over my mouth, as if trying to hold back tears.

Do you see me as a broken woman, you sadistic motherfucker? Is your sick head swimming with ways to torture me and break me completely?

Bring it.

Because it was on.

Sure enough, after I’d traveled about a mile down the gravel road, headlights appeared in my rearview. Most likely, that bastard had been spying from the barn, with the direct view of the back porch and into the kitchen windows. He could’ve parked on the other side of the house, and I wouldn’t have seen his vehicle because I never drove past the ranch anymore. Not like when I’d lived in the foreman’s cabin.

I hadn’t been there since my return from Quantico. Maybe that’s where he’d holed up and was keeping Sophie. It was close enough that he could keep an eye on both of us.

It took every bit of control not to spin a U-turn and play a game of chicken with him.

As I made the drive into Eagle Ridge, I went over the plan in my head several times, not knowing if it’d even work. But if this plan didn’t work, the next one would. And if not this one, the one after that. The thought of Sophie tied up somewhere, grieving, scared, mad, hungry, crying, hurting, and cold-that’s what would keep me going.

At Besler’s, I parked in the space closest to the front entrance, but not under the streetlight. I tucked the keys under the mat, shouldered my purse, and strolled inside. Just another grocery shopper.

I grabbed a cart and headed past the produce section. I spied Naomi at the back of the pet-food aisle. She didn’t acknowledge me when I moved past her and hefted three fifty-pound bags of dog food into my cart. Then I stood beside her, pretending to comparison shop between brands of kitty litter.

We were nearly shoulder to shoulder when I said, “Meet me in the women’s bathroom in three minutes. Knock four times.”

Luck was on my side because no one was using the restroom. Once inside the single stall, I ditched the trench coat and dug out the folded duffel bag. I snapped the AR-15 together, shoved it and the rest of my equipment into the bag, and zipped it shut. I’d just finished changing my shoes when I heard four knocks. I unlocked the door, and Naomi stepped inside.

“Thanks for doing this, Naomi.”

“What am I doing?”

“First off, you should know this is a covert government operation. You’ve heard the phrase ‘plausible deniability’? That’s what’ll happen if you ever tell anyone about this, understand?”

“Yes, you can trust me.”

“Good. Here’s the plan. We’re swapping identities.” I pulled off my hat and tugged it onto her head. “Next, coat and shoes.”

As we faced each other, I had the first hope this switcheroo would work. We were close to the same height, and the buttoned-up trench coat would mask our physical differences. I wrapped the scarf around her neck.

“Here’s the tricky part. Listen very carefully. Stay in the store for ten full minutes after I leave. Buy something simple. Once you get outside, keep your head down so your scarf covers most of your face; that way if my suspect has his binoculars on you, he won’t know you’re not me. Walk quickly, but do not run. Do not look around. Act like you’ve got something weighing on your mind and you cannot be bothered to pay attention to your surroundings. My truck is the black Ford F-150 parked in the center row, the second spot facing the exit. The keys are on the floor.” I paused and studied her. “You all right so far?”