Lori Armstrong - Merciless

I broke down the AR and put it in the duffel bag. Next went in the night-vision goggles, the infrared, the tape recorder, and the cell phones. The van started. But it sputtered and died five minutes later on the road back to Eagle River.

I was still eleven miles from my truck and the reservation. The duffel bag had straps on the back side, allowing me to wear it as a backpack. After double-checking that I hadn’t left a trace of myself in Naomi’s van, I started out at a slow jog. Staying on the soft shoulder until I saw an approaching vehicle’s headlights. Then I ducked into the ditch, catching my breath. When the coast was clear again, I returned to pounding the pavement.

Soldiers get injured during ops. I handled it the same way I always had. Shut down any emotion and focused on my training. Mind over matter. Keeping pain in a separate compartment to deal with later. Counting each footstep. Focusing on each breath.

I reached a sentient state of shock. Like everything I’d seen and done had happened to someone else. I slowed to a walk as the lights of the Eagle River Reservation came into view. I cut away from the main road and into the residential area. Two punks approached me then backed away when they caught a glimpse of my face. Or maybe it was my bloodied leg that sent them scurrying.

My truck was still in the church parking lot. On a whim I tried the church doors, expecting them to be locked up tight at midnight, like everything else. But the big doors swung open, welcoming me inside.

Trusting lot, these Catholics.

My boots and purse weren’t in the bathroom, but my coat still hung on the rack. I slipped it on and felt a wave of comfort wash over me. I’d never been fond of this coat, but it might just become my new favorite.

After I changed the tire, I drove home. Still on automatic.

Once inside the house I cleaned my gun. I put everything away, almost methodically. I grabbed the envelope of pictures that had been left in my truck and that I’d hidden in the lazy Susan. I replaced the battery in my phone to check for missed calls. None from the hospital, thank God. I texted Jake that I was okay and told him to bring Lex home first thing in the morning.

I took the fake dossier file, the disposable cell phones, the tape recorder, and the pictures outside. Stacking everything into the burning barrel, I used a propane torch to light the papers on fire.

While watching the plastic melt, the photos bubble then curl into ash, I made one phone call. When Rollie Rondeaux’s answering machine asked me to leave a message, I said, “Now we’re square.”

After the fire died, I returned inside. I stripped and cleaned myself. Red then pink water swirled around my feet as I poked the spot where the bullet had grazed my thigh.

I felt no pain, no shame, no remorse, no vindication.

I just felt tired.

I stretched out on the couch, turning the TV on for company.

If I thought I’d stare at the ceiling, unable to sleep as I relived the day’s events, I thought wrong.

My body and my mind shut down, and I was grateful for the darkness.

I shouldn’t have been surprised when Turnbull showed up the next morning.

So when I answered his knock-yes, the girl can be taught about the importance of locking doors-I’d already drunk half a pot of coffee. “Agent Turnbull.”

“Agent Gunderson, you look like…”

“Hell. Yeah, I know. Help yourself to coffee.”

He doctored a cup with cream and sugar before he faced me. “Rough night at the hospital?”

I shrugged.

“I tried to get ahold of you last night.”

“My cell wasn’t working.”

“Neither was your house phone.”

I shrugged again. “That happens sometimes, out in the middle of nowhere. Vermin biting through wires. I’ll call the phone company on Monday to get it fixed.”

Turnbull waited for me to say something else.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I’d said too much already.

Then he was right in my face. Studying the bruise that covered my left cheek, and then his gaze dropping to my swollen and bloodied lip. “What the fuck happened to you?”

Keeping things to myself was standard operating procedure in the army, even before I became black ops. I didn’t owe my unofficial FBI partner anything because he could slap cuffs on me and throw me in jail for the rest of my life if he knew the truth. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

He placed his fingers under my chin and forced me to look at him. Then he touched the bruise, not with gentleness, but with enough force to make me wince. “What did you do last night?”

My gaze searched his, and I didn’t back away from his firm touch or probing eyes. “It’s no big deal. I heard a noise, went outside to check it out, and tripped over my bootlaces. I ran right into the barn door.”

“Bullshit.”

I jerked out of his hold and retreated. After refilling my cup, I rested my backside against the countertop. “Why are you here on a Saturday morning? Did we have a break in the cases or something?”

“No, I had a bad feeling about you.”

“I thought we were supposed to ignore those gut feelings in the FBI.”

But he wasn’t looking at my face. “Jesus, Gunderson, why is your leg bleeding?”

I glanced at my left leg and saw red spreading across the gray sweat material. I waved off his concern. “No biggie. I cut myself shaving.”

Then Shay was in front of me again, poking at the stain.

This time I yelped.

Mr. Intense was in my face. “Is that a goddamn bullet hole?”

“I just nicked the surface. You know how much those superficial wounds bleed.”

“Let me see it.”

“What? No.” I tried to scramble back, but he put his hand on my thigh and squeezed. I snapped, “Jesus, knock it the fuck off, you sadistic asshole.”

“Bathroom. Now. Or I call an ambulance. Your choice.”

So I followed him into the bathroom.

He afforded me a quick once-over. “Sweatpants off.”

I refused to blush when I peeled them down my legs. “Get on the counter so I can make sure you don’t have a damn bullet in there.”

I knew better than to argue with that tone. I handed him a first-aid kit after he finished washing his hands.

“What will it take to convince you to talk to me about what happened last night?”

The poker face I’d mastered slipped. And for all the people it could’ve happened in front of, just my luck it was Special Agent Shay Turnbull. When I wasn’t wearing pants. “I guess that depends on who I’m talking to right now.”

“Are you asking if I’m wearing my badge?”

“Yes, but I’m not just talking figuratively.”

Shay locked his gaze to mine. “I’m more than the badge, Mercy.”

“Still not hearing the reassurances I need, Agent Turnbull.”

Indecision clouded his eyes. Then he said tightly, “Tit for tat, eh? My dark secret for yours?”

I had so many secrets I wasn’t sure if last night’s events even counted as the dark variety. “Fine. But it’d better be what I want to know, and don’t pretend you aren’t aware of exactly what that is.”

“Then tell me what I want to know. Were you shot last night?

“Yeah. It’s no big deal. I’ve been shot before.”

“I see that.” His fingers traced the ugly ridged scar on my other leg, and the skin tightened with gooseflesh. Then he bent over the wound, seeing blood oozing from beneath the bandage. “You say there’s no bullet in there?”

“I already poked around in it.”

“I’m gonna take a look anyway.” Shay ripped off the covering quickly, but it still hurt like a mother.

Blood gushed out and ran down the inside of my thigh.