Lori Armstrong - Mercy Kill

I brown-bagged the bottle and set it next to him. “What the hell were you thinking, spewing that shit? Were you looking for a fight?”

“Didn’t get much of one, did I?” he sneered.

I rolled my eyes at the former Army Ranger. “You against an entire bar? Did you whack your head on the concrete in your fall from grace?”

“I wish.” Jason grabbed the bottle, acting hesitant.

I didn’t want him to leave either, but I had no choice. “Where will you go?” I asked softly.

He shrugged. “Not far. But it’ll still feel like I’m light-years away from where I want to be.”

“Jason-”

“Go help your loyal local customers, Mercy. Forget about me.”

Although everyone stared at him, no one spoke to Jason as he walked out the door.

A bar fight put people in a drinking mood. John-John and I barely kept up. If he wasn’t out on the floor helping Winona take orders, he was behind the bar mixing drinks. I handled bottled and draft beer and poured straight shots. Even the traffic for off-sale booze stayed steady. At one point I had five customers in line.

Frazzled, I demanded, “IDs?” to a pair of underage punks.

“We’re buying beer for our dad. He’s out in the parking lot waitin’ for us.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. He wants a suitcase of Keystone Light.”

“Got an ID?”

“No. But-”

“No ID, no beer.” I peered around him and shouted, “Next.”

“Come on,” the short blond argued, getting up in my face. “He’s right outside.”

The snot-nosed punk was high as a kite and spoiling for a fight. Not a good combo. After the night I’d had, not a smart move on his part to push me. “Then send him in.”

“He’s handicapped, and you ain’t got no wheelchair access,” the red-haired one sniveled. He rubbed the back of his hand beneath his nose. “It ain’t his fault he can’t come in and buy it himself. That’s why he sent us. So sell us the goddamn beer.”

I hated meth heads. These little lying sacks had thought of everything-except fake IDs. “Nice try. Let me repeat. No ID, no beer.”

One last glare at me and they spun away. But they stupidly approached the last guy in line.

I yelled, “I catch any of you buying booze for those two minors, and I will permanently blackball you, got it?”

No response, but they all looked to the real boss.

John-John didn’t miss a beat. “Any names she passes on to me, I’ll pass along to Muskrat. I guarantee you won’t step foot in here again.”

Muskrat’s name invoked way more fear than mine.

Pissed off, the boys tried to cause a scene but were old news by the time the door hit them in the ass.

People started to clear out. John-John restocked the liquor and ran the industrial dishwasher, hauling clean glasses and stacking them behind the bar. When we were down to only a few customers, John-John made a halfhearted offer to stay and help me close up, but in all honesty, I didn’t want him around. After being surrounded by people for the last ten hours, I craved some semblance of solitude.

Being alone allowed me too much time to think. How had this part-time bartending gig morphed into a full-time job? I might’ve needed direction in my life at one point, but tonight I realized I was tired of breaking up fights, pulling drafts, cleaning up vomit, and working until two in the morning.

It also hit me that my working hours were becoming as much of a blur as the nights when I’d passed out from drinking. And I didn’t know which one was worse.

Long-assed night behind me, I couldn’t wait to get home.

As I crossed the parking area, the universe made a point it could screw with me at any moment; the toe of my boot caught in a gopher hole. Thanks to military martial arts training, I managed to make a safe fall, avoiding landing on my left side and dislocating my shoulder.

Glad no one was around to see that humiliating face-plant.

I pushed to my knees, cursing my lack of depth perception, when a flash of white in the darkness caught my attention. What the hell? I squinted, determining it was a pair of shoes. Namely, athletic shoes with white soles. Shoes still on the feet on the person lying between the two vehicles.

Jesus. Just what I needed, to deal with a passed-out drunk. Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time.

I yelled, “Hey, you. Get up.”

No twitch of the feet. Big feet. Had to be a guy.

I brushed the dirt off my jeans and stood, but didn’t move closer. Maybe I ought to leave the man be. If I woke him up, I’d have to determine whether he was fit to drive. Considering his prone state, chances were slim he’d be coherent, and I wasn’t a damn taxi service.

But nights were still cold, and I didn’t need a case of hypothermia on my conscience. I headed toward him. “Look, you can’t sleep it off here.”

Then I smelled blood.

Walk away. Run away. Get in your truck and drive away. Just go go go, and don’t look back.

My feet moved of their own volition, and the next thing I knew, I was standing over the body.

He wasn’t sleeping; he was dead.

The coat. The shirt. The jeans. All items of clothing I recognized, even in the darkness, even covered in dark splotches of blood and mud. It was the shoes that’d thrown me. J-Hawk had never worn white athletic shoes. Neither of us did. It was a covert-ops thing. Even now, every pair of my running shoes were a shade of black.

Would you quit obsessing over shoes? J-Hawk is lying out here, in the middle of an old pasture, dead. Do something.

I dug out my cell phone and dialed 911. “This is Mercy Gunderson. There’s been a fatal shooting at Clementine’s. No, the bar is closed. Yes, I’ll stay.”

Rather than stand around wringing my hands until the cops arrived, I took stock of the situation. What I knew of forensics could fit on the head of a pin. But I knew better than to wander around the crime scene or to move the body.

I forced myself to focus on the visible body trauma and squatted next to him. Shot from close range, at least once. A hole gaped beneath his sternum. Had to be at least a.45 cal to do that much damage. My gaze moved down. His shirt had been cut, revealing a strip of his belly skin that glowed neon white. Dark blood seeped from the long, jagged knife wound-a deep slash in his gut resembling a grotesque smile. I swallowed the bile forcing its way up my throat when I realized whoever had done this had sawed through his midsection. This hadn’t been a quick stab and slice. I forced my eyes away only to notice another gunshot wound on his upper right thigh.

His arms were akimbo. His head was at an unnatural angle, tilted to the side. Because of the excess blood on his neck, I couldn’t tell if the wound was from a bullet or a knife. I couldn’t see his face, thank God.

Or his vacant, accusing eyes.

I saved you. Why didn’t you save me?

Startled by the wraithlike words, I stumbled back.

Night became day. The flattened grass became chalky sand. The clothing turned into desert camo. The vehicle became a smoking, overturned Humvee. And I knelt next to the young marine as I tried to keep his guts from spilling out of his belly.

He’s dead. Get up and move on. They’re coming to get the body.

I blinked, and I was back in South Dakota. Sitting next to J-Hawk’s body, my past intruding on my present.

Despite feeling light-headed, I wobbled to my feet.

In the last few years I’d been unfortunate to discover more than my fair share of dead bodies. Even during my time in the army. I found Private Madison in his bunk with his belt wrapped around his throat. I discovered an Iraqi interpreter bludgeoned to death directly outside our “safe” zone. Coming home hadn’t changed my bad luck. I’d found my nephew and his girlfriend.