Lori Armstrong - Mercy Kill

I nodded. “So if I pass the ‘she’s legit’ test, then what?”

“If they’re looking to buy what you’re peddling, the next step is an in-person meet with Saro’s rep.”

“Who’s that?”

No answer.

“Come on, Rollie.”

“Cherelle.”

Dammit. J-Hawk had been talking to Cherelle, which confirmed every fear I had.

“She’s always first contact. That way if a federal agency is setting up a sting, she’s implicated.”

“Wouldn’t Cherelle turn on Saro and Victor and blab for immunity?”

Rollie shook his head. “They’ll go after her family. She’d be better off keeping her mouth shut and doin’ time.”

“If Cherelle clears me and my product, who do I end up dealing with?”

“Victor. He sets the meeting times. The meeting places. He makes the payments. Saro is the brains; Victor is the muscle. They’re like yin and yang. And trust me, they play up that angle like crazy. Because, kola, they are crazy. Make no mistake about that.”

I let that all soak in. I looked up, and Rollie was pulling in behind my truck.

“I’m gonna give you some advice, Mercy girl. Let it go. People who get involved with Saro wind up dead… I don’t gotta spell it out for you.”

“Meaning Saro’s untouchable?”

“Perhaps.”

My spine snapped straight with indignation. “No one is above the law. That’s the whole reason I’m running for sheriff, Rollie.”

He lit another cigarette, giving me the one-eyed squint through the smoke. “Is that really the reason?”

I counted to twenty before I answered. “If Saro’s drug, torture, and sex-for-trade business has been going on as long as you claim, then my dad was just as guilty as Dawson is for letting it slide. I won’t look the other way. I won’t let it go.”

“Your funeral.”

“Yep. I’d rather die trying than live in fear and not try at all.”

He grinned. “Can we use that as your new campaign slogan, hey?”

“Smarty-pants,” I volleyed back.

“What else is on your mind, Mercy girl?”

Intuitive old man. “Did you ever meet up with any of the guys you fought with in Vietnam? You know, a few years after you came home?”

“The surviving guys from my platoon have a reunion every year.”

“Do you ever go?”

The beads at the ends of his braids clicked together when he shook his head. “I ain’t the type to reminisce about stuff that still gives me nightmares.” He flicked ashes out the window. “You been havin’ them dreams?”

No need to explain what “them dreams” meant. I shrugged. “Some. Mostly the booze lets me sleep in peace.”

He snorted. “ Shee . You mean booze lets you pass out with a false sense of security.”

“It’s a moot point now, since I’m not drinking nearly as much as I was.”

“Which is a good thing, girlie. So why you askin’ me about my marine pals, hey?”

“I just wondered if… you ever… felt you owed them or something.”

His hand curled over my fingers, which were picking at a hole in his dashboard. “I can’t help you when you’re talkin’ in riddles.”

I shared a condensed version of my past with J-Hawk and my frustration with Dawson’s apathy about finding out who’d killed him. I hadn’t told anyone my reason for accepting the bid for sheriff. So when I said it out loud? For the first time it seemed childish, petty, and impulsive.

Rollie eased back and fingered the necklace of bone. He looked at me. “People change, Mercy. This J-Hawk guy don’t sound like the man you used to know. Mebbe if you go digging, you’ll find things you’d’ve been better off leaving be.”

“Too late. And he saved my life. I literally would not be sitting here right now if it weren’t for him. So I’m supposed to chalk up his murder to bad luck or bad timing?”

“What if Dawson’s right and that’s all it is?”

“Then it shouldn’t be that goddamn hard to investigate, should it? Even I should be able to crack the case.”

Rollie smiled. Not his sneaky smile, but his genuine smile of pride. “You have a warrior heart, Mercy. Do you want me to tell you if you find justice for your friend it’ll even the score of what you feel you owe him?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t do that, ’cause life don’t work that way. But you’ll do what you have to and won’t rest until you’ve got an answer, whether or not it’s the answer you wanted.”

I rolled my eyes. “Thanks for just repeating my question back to me in another form.”

“Anytime you need token advice from the wise old Indian, you know where to find me.”

The door on his truck wouldn’t budge, so I bailed out the window. I’d rounded the back end when he called out, “Be careful.”

• • •

The ranch wasthe last place I wanted to go but the only place I wanted to be. I missed my dog, but really, even Shoonga would ditch me and my crap attitude today.

Having the truck windows rolled down and feeling dusty air blowing across my face helped. As did singing along loudly to the Dierks Bentley tune on the radio. By the time I reached the cabin, I wasn’t about to waste such a splendorous day reading snooze-worthy paperwork.

When in doubt, pull the handguns out.

I grabbed ammo for my.22 “plinker,” a Smith and Wesson model 41 semiauto, which was the most accurate.22 I’d ever used, and.45 ammo for my grandfather’s Colt 1911, which I’d gotten accurized, a new slide lapped to the existing frame, a new barrel and barrel bushing, and a new competition hammer and trigger. I tossed in a whole bag of tin cans. I’d rather shoot a moving target than a static one. Next time I hit Scheels in Rapid City, I’d buy an automatic clay pigeon thrower so I could mix up my shooting practices and use my shotguns. I’d inherited an antique, handheld variety of pigeon thrower from my dad, but it didn’t work for solo shooters.

I set up in a flat section of prairie, along an old section of fencing a little ways from the cabin, where the fence posts were old pieces of wood, not metal poles. I lined up the cans, donned my earplugs, and commenced to blasting holes in the tin, keeping the distance around fifty yards. The days of my needing to practice to maintain accuracy in hitting a target at five hundred plus yards were history. Short range with just the naked eye was enough challenge.

Plus, I’d proved I still had the mettle the night I’d blown up Newsome’s house. That thought boosted my spirits.

Some shooters always used a scope, even for target practice. Maybe especially for target practice. Snipers by and large couldn’t function without scopes. I understood it and more often than not used one. But when faced with a situation where I had to rely on my instincts, I eyeballed it. It hadn’t affected my accuracy rating at all. Until the eye injury.

I shot ten clips from the Smith and Wesson and then ten clips from the 1911. I’d reloaded and replaced the cans, exhilarating in the familiar. Aiming. Firing. For the most part, I put the bullets exactly where I’d intended to put them. Even with my left eye.

I missed this feeling of confidence. This was what I was good at. This was what I wanted to do. This was what I was meant to do. Meant to do and allowed to do were two different animals. I paused, setting my gun on the ground. After removing my earplugs, I closed my eyes, waiting for the snarky little voice inside my head to appear and remind me of my failings.

“You’re still pulling to the left a hair.”

The voice was right behind me, not inside my head.

I whirled around.

“I thought it’d be best not to surprise you while you had a full clip.” The petite Mexican woman, wearing her customary all-black outfit, flipped her waist-length braid over her shoulder and smiled at me. “Surprised?”