Lori Armstrong - Mercy Kill

Agent Shay Turnbull appeared.

Great.

He whistled, and Shoonga quieted down. Damn dog even wagged his tail. Neat trick. I’d ask him how he did it. If I didn’t shoot him first.

“Sergeant Major.”

“Agent Turnbull. How’d you find me?”

“Followed the sound of gunfire.”

“Wrong. Try again.”

“Okay. Jake gave me directions.”

Jake, that traitorous jerk. “Did you come to say good-bye?”

Turnbull laughed. “Don’t sound so hopeful.”

“A girl can dream.”

He stared at my gun, then at me, mirth gone. “Mind putting the safety back on?”

“Afraid I’ll accidentally shoot you?” I flashed my teeth at him. “Sorry. If I shoot you, it’ll be on purpose.”

“You have a warped sense of humor.”

“I have a warped sense of everything, Agent Turnbull.”

He studied me intently. Too intently. It set my teeth on edge.

“What?”

“How are you holding up?”

Placating bastard. “How would you be holding up if you’d killed one of your fellow agents after they’d gone rogue?”

“Who says I haven’t been in the same situation?”

Not what I’d expected. “You wanna compare stories?”

“I’ll pass on reliving that ugliness, thanks. I just wanted to say I’ve been there. It sucks ass. You did what you had to, Mercy. You probably can’t see it now. But you will eventually.”

My flip response stuck on the roof of my mouth.

A minute or so passed. While he looked at the bluffs in the distance, the rise of the rolling hills, the rickety fences, the twisted trees and oceans of mud, I looked at him.

Finally, he said, “Beautiful piece of dirt you have. Can’t say as I blame you for not wanting a pipeline running through here.”

“It’d be a few years before it’s a done deal, but I’m holding out hope that it’s not inevitable.” I set the gun on the tailgate. “You didn’t just happen by to talk about scenery and local political issues, Agent Turnbull.”

“Astute one, aren’t you?”

“All that woo-woo, psychic, seeing-dead-bodies part of my Indian heritage,” I said dryly.

He snorted. “You know what it means to be Indian like I know how to run a whaling ship.”

“Meaning… nothing.”

“I call it like I see it.” Turnbull shifted his position. “Look, I’m sure you have questions, and believe it or not, I’m here to give you some answers. But what I’m about to tell you stays off the record. If you ever repeat it? Full denial.”

Did I really want to hear this?

Yes.

“Understood. Now spill it.”

“We knew Anna killed Victor.”

“We… as in the FBI?”

He nodded.

“How?”

No answer.

Then it hit me. Had the FBI been following Victor? Had they watched Anna kill him and done nothing to stop it?”

“To answer your question, no. We didn’t stand by and do nothing when Anna killed him.”

The man was too goddamn spooky reading me.

“When Saro spread rumors they’d killed Major Hawley, we knew she’d be gunning for Victor and Saro, and we knew Cherelle encouraged Anna to believe Victor was responsible.”

I stared at him. “The FBI condones murder?”

“No.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “There are certain things we know, Mercy. Things we have to stand by and watch happen. We know Saro and Victor run the drugs in Eagle River and other reservations. We know they’ve killed and buried the bodies on the rez or fed them to the wild dogs. They’ve done all sorts of bad things they should be locked up for. But because of the laws and lines we can’t cross, we can’t do a damn thing but watch it happen over and over.

“I’m not bothered in the slightest that Anna took out Victor. Saro is off the rails with grief and anger. It’s put Saro’s organization into pure chaos. They’ll make mistakes, and when they do, we’ll finally have our chance to bust them.”

“And if Anna would’ve killed Saro, too?”

“I would’ve thrown her a freakin’ parade.”

“Contradictory much?”

Turnbull smiled. “Make no mistake, I woulda tossed her ass in jail right after the confetti fell.”

“What about Cherelle?”

“We’re pretty sure in those extra meetings, she figured out a way to cut Saro out of the drug deal and Hawley told her where he stashed the rest of the OxyContin. After he died she took it. And being Saro’s screen, she’d know exactly who to contact to get rid of it fast.”

“So she’s just vanished?”

“With that face? She’s not exactly inconspicuous. We’ll find her. Eventually.”

“If you knew Anna killed Victor, did you also know those two punks killed J-Hawk?”

“No. Dawson suspected a robbery from the start. But after we took over the case, we forced him to drop that line of investigation so it wouldn’t interfere with our objective.”

Still made me feel like a douche bag for assuming Dawson was an idiot, who didn’t know the first thing about investigating, who only cared about his own agenda, when he’d had no choice but to drop the case.

“I hear you and the sheriff have mended your fences.”

My relationship with Dawson wasn’t up for discussion with Agent Turnbull. Ever.

“He’s a good man.”

I didn’t need Turnbull to tell me that. “Okay, you’ve filled in the blanks for me. But I’ve gotta ask… why?”

Shay Turnbull studied me. “Because we want you to come to work for us.”

Talk about blindsided. “Excuse me? You mean the FBI?”

“ICSCU could use you, Mercy.”

“No. Way.”

“Hear me out. Five minutes.”

“Nope. Have a nice trip back to wherever you’re from.” I cocked my head. “What corner of hell are you from, anyway?”

“Hilarious. I live in Rapid.”

“No, I mean originally. What reservation?” I sensed his irritation, but he’d answer if he wanted to keep me talking.

“Flandreau.”

“So you’re a member of the…”

“Santee tribe.”

“I knew you didn’t look Lakota Sioux.”

Turnbull wasn’t sure if that was a compliment. “So back to business at hand. You interested?”

“For the third time, no.”

“You’re making the decision without giving us a chance to state our case?”

“Yep.”

“Typical. Don’t know why they freakin’ bothered when I tried to tell them it was pointless.”

“Why’d they send you?”

“As a test of my neutrality. To see if I could convince you to meet with ADA Shenker, despite my reservations about you.”

I lifted my eyebrows. “Your personal reservations about me? Oh, Agent Turnbull, now you’ve piqued my interest. Do tell.”

“You’ve had an exemplary military career, which means you can follow orders. You’ve had covert-ops training, which means you can blend. You’re extremely proficient with firearms. Since you ran for sheriff, it shows you have a sense of community and a desire for a broader sense of justice. You’ve recently enrolled in the tribe, so you’re finally embracing part of your heritage.”

“But?” I prompted.

“But, you don’t take help when you need it. You slide into drinking binges. You lie. You like to intimidate people who cross you with your firearms. You have an unnatural attachment to said firearms. Bottom line? You’re a wild card. I don’t like wild cards.”

“So this ‘come to work for the feds’ wasn’t your idea?”

He shook his head. “I argued against it. Pretty hard, actually. And I would’ve won too, except you self-identified. We both know how much the higher-ups dig shit like that.”

“So because I admitted I needed mental help, now I’m a perfect candidate for a job… as a fed?” I laughed. Hard. I laughed until my stomach hurt.