Lori Armstrong - Mercy Kill

“Laugh it up. But we both know you’re going to say hell no, then you’ll order me off your land, probably while peppering my ass with buckshot. So why don’t you tell me to shove it one more time so I can head on home.”

That stung. The contrary part of me itched to blow their (mis)perception of me and say yes. But Turnbull was shrewd. I wouldn’t put it past him to use reverse psychology.

“Tell you what. I’ll make you a deal. If you can outshoot me, I’ll show up at the meeting.”

And yeah, maybe it was petty, but I felt smug when Turnbull’s smile slipped. If he knew as much about me as he’d claimed? He also knew I’d placed first in every official and unofficial military sharpshooting event in the last fifteen years.

Turnbull pushed away from the pickup. “Deal.”

Sucker. “Pick your poison. I’ve got six guns.”

“I’ll use my own gun, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Suit yourself. What’s the caliber?”

“Nine mil.”

“Same as mine. We’ll gauge by the ring of three.”

“That’ll work.”

The ring of three was a standard marksmanship test. Distance marked at thirty feet. Eight bullets in the outer ring. Eight bullets in the middle ring. Two each at twelve o’clock, three o’clock, six o’clock and nine o’clock. Five bullets in the center in the shape of a plus sign. Closest mark to the line in each section wins.

I released the clip on the Sig and reloaded. I had two other clips, each held ten bullets, so I reloaded those, too. I looked over at Turnbull. “I don’t suppose you’ve got extra clips.”

“No. Didn’t know we were gonna have a shoot-out at the Gunderson corral.”

I smiled and slammed the clip in. I jogged to the hay bale and switched out the paper target. I marked off thirty feet and drew a line in the mud with the heel of my boot.

Turnbull inclined his head. “Ladies first.”

I stepped up to the line. My focus sharpened. I lifted the gun and solidified my stance. After flicking the safety off, I sited in my first two target shots in the outer ring.

Bang bang .

Then I fired rapidly, until I emptied the clip at the top of the inner circle. I ejected the clip and shoved in a fresh one. Although I still had bullets left after I finished the middle ring, I changed clips for the five shots in the center so I could squeeze them off without interruption.

Bang bang bang bang bang.

We walked to the target. My shots were damn close to perfect. Symmetrical. Precise. “Okay, hotshot, show me what you’ve got.”

Pause. “You know, I’ve changed my mind.”

I smirked. “Really?”

“Yeah. I believe I will use your gun.”

Damn. And here I’d hoped he’d decided to back out. I ejected the clip and handed him the Sig. I yanked down my target and tacked up a fresh one. We walked back to the truck in silence. As I watched him speed-load the clips, my first sense of unease surfaced.

Agent Turnbull aimed and fired. He emptied and replaced his clips almost without pause.

Bluish gray smoke eddied around us, and the ground was littered with hot brass.

He handed back my gun. The wet earth squished under our boots as we returned to the hay bale. Shoonga trotted happily along beside us, oblivious to the tension, panting from chasing his tail.

I stared at the target in complete disbelief.

His shots weren’t side by side in the inner and outer circles. No, Agent Turnbull had put both the bullets through the same hole. Not once, as a fluke, but in both rings. So instead of having sixteen holes… he’d made eight. Eight big, ragged holes, so I knew he hadn’t fired off to the side to trick me. His bull’s-eye shot was clean, meticulous, and perfect.

I’d been had. Big time. I gaped at him. Because I’d never met anyone who could shoot like that. Never.

Agent Turnbull pulled a pen out of his pocket and scrawled across the top of his target. He ripped it off the hay bale and handed it to me with a grin that rivaled the devil’s. “See you next Tuesday, Sergeant Major.”

Son. Of. A. Bitch. I poked my finger through each jagged hole. I’d known some amazing shooters, but this? This was damn near art.

When I looked up to ask him where he’d learned to shoot like that, he was gone.

Typical.

I memorized the address and phone number before I folded the target and shoved it in my back pocket. It wouldn’t hurt to just listen to what they had to say, would it?

Shoonga yipped agreement.

I loaded up. With my dog by my side and the truck windows open to savor the temperate spring breeze, we drove down the dusty gravel road leading home.

I’d like to thank the following people for their assistance in helping this book come together. I’m lucky to have experts who are willing to share their knowledge with me:

A big Hooah! to George Reynolds, Col., U.S. Army (Ret.), not only for his fast, invaluable assistance in reading and fact-checking certain combat scenes, and for his good humor and patience while gently steering me in the right direction, and for giving me the best compliment an author could ever hope to receive, but he also gets my heartfelt thanks as an appreciative American for the thirty years he served this great country in the U.S. Army.

To my “baby cousin” Shannon Gutzmer, Pharm.D., and to Melvin “Mick” Harris, B.S., R.Ph., for the wealth of information on prescription drugs and pharmacy protocol.

To Ev Murphy, for her speed and expertise in phonetically translating the Lakota words and phrases for the audiobook version and for the Lakota pronunciation guide on my website.

To Mark Sanders, whose vast knowledge of everything under the sun, especially about critters like mountain lions, is invaluable. I’m proud and lucky to call Mark a friend.

To Mary LaHood, for her willingness to critique my work at the drop of a hat and to give it to me straight.

To Karen Hall, for the insight and information into the permit process and environmental impact for proposed oil pipelines, and her amazing ability to boil the language down so a non-engineer can get a tiny grasp on what it means.

To my husband Erin, not only for tracking down all the gun info for me, even after he’s been working in the gun business all day, and trying to ensure I don’t somehow royally screw up said info in translation, but for the love and support in all aspects of my life.

To my daughters; I’m proud and humbled by these amazing young women every day, especially when they don’t complain when I’m under deadline again.

Thanks to my awesome editor, Stacy Creamer.

Thanks to my agent, Scott Miller.

Any content errors in the book are mine alone.

aka Lorelei James

Lori G. Armstrong left the firearms industry in 2000 to pursue her dream of writing crime fiction. She is proud to be a fourth generation South Dakotan. Lori lives in Rapid City – yes, by choice – with her husband and three daughters.