Lori Armstrong - No Mercy

Rollie flipped on the radio. Conway Twitty’s “Tight Fitting Jeans” effectively ended all conversation.

We didn’t exchange another word until we said good-bye as he dropped me off at the top of the driveway.

Dog-tired, I trudged upstairs. I had a long night behind me and I might have a long night ahead of me. I crawled between the sheets, still tangled from my romp with Dawson, and conked out.

Around dusk I donned gray-and-black camouflage. Tied my hair in a ponytail and swirled greasepaint on my face. I loaded the pockets of my flack jacket: binoculars, Bowie knife, my Browning High Power, my Sig, and an extra clip for each just in case. Rollie’s warning flashed in my mind. What would I do if I heard a confession?

Worry about it if and when it happened.

It weirded me out, dressing for recon in my frilly, floral bedroom. Seemed I’d performed this ritual in another lifetime. Last time I’d been in Iraq. Last time I’d been 100 percent.

The disjointed sensation lingered as I climbed into the truck. I didn’t play the radio. My mind blanked, my sole concentration on breathing slow and deep so it would look like I wasn’t breathing at all.

I cruised the edge of the road. The second my headlights caught the flash of white, I parked in the ditch and turned off the engine. Cut the interior light, slipped out the passenger door and eased down the steep incline.

The ground was mucky from the rain. My boots felt like cement blocks from the caked-on mud. When I reached the spot where I’d cleaned out the underbrush, I belly-crawled into position on my elbows.

Seven figures were crouched around the bonfire. I didn’t recognize anyone with my naked eye so I pulled out my binoculars.

The attendees had coated their faces with red and white war paint, making it hard to tell who was who. Moser stood sturdy as a tree. The sunken chest belonged to Randall. Short one, Little Bear. Bulky guy… Bucky. Axel was tasked with dragging material for the fire from the outskirts of the group. A broad-shouldered man sat with his back to me. His face was aimed at the rocks, so I couldn’t see it.

A strange feeling unfurled in my gut.

The guy standing, doing all the talking, seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place him either. I listened.

“-making such a big deal about it.”

“We’re making a big deal because our friends are dead. And you can’t give us no good reason why. This wasn’t ’sposed to be part of it. Albert’s accident-”

“Yeah,” Moser interrupted. “We shoulda told the cops the truth about what happened. Now people are talking. Chasing us down and asking questions. Thinking we’re killing people. Ain’t gonna be long before-”

“Did your ancestors surrender when faced with adversity? Remember what happened to Lakota warriors when they practiced their religious rituals? They were slaughtered. If anyone knew, especially law enforcement, that a bunch of young Indian males were renewing some of those sacred rites, it wouldn’t matter whether or not Albert’s death was accidental. They’d arrest you.” He pointed to each person. “All of you. You’d spend the rest of your lives in the penitentiary.”

No one answered him.

I’d heard that voice before. Where?

Axel tossed the pile of tumbleweeds on the fire. A flash of eager yellow flames engulfed the desiccated plant, instantly burning it into red coals. As he poked the embers, he said, “We ain’t talking about Albert. We’re talking about the others. Did you kill them? Levi and Sue Anne?”

Everyone jabbered at once.

The big man stood, lifted his arm to the sky. Metal glinted in the fire’s orange glow. He fired in the air. Twice.

Immediate silence.

My heart pounded like a tom-tom. Not many men that size in this county. Three I knew of off the top of my head. One was dead. One worked for the man who’d threatened me. One had woken in my bed this morning. The man started to turn-I wanted to squeeze my eyes shut-but I kept the binoculars trained on him. Even as my hands shook and the pitiful mantra of please don’t let it be him began a loop in my head.

The brightness of the fire illuminated the man’s wrinkled red face. Not Dawson, thank God.

Hiram Blacktower.

But my relief was short-lived when I realized the man Hiram was talking to, the man in charge, was Hope’s boyfriend, Theo Murphy.

As soon as I swallowed the sourness rising up the back of my throat, I was damn glad I hadn’t brought my sniper rifle. I imagined Theo’s face in the crosshairs of my scope. One trigger click and his head would explode like a watermelon.

Breathe.

I refocused. Chaos ruled. Moser shouted accusations at Theo. Bucky and Little Bear were pointing and yelling at Hiram. Randall sat on a rock, rocking, his arms wrapped around his up-drawn knees. Axel watched the scene unfold with strangely wise eyes, stirring the coals out of reflex, not need.

Hiram raised his gun and fired again.

Silence fell.

Theo said, “Thank you, honored leader.”

Axel snickered.

Theo whirled on him. “Have something to say, Axel?”

“To you? Yeah. This is bullshit. I don’t know why you’re in the Warrior Society anyway. You ain’t Sioux.” He spoke in Lakota to Hi.

Hiram shook his head.

Theo snapped, “In English.”

Guess I wasn’t the only one who didn’t understand the language.

Axel didn’t look at Theo. Nor did he miss a beat when he switched to English and addressed Moser. “Didja invite them ’cause they offered to buy us booze? Is that really what the Warrior Society is about? Getting drunk and letting anyone in as long as they bring us a suitcase of Coors? Shee . How’s that make us different from the rez gangs, eh? Just ’cause we ain’t selling meth don’t mean what we been doing is right.”

Moser twitched. Little Bear angled his head from the fire, leaving his face in shadow.

My rage festered in the surreal stillness.

“We were doing just fine on our own. For a while, I was even proud of the group we started. A place where we talked about our Lakota heritage, learned our traditions. Ever since Moser brought in this white motherfucker”-he pointed at Theo-“and this half-baked half-breed”-he aimed his slender finger at Hiram-“ they’ve taken over. Now they’re dressing in buckskin and war paint? Telling us how to be Indian? How screwed up is that?

“Some of our kolas are dead and these guys are saying so what ? Ain’t that what we were trying to get away from on the rez and everywhere else? Adult white folks dismissing us as worthless thugs? Or savages?”

Bucky said, “Axel’s right. That horse coulda thrown any of us. Why’d we hide the truth?”

“It’s too late to make it right now. Who woulda been in trouble anyway? We’d be headed to juvie, not the pen. But didja ever wonder how he”-Randall gestured to Hiram again-“knew exactly where to dump Albert’s body? It was like he already had a place all picked out.”

All faces turned toward Hiram.

“We let Blacktower take advantage because we was all too drunk to realize both of them had other motives. White man motives. Makes me sick. Especially when I heard what you guys did to Lanae. There ain’t nothing in our history, or any Lakota ritual, about raping a virgin as a sacrifice to the Great Spirit. These assholes just wanted a young piece of dark pussy, and they used us to get it.”

Warning chills raced up my arms. Axel was playing fast and loose against a guy with a gun. Not smart.

“That’s enough, Axel,” Theo warned.

Axel paid no heed. “I ain’t gonna listen to this bullshit. I sure as hell ain’t gonna take part in something that’s gonna hurt anyone.”