Lori Armstrong - No Mercy

The connection went dead.

Thirty minutes.

Clutching the cell phone like a lifeline, I ran into my dad’s office. Although the safe combination hadn’t changed in years, my shaking fingers fumbled the dial. Four tries later, the last number clicked and the heavy door swung open. I stuffed a plastic garbage bag with stacks of bills. Didn’t bother to count it. Didn’t matter if it was every penny we had.

I took the stairs two at a time. In my bedroom, I jerked my gun cases from under the bed. Like hell I was going in unarmed.

My gun of choice was my compact Taurus Millennium Pro.45-the Walther P22 wouldn’t do enough body damage for my liking; the 9 mm Glock didn’t have a safety. I changed from sweats into baggy jeans. The metal was cold against my bare skin as I shoved the compact Taurus in the small of my back. The safety didn’t catch on the waistband, so no chance I’d accidentally shoot myself in the butt. One gun and an extra clip wasn’t nearly enough firepower, but it’d have to do.

I tucked my jeans into my worn Lariat boots. I considered taking the Chinese throwing stars from my bag of tricks. But under duress my aim with them wasn’t great, the exact opposite of my firearm skills, and I couldn’t risk hitting Hope with one of the flying razors.

On went my white ARMY OF ONE T-shirt. I glanced at the clock. Seven minutes had ticked by.

I spied an old backpack on the top shelf in the closet. Pulling it down, I dumped the contents on the floor, then transferred the cell phone, the money, the gun, and the clip into the backpack. Scanned the room. Good to go.

The easy part was done.

I sprinted outside. The air was heavy, a thick mass of swirling cold fog. Rain pelted me. Thunder rumbled. I slogged to the barn and froze once I realized what I’d have to do.

The irony wasn’t lost on me; Queenie was housed in the stall where my mother died.

How was I supposed to overcome thirty years of terror and climb on the back of a horse in thirty seconds? I didn’t even know if I remembered how to saddle one.

My mother’s voice drifted into my mind: Saddle up the same way every time, Mercy; that way you’ll never forget a step.

Blood pulsed in my ears as I headed for the tack room. I grabbed a halter and a lead rope, and draped them around my neck. Then I peeled a wool blanket off the stack and unhooked a saddle from the wall, equipment that had been used recently. I threw the blanket and the saddle over the rail separating the stalls.

My hands shook. The bridle jingled like Christmas bells. I needed to calm down. I didn’t have the luxury of spending time with Queenie to alleviate her fears or mine.

The creak of the hinges on the wooden gate sent goose bumps all over my body as I trudged inside the stall to face my demons.

The second I scooted sideways into the stall, Queenie reared. I leaped back, covered my head with my arms, and cowered by the exterior wall.

She whinnied. Almost sounded like a mean laugh.

God, I couldn’t do this. Whether the horse was scared from the storm blustering off and on for the last day, or by me, or a combination of both, there was no way I could get close enough to slip the halter on. Say nothing of leading her out of the stall, saddling her, and gaining her trust so she’d take the bit.

And that was all before I’d have to climb on her back and ride her hell-bent for leather into a raging rainstorm.

The saddling process emerged from my blocked memory banks, but I wasn’t in any shape to actually go through with it. My body shook; my clothes were soaked, not from rain but from nervous sweat.

While I fought with myself, Queenie snuffled and backed into me, butt first. Swished her tail. Crowding me. Putting me in the direct line of those powerful hind legs and deadly hooves. I suffered visions of my mother stuck in this same situation before vicious kicks knocked her to the stall floor.

The fine hairs on my nape tingled from the electricity in the air. Thunder crashed, rattling my nerves and the wooden walls.

I chanced a look at Queenie. Bad weather spooked the most even-tempered mare. Her sides heaved; her ears were pinned flat against her head. She sidled to the left, limiting my opportunity to get around her.

Damn horse knew I intended to put on the halter. Knew I was afraid to approach her. She kept trying to get me behind her, pushing me farther into the corner, keeping me from her left side.

I reached for my calm center, and my senses were assaulted by the stench of horseshit, the bitter smell of wet hay, old urine, and mud. The musky aroma of horseflesh, my own nervous sweat, and a phantom whiff of my mother’s Emeraude perfume tainted with blood-all nightmare scents reminding me of the worst, most terror-filled afternoon of my life.

Go away go away go away. Breathe. In. Out.

I wasn’t that helpless eight-year-old girl. I couldn’t shrink in mortal fear in a smelly barn while a madman tortured my sister.

My personal pep talk didn’t help. The past had hold of me, and I couldn’t make myself move. I couldn’t ever remember being petrified on this level. Not even when I’d been separated from my team in Kabul for two days and nights, hiding from patrols amid dead Afghan women and children.

You can do this, Mercy girl.

Dad?

No answer.

The loss of my father hit me like a Scud missile, yet I realized death wasn’t strong enough to break the hold he had on me, especially here, on this piece of land he loved.

I could do this.

I had to do this.

Holding the halter by my side, I took a step toward Queenie, my blood pulsing in my ears, my heart lodged in my throat.

She did a quick little hop, tossing her head. We bobbed and swayed, a weird shuffling combination that might’ve looked like a mating dance if I hadn’t been too scared to see the humor in it.

“I know we’d both rather be doing something else, but for now, I need you to work with me, because it’s been a long time since I’ve done this.”

Her ears swiveled my direction.

Maybe she’d cooperate now that I’d confessed my failings. When I inched forward, she lifted her front left leg, tossed her head and cleared her nostrils, blowing snot everywhere.

Nice. But I’d dealt with much worse bodily emissions from dead soldiers. I shook off Queenie’s gross-out tactic.

Another footstep closer. “Come on and stand still, girl. I won’t hurt you. See?” I reached out and placed my palm on her warm neck. Held up the halter so she could see it. Stroked her velvety brown coat. She flinched and tried to sidestep me again, but I stood my ground and kept touching her. Trying to reassure us both that this was okay.

“Good girl, Queenie.” I patted her and murmured nonsensical words. Hoped like hell she couldn’t hear how fast my heart beat with primal fear. Next I touched her nose, pushed down gently, a signal to get her to lower her head. “Let me slip this on.”

Talking soothed her. I kept up a running dialogue in the same quiet cadence. She stayed still while I lifted the nylon halter and slipped it over her nose, buckling the strap below her left ear.

She blew out a frustrated breath.

“Doing great, girl. Almost done. Let’s get you saddled up. Then you can run off all this aggravation.”

Hurry hurry hurry kept racing through my head.

I grabbed the lead rope and threaded it through the ring on the bottom of the halter, under her jaw. After I opened the stall door with my elbow, I led her into the main aisle of the barn. Having her in a less confining space didn’t alleviate my fears.

Water pooled on the dirt-packed floor. I figured Queenie would bolt if I gave her the chance. Instead of letting the lead rope drop and ground-tying her, I looped it through the D-hooks imbedded in the log support beam outside the stall with a quick release knot.