A Merciful Fate (Mercy Kilpatrick Book 5)

by Kendra Elliot

  She was about fifty and wore faded denim along with white laceless Keds tennis shoes like the ones Truman’s sister had worn in elementary school. She yanked her arm out of Samuel’s grip and shot him a death glare. “You don’t have to be rude!” She tried to stand, and Samuel pulled her back down.

  “Please stay behind cover, ma’am.”

  “This is ridiculous. The couple is locked in a room upstairs. My phone is on the first floor. No one will notice if I sneak back in. He hasn’t even fired his gun.” She met Truman’s gaze, waiting expectantly.

  Truman couldn’t speak.

  Samuel could. “Hey, Ben!” He waved the older officer over. “Please take Ms. . . .”

  “Leggett.”

  “Please take Ms. Leggett to a safe area and help her understand she’s not to enter the bed-and-breakfast.”

  “Now, wait a minute—”

  The roar of a shotgun filled the air, and they all dropped closer to the ground.

  “Get her out of here, Ben. Now!” Truman snapped. Ms. Leggett glared at him again but kept her mouth shut.

  “Jesus Christ,” Samuel said under his breath as Ben guided her past his vehicle, both of them keeping their heads low. “What is wrong with people?”

  “. . . Demand a refund . . .” Truman heard her say as the two of them moved farther away.

  Sandy let loose with more furious shouts, and Truman and Samuel exhaled. She didn’t sound injured; she sounded angry about her broken window. The male attacker yelled back at her. Sirens sounded close by, and Truman watched county vehicles block the street on both ends.

  Truman refused to picture Sandy with injuries similar to Bree’s.

  “Is this a domestic or an active shooter?” Samuel muttered.

  “Both. He’s shooting, so we’re going in.” Truman held Samuel’s gaze, asking a silent question.

  “About damned time.”

  Truman had known that’d be his answer.

  Ben darted back, crouching as low as his seventysomething back would let him.

  “Samuel and I are going in. All activity has been at that window.”

  “Got ya, boss. Go get our girl.” Ben propped his arms on the hood, his weapon trained on the broken window from where shouts still persisted.

  Truman opened his SUV’s door, grabbed the rifle on his dash, and slung it over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  Their pistols in hand, he and Samuel dashed across the street and up the wooden stairs of the porch. Voices in altercation still sounded from above.

  Is he acting alone?

  No assumptions. No one had reported a second attacker, but one could be waiting inside. They paused, Truman on one side of the closed front door and Samuel on the other. Truman nodded. Samuel whipped open the door and Truman entered, weapon leading, covering the blind spot to the right as Samuel moved smoothly after him to catch the left. The large lobby area was empty. Truman checked behind the huge wooden desk as Samuel moved to one side of the swinging door that led to the kitchen. His heart pounding but his focus razor sharp, Truman paused at the other side of the door, and they repeated their front-door maneuver. A rapid pass through the kitchen showed they were alone.

  Stomping and shouts had continued above during the twenty seconds it took to methodically clear the first level. They carefully moved up the stairs, weapons leading, covering all blind spots. On the second level was a hallway with five doors. A small crash and the sound of breaking glass came from behind the door labeled CASCADE SUITE. More angry shouts from Sandy.

  Truman and Samuel moved cautiously down the hall, checking each doorknob as they passed. All the suites were locked. They stopped on each side of the Cascade door, breathing heavily. Sweat ran down one side of Samuel’s face as he gently tried the knob.

  Locked.

  Samuel’s gaze met his, concern in his eyes.

  This is where everything could go wrong.

  Truman took a deep breath. “Eagle’s Nest police!”

  Sandy had felt someone watching her. Even before the graffiti had started, she had felt someone’s gaze on the center of her back.

  After leaving Bree’s home with a change of clothes that morning, she’d stopped in at her B&B to see how the morning buffet had gone. In the kitchen she’d been putting away food when a rash of angry shouts came from her lobby. She grabbed a rolling pin and marched out, determined to put a stop to the ruckus. As she went through the door into her lobby, she froze.

  Lionel stood there.

  He was older and grayer and fatter. But it was he. And he pointed a rifle at her head.

  Two of her guests hovered in the far corner of the room, the man standing protectively in front of his wife, unable to get a clear path to the front door without passing Lionel.

  “There’s the bitch.” He grinned through his beard, his teeth more yellow than she remembered.

  Every ounce of her old fear of him clogged her nerves. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t walk.

  All she could do was stare.

  He’s going to kill me this time.

  Dear Lord. Did he torture Bree?

  Her legs quivered. She might have led her ex to Bree’s doorstep.

  He took four quick steps and grabbed her hair with one meaty hand, nearly pulling her to the ground. She dropped her rolling pin and wrapped her hands around his wrist. The male guest in the corner moved forward, a need to help her on his terrified face.

  Lionel will shoot him.

  She’d seen him fire his rifle one-handed while drinking a beer with the other. A talent he was proud of.

  “What do you want, Lionel?” She forced the words between clenched teeth, feeling her scalp rip. He’d always grabbed her hair as he abused her.

  He yanked backward, forcing her face upward to look at him. He leaned close, the rifle still held in his one-handed grip, ready to fire. But now it pointed at the couple in the corner. The male guest had stopped, his hands raised.

  “Maybe I just wanted to see my wife.”

  Vomit rushed up her throat, and sweat broke out under her arms.

  His words were worse than the pain on her scalp.

  He moved his mouth to her neck, his breath smelling strongly of alcohol. His lips were wet, and she nearly spewed the vomit pooling in the back of her mouth. “Where’s your bedroom, sweetheart?”

  Her nerves and muscles shrieked at his words, and her thighs instinctively clamped together. The male guest took another step in her direction, not caring that Lionel had a rifle aimed at him.

  Get Lionel out of the lobby.

  “Upstairs.”

  Delight crossed his face. “Let’s go, darlin’. Just like old times.”

  Old times . . .

  Memories of his brutal sexual attacks flooded her. Tears. Bruises. Blood. She’d learned the hard way to never say no. And to never fight back.

  That was the old me.

  Ripping her scalp, he dragged her toward the stairs.

  I’m not the victim I once was.

  She tripped on the first step and fell hard on a shin, drawing a cry from her lungs. His answer was another yank on her hair and to slap the butt of his rifle across her face. Tasting blood, she stumbled up the steps after him, and out of the corner of her eye she saw the couple dash out the front door.

  Stall him until the police get here.

  She focused on Lionel, searching for a weakness. He huffed as he moved up the stairs, his thighs and stomach jiggling with excess fat. He wasn’t as fit as he used to be, and she was lean and powerful. Anxiety had driven her to develop and maintain physical strength in case she ever had to fight back again.

  Today was that day.

  I’ve spent ten years preparing for this moment.

  She breathed hard, her heart slamming against her chest. I can do this. She would put an end to his control over her. She was done looking over her shoulder.

  No matter the cost.

  They reached the top of the stairs. “Which room?”

 
She pointed at the Cascade Suite, which she knew was empty. He tried the handle and then shoved her face into the wall next to the door. Blood streamed from her nose. “It’s locked!”

  “Pocket.” She spit blood and cringed as his huge hands dug into her pocket, coming up with her ring of master keys. He pressed them into her hands.

  She fumbled with the jingling ring, her brain screaming for her to place the keys between her fingers and drive them into his eyes. Instead she plunged one key into the lock and pushed the door open. Not yet.

  He dragged her inside, pushed her toward the bed, and slammed the door, locking it behind him. He pointed the rifle at her. And smiled.

  Did he torture Bree because of me?

  Truman listened. The room behind the locked door had gone silent at his shout of “Eagle’s Nest police.”

  A split second later loud thumps sounded, and the wooden floors vibrated through Truman’s boots. Did someone fall? The thumps were followed by deep gasps for breath. “Fucking bitch!” A gunshot roared from inside the suite.

  Truman flinched at the shot but never dropped Samuel’s gaze. He nodded at his officer and gestured at the knob. Samuel immediately positioned himself and thrust a power-packed kick near the doorjamb above the knob. He stepped left into the room and Truman followed to the right. Both men froze, their weapons trained on Sandy.

  The rifle was in her hands, aimed at the head of the man on the floor. His shaking hands shielded his face as he peered at her through his fingers. Lionel Kerns.

  Dust filtered down from a large hole in the ceiling above Sandy, and the odor of a freshly fired rifle hung in the air. She didn’t look at the officers. All her intensity was focused through the weapon’s sights and on her target. “It’s not so fun when you’re on the wrong end of a gun, is it?” she said in a low voice. Her chest heaved, and her arms quivered. Chunks of red hair had loosened from her ponytail and dangled in her face. Blood ran from a cut on her cheek and a split lip.

  But she was no victim; she was empowered. And dangerous.

  “I’ll end this nightmare,” she muttered, never looking away from her target on the floor.

  “Sandy,” Truman said gently. “Put down the rifle.” His own gun was still fixed on the woman.

  “Not yet, Truman,” she breathed. “You don’t know what this asshole has done to me.”

  Her finger is on the trigger.

  Truman tightened his grip.

  Don’t make me do this, Sandy.

  “This is Lionel, your ex, right?” Truman asked.

  “Yes.”

  Lionel was a big guy, as Truman had seen on his license, but he was flabby around the middle and upper arms. Fresh blood streaked his full silver beard.

  “He’s not worth it, Sandy,” said Samuel. “Don’t go to prison for the rest of your life because your anger got the best of you.”

  “Shoot the bitch!” begged Lionel as blood flowed from his nose. “She’s gonna kill me.”

  “Fuckhead,” Sandy said in a low voice. “You have it coming. You deserve it for breaking my arm. You deserve it for all the bloody lips and bruised cheeks. You deserve it for purposely screwing with a young woman’s mind and emotions for your own pleasure.” Her breathing hitched, and the rifle shook in her hands. “You broke me. You played an egotistical stupid game, and you broke me.”

  The pain in her voice rattled Truman.

  “Sandy . . . ,” Samuel said gently. “Look at me.”

  She ignored him and moved the gun an inch closer to her objective. “I worked my ass off to build a damn good life after you ruined me. And you think you can waltz in and fuck it up again?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . .” The words slurred out of Lionel’s mouth as he spit blood.

  A sharp odor reached Truman. Her ex had pissed himself.

  Sandy froze as she saw the spreading wet stain on his jeans. Then she smiled. A wide, pleased smile that made the hair rise on Truman’s arms. “Well, God damn.” She took a half step back, moving the barrel of the gun away from her ex. “Look at you now, big tough man.”

  She looked over at Truman and Samuel. “I’m done.” Her grin was radiant, but her eyes were slightly crazed.

  Truman exhaled, lowered his weapon, and held out a hand for her rifle. With a contented look, she handed it over and touched her lip, frowning when she saw the blood on her hand.

  “Roll onto your stomach,” Samuel ordered Lionel. The man obeyed. Samuel easily cuffed him and then searched him for more weapons. Finding a pocketknife, he tossed it aside. He spoke into his radio mic, informing Ben the suspect had been apprehended, and then studied Sandy with concern. “You okay, Sandy?”

  “I am now.” She blotted her bloody lips with the hem of her shirt and then pulled the fastener out of her ponytail and redid it, getting the hair out of her face.

  “What happened?” asked Truman. Sandy seemed ready to get back to her kitchen.

  “When you announced yourself at the door, he got distracted. I yanked the rifle out of his hands and rammed the butt into his nose. He went down like a dead elephant.”

  “I meant, what happened when he first arrived here?” Truman said faintly. She’s got some balls to grab a loaded gun by the barrel.

  “Oh.” She frowned at the figure on the floor. “I heard someone shouting in the lobby, but I was in the kitchen. When I came out, Lionel was waving the rifle and threatening my guests. He grabbed me by the hair and forced me upstairs. Once he got in here, he decided to see how much of this room he could destroy while mouthing off about this and that.” She kicked Lionel in the ankle. “I’ve always hated it when you grabbed my hair. And you’ll pay for that broken window and vase.”

  “Jesus.” Samuel ran a hand over his buzz cut. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

  “Sorry about that bit at the end there, Truman,” Sandy said in a quieter voice, a contrite look on her face. “I’d never had power over Lionel before. You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamed of that moment.”

  “Next time an officer tells you to put a gun down, put it down.” A full-body shudder rocked through Truman as he relived how close he’d come to shooting her.

  “She never fucking listened,” muttered Lionel. He twisted his head, trying to look at her over his shoulder while lying on his stomach. Samuel crouched down next to her ex’s head and bent close, whispering something.

  Truman didn’t want to know what he was telling the big man.

  Lionel’s face paled under its smears of blood as Samuel’s lips continued to move.

  With a tip of his head, Truman directed Sandy closer to the suite door, away from the men. “Did he do the damage to your guests’ vehicles?”

  “Yes. He told me he did.”

  She looked calm and collected for a woman with blood caking on her lip and cheek.

  Maybe being on the right side of a gun was good therapy for her.

  “He’ll probably end up in prison for what he did here today,” Truman told her.

  “That’d be great.”

  Truman didn’t miss the subtle quiver in her answer. The reality of her last few minutes was sinking in. Samuel noticed too.

  “I’ll walk you downstairs. Let’s get someone to look at your cuts,” Samuel told her as he placed a gentle hand on the back of her arm. “You got Lionel?” he asked Truman.

  “Yeah. Send Ben up when you get a chance.” He watched the two of them leave the room, pleased with what he’d seen in Samuel today. His officer had willingly gone into an active shooter situation and now was handling the victim with a gentle touch and patience.

  Truman knew emotions would sneak up and swamp Sandy once she realized what could have happened today. Her body was running on adrenaline, and she would crash. He made a mental note to ask Ina Smythe to stay with her for a few days.

  “He gone?” muttered Lionel into the carpet. “Can you sit me up?”

  “I think you should stay in this position a little longer.” Sandy’s analogy of
a dead elephant was on point.

  “He threatened to smash my fingers. And my dick.”

  “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Bullshit. I’m gonna file a complaint against the asshole. Guys like that shouldn’t be cops.”

  Truman grinned. “Funny. I was just thinking what a great officer he is.”

  “I’ll get him fired.”

  “Good luck with that.” He took a deep breath and confronted Lionel dead-on. “Did you attack Bree Ingram last night?”

  “Breed what?”

  A chill shot through Truman’s nerves. “Last night. You assaulted another woman.”

  “Bullshit. Sandy’s the only one who had it coming.”

  Truth rang in the big man’s words. It wasn’t Lionel? “We’ve got your fingerprints on the knife,” he lied.

  Lionel twisted his head to look at the pocketknife Samuel had tossed aside. “Well, you should. It’s mine.” His tone indicated Truman was an idiot.

  Truman’s chest tightened, and he tried a different approach. “You spray-painted Sandy’s B&B, right? Then you did Bree’s stable.”

  “I didn’t do no stable. Why are you asking me this shit?”

  Truman stepped closer to Lionel’s head and squatted as Samuel had minutes earlier.

  “You gonna threaten to break my bones now?” Lionel asked.

  “You didn’t spray-paint red Xs in a horse barn or on a truck?”

  “Horses? Fuck no. Who said I did? They’re lying.”

  Truman stared at the prostrate man for a few long seconds, his mind racing.

  I believe him. Sandy’s vandalism isn’t related to Bree’s.

  Was Bree attacked because of something that happened thirty years ago?

  TWENTY-SIX

  “What the hell is going on?” Mercy muttered as she strode into the Eagle’s Nest Police Department. “First Bree’s attack last night and now Sandy’s today? Is the moon full?”

  “Not full,” replied Ben Cooley from where he sat at Lucas’s desk. “I already checked. Trust me—our calls double when it is full. Hospital ERs swear they experience the same thing.” He was completely serious.

  Mercy smiled at the older officer, pleased he appeared fine after dealing with the attack on Sandy. “What’s the word from Lucas?” she asked.