by L. T. Ryan
Never Cry Mercy
a Jack Noble novel
(Jack Noble Book Ten)
By:
L.T. RYAN
Copyright © 2016 by L.T. Ryan. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. For information contact:
[email protected]
http://LTRyan.com
https://www.facebook.com/JackNobleBooks
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Note: Full table of contents available at the end of the book or through your e-reader's menu.
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Other Books by L.T. Ryan
About the Author
Table of Contents
Jack Noble Series in Order
The Recruit (Short Story - Free for newsletter subscribers)
Noble Beginnings
A Deadly Distance
Thin Line
Noble Intentions (formerly Noble Intentions Season One)
When Dead in Greece
Noble Retribution (formerly Noble Intentions Season Two)
Noble Betrayal (formerly Noble Intentions Season Three)
Never Go Home
Beyond Betrayal (Clarissa Abbot)
Noble Judgment (formerly Noble Intentions Season Four)
Chapter 1
Lost.
No other way I'd rather have it.
I'd been driving for close to four weeks. Easy to do when there's no destination.
I left Florida and continued north. Every mile of distance between me and Mia was a good thing for her and my brother and his family. I was fortunate he was willing to take her in, and that they could disappear for a few weeks. As far as I knew, they were still out of the country.
Every state line I crossed meant another buried memory. Ohio was good to me for a couple days. The rolling hills of Iowa lulled me into a state of serenity for a little while. Next, I headed southwest and stopped off in Colorado for half a week. Montana took the second half, and I holed up in the mountains, soothing my soul. Unfortunately, the feeling never lasts.
And it was that restless sense of uneasiness that drove me south again. The Jeep I'd traded for started having problems before I'd reached Oklahoma. I pushed on anyway. No way I planned on stopping in Kansas. The old Wrangler finally quit on me along a dusty highway in the Texas panhandle, not too far from New Mexico.
The engine choked, spit smoke, then groaned through seven gritted teeth. None of the instrument gauges worked, but it didn't take a mechanic to figure out the Jeep was dead. I knew she was on her last leg a couple hundred miles ago. I figured I could get to Albuquerque at least.
I was wrong.
An eighteen-wheeler cruised past, honking, kicking up a fresh layer of dirt and grime that settled on top of me, turning the lines of sweat on my forearms a shade of dark brown. It looked like the aftermath of a flash flood that had raged through the desert. I watched the trailer, waiting for brake lights that never lit up.
I craned my head to look in the direction I'd come from. Had to be at least thirty miles to Boise City. Only a couple miles to the last little outpost I'd passed through. But there was nothing there. Just a small town with fewer than a hundred people, if that.
So I shifted my attention to the west again. The eighteen-wheeler had raced out of sight. In its wake, New Mexico lay a few miles down the road. Maybe a town, too. All I needed was a mechanic, or a car lot. Could find another Jeep.
I stood there on the blacktop, staring at the shimmering road ahead and contemplating my next move. The heat hit me from every which way. The asphalt, the sky, riding the wind.
Live with the misery you already know, or stake out on an uncertain future. Everyone faced the dilemma at one point in their lives. Most more than once. I'd stared down that barrel a thousand times. No matter which decision I made, the outcome was routinely the same.
But I often fared better when I plowed ahead rather than traced my steps backward.
So I slipped the keys into my pocket, grabbed my bag, and set off toward New Mexico.
***
The pickup looked like it had weathered its share of storms. Pockmarks lined the hood. The front and rear were different colors. It slowed, came to a stop half on the highway, half on the shoulder. I wasn't sure if it would last much longer than the Jeep, but after thirty minutes in the sun and heat, I'd take any ride I could get.
The old guy's eyes looked like large brown orbs trapped behind thick glass walls. The frames of his glasses were bent, held together with paperclips and tape. The lines in his forehead were so deeply etched, they told the stories of five lifetimes. He wiped away a layer of sweat with his forefinger and flicked it out the open window. Drops hit the side mirror and slid down a jagged path.
"Seems to be the problem, son?"
I shrugged and looked back at the Jeep. "Engine blew."
With a nod, he said, "From around these parts?"
"No, sir."
"Well, that's probably a good thing, but mostly a bad one."
"Why's that?"
"Hop in," he said, ignoring my question.
The old truck vibrated as though we were driving down railroad tracks. Diesel fumes filled the cabin. The old guy lit a cigarette, took a single drag, then held it between two fingers set atop the steering wheel. I was surprised the sudden burst of flame hadn't created an explosion. The shaking truck kept the ash low as the cigarette burned down. We passed a couple cars on the desolate highway. The old guy managed a nod and slight raise of his hand at each. The motorists replied in kind, their gazes sweeping past him and settling on me.
Who's the stranger, they likely wondered.
"Up ahead." He aimed the cherry of his smoke down the road.
I broke my stare off from the flat, brown landscape and spotted the town. The road turned into a canyon bottom, running between a line of two- and three-story buildings on what I assumed was Main Street, or some other common street name. Everything shimmered, appearing to send every last bit of the Texas heat back into the atmosphere.
We slowed to a crawl. The old guy glanced over at me a few times. I wasn't sure if he wanted to tell me something, or was reluctant to bring me into town. What if I was trouble? He'd be the one responsible. No one wanted that.
He pulled over onto the shoulder and shifted into neutral. The diesel engine grumbled low. The old guy folded his weathered hands in his lap.
After a minute of silence, he said, "This is my cousin's shop we're heading to. I'd like to tell you he'll treat you fair, but I'd be lying. He knows you're pretty much screwed out here."
"I can always buy something used."
"Where?"
"No lots here?"
"Nope."
"Up the road then."
"How're you gonna get there?"
"Call a cab. Maybe try that Uber thing."
"Uba...what?" He shook his head. "See, this is why I'm hesitant to bring you into town."
"I'm just saying there's options."
He shook off my suggestions. "We're gonna go in and talk to my cousin. Then I'm bringing you back to my house."
"Sure about that?" I said. "You only just met me."
He chuckled. "Don't worry, son. You ain't my type." He fingered another cigarette, turning the butt brown with dirt, but returned it to the pack. "My wife and I have a spare room at the house. You'll stay there until your car is fixed. It's better than anything else you'll find in this dusty old town."
"That's generous, but you don't need to do that."
He held up a hand to silence me. "Liste
n, things aren't so great these days, and we can use all the karma we can get."
There was no point in arguing. I agreed to meet his cousin then go back to his house. A shower and a good night's sleep wouldn't hurt. I could start fresh in the morning. Bound to be a trucker coming through who'd give me a lift to Albuquerque. At least there I could pick up a halfway-decent clunker that might last a few months.
A couple minutes later we pulled into an oil-stained parking lot. Water filled a pothole, reflecting a greasy rainbow. On one side of the lot were two antique gas pumps that probably hadn't been in use since the sixties, judging by the price per gallon of thirty-three cents. On the other side a tow truck about the same age sat empty. Probably dead, too. A few other late model cars were parked nearby.
A younger, heavier, less handsome version of the old guy emerged from a shaded car bay. He wiped his face with a grease-covered rag, brushing his wiry grey-and-brown hair out of his eyes. The two men nodded at each other, then both looked at me. A familiar sensation passed through me. I had the feeling I was being set up.
The old guy hopped down, crossed the lot. He and his cousin stood a few feet apart. No handshake. Only the nod they shared when we pulled up. I stood back and watched the encounter as the two spoke for a few minutes. The old guy waved me over.
"Keys?" his cousin asked.
I fished them out of my pocket.
"No surprises?" he asked.
"None."
"Name?"
"Jack."
"Just Jack?"
"Just Jack."
"Sounds good." He turned and moved slowly to the tow truck. Guess I was wrong about it. "If it's the engine, it'll probably be a week."
"A week?" I said.
"Gotta get parts, friend." There was nothing friendly about his tone. He climbed into the truck and fired up the diesel engine. The fumes clung to me as the smoke cloud washed past.
"Ready, Jack?" the old guy asked.
"Sure, why not."
"Hey," he said after we were seated in the truck. "You wanna know my name?"
"Nope."
Chapter 2
The old guy navigated through piles of rubble stacked in the rear parking lot, which dumped us into a narrow alley. We were blanketed by weathered wood, and decades-old brick on both sides. The buildings looked worse back here. Whatever effort the townsfolk had put into maintaining them over the years clearly stopped after the front facade. Half the structures looked as though they were moments away from collapsing.
A few blocks later, he turned right onto a fairly busy street, by small town standards at least. A couple old men were sitting outside a barber shop. A young woman pushed a stroller on the wide sidewalk, the wheels mushing down the weeds and grass that grew through the cracks. There were other folks out walking, standing around, loitering. Couldn't be many jobs available in a place like this. Wasn't like it was close to anything. They had to be in retail, school, or farming. The rest were out of work, I presumed.
"Good steak in there," the old guy said, pointing at a square, faded-green building with a sign that read BAR. "But keep to yourself. You don't want to draw the attention of some of the locals in these parts."
I nodded, said nothing. I avoided attention as best as possible. It typically managed to find me, though. I knew that would be part of the problem with being trapped in this town. It was also the reason I had no intention of staying around past tonight. I'd head down to the bar, have a steak, a couple beers, grab a decent night's sleep, and find some way out of there the following morning.
A minute or so later the old guy slowed the truck to a crawl. The tires crunched against the curb. The whole thing groaned as he punched the emergency brake a couple seconds too early.
I followed him up to the weathered house. The grass was a month overdue for a mowing. The whitewashed wood siding looked as though someone had taken heavy-grit sandpaper to it. It sagged in places. Hung off in others. Cinder blocks stood where porch steps had once been. The screen door sang a hollow song as he pulled it open, longing for a forty-year-old memory.
He stopped there and forced his shoulder against the main door. Pushed several times before it opened with a crack.
After entering, he stepped aside, gestured for me to step into the kitchen. They say the longer you're with someone, the more you grow to look like each other. It was true in this house. A slim older lady who could've been his twin stood with her back to the stove. Flames rose up around the bottom of a small pot. Water rumbled as it boiled. The woman scowled at me, but managed a smile and slight nod.
"Jack," the old guy said, "this is my wife Ingrid."
She crossed the room with a grace that belied her age. I imagined at one point she had been a dancer, perhaps ballet or maybe ballroom. Although, if she'd grown up in this town, chances of that were slim. I grabbed her extended hand and gave it a gentle shake. Any more might have broken her delicate fingers.
"Herbie didn't give you too much trouble, did he?" Her smile widened, seemed genuine.
"No, ma'am," I said. "Whatever you're cooking over there, he earned it."
"Jack's car broke down a few miles from town," Herbie said. "He's gonna stay with us while my cousin is fixing it."
The two exchanged a long glance before Ingrid cut off the burner, then turned toward the hallway. The look spoke volumes about her feelings toward the cousin. Or perhaps my being there.
"I'll get the guest room ready," she said.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. "Don't worry. I'll pay you for your trouble."
"I wouldn't think of it," Herbie said, pushing my hand away. But Ingrid stopped at the bannister, looked toward us, and nodded.
I shoved the money back in my pocket for the moment. They both knew they needed it. I'd slip it to Ingrid later. Herbie, like many men, let pride get in the way of help. Hell, I was reluctant to accept their assistance. I wanted a decent night's sleep was all.
A few silent minutes passed. Herbie and I exchanged a couple glances. Ingrid returned and lifted the weight off the room. She led me upstairs and showed me where I'd sleep. It was basic, with a bed, dresser and nightstand. Window facing the west. Nothing stood out. Which was how I wanted it.
"Can I make you a sandwich, or a cup of coffee?"
"No thanks, ma'am. I think I'm gonna lie down for a few."
A couple minutes turned into two hours. I woke to fading sunlight knifing through a slit between the curtains. I lay there for a few moments. Heard the raised voices of the old couple as they went back and forth. Their words were muffled, but their tone sharp. I stepped out of bed as the argument subsided, made my way downstairs, and found them in the kitchen. He was seated at the table and she was standing in the same spot where I'd first met her. They avoided looking at each other, and me.
"If you folks don't mind, I think I'm gonna go check out that steak dinner you recommended, Herbie."
He nodded without shifting his gaze from the same spot on the floor it had been focused on since I entered the kitchen.
Ingrid held out her hand. Said, "I think that's a fine idea. Just stay out of trouble. There's some unsavory kinda folks that hang out in that bar."
And I figured she'd say that about most bars, too.
I smiled, nodded, yanked the door open and made my way into the cooler evening air. The smell of burning charcoal lingered. The smoke rose over a neighboring fence. The voices and laughter of kids and adults rose and fell in stark contrast to the tension behind me.
I thought about Ingrid's comment about the bar's patrons. Herbie had shared a similar sentiment with me. Now, it could've been that these old folks were part of the old guard in the community. The last few who believed in and lived certain values. Held specific beliefs. And anyone who thought or acted otherwise was an unsavory type of person. No point in reading too much into it. I'd get a feel for the place within five seconds of entering anyway.
I found myself on Main Street, which had slowed down compared to ea
rlier. There were a few people out, and a couple vehicles passed, but the feeling was subdued now.
That'd change.
The car that stopped next to me had slowed a few moments prior, staying a little behind, following me. I hadn't bothered to turn around and see who it was. And I didn't stop walking when two sets of boots hit the ground, and a guy said, "Who the hell are you?"
Chapter 3
"Hey, asshole." Loose asphalt crunched under his boots. "I'm talking to you."
I heard the faint chatter of a police scanner. Here I thought some locals were trying to screw with me. Turned out to be worse.
Local law enforcement.
"Stop where you are," the guy said. "Put your hands in the air and turn around slowly."
I considered refusing his request, but I already had a bed for the night, and it sure as hell was more comfortable than a cot in a jail cell. I lifted my hands about shoulder-high, and turned to see two men staring at me, hands on their holstered pistols. They looked like carbon copies of each other, separated by twenty years or so of age. Blond or light brown hair. Long, narrow noses. Similar round-rimmed glasses. Lips so thin it looked as though they didn't have any. I couldn't read their name tags, but had no doubt they matched. This was a father-and-son outing, no doubt.
"Who are you and what are you doing in Texline?" the older guy asked.
"Nobody," I said. "And I'm just passing through."
"Got ID?" His gaze followed my hand as I reached for my wallet. "Easy, fella."
They approached as I retrieved the fake ID. It was one I'd never used before. An identity created without anyone in the government's knowledge.
"Jack Smith," the older cop said, "of New York City." He paused deliberately between each word.
The identity was as basic as I could make it. A name with thousands of matches. Several hundred in New York alone. Once anyone determined that the address was bunk, they'd waste days trying to figure out which Jack Smith they were after. And if they narrowed down too far, I'd simply say that I go by Jack instead of John.