Men of Mercy: The Complete Story

by Cross, Lindsay

  ♣Recruited from the Marine Corps Forces Special Operations Command (MARSOC), Camp Lejeune, NC

  ♣Specialized Skills: direct action, unconventional warfare, special reconnoissance, weapons expert/sniper

  ♣Weapons expert. Capable of firing and employing all small arm and crew served weapons

  ♣Height: 6’1”

  ♣Weight: 210lbs

  ♣Combat Experience: Operation Iraqi Freedom, Operation Condor, Operation Summit, Operation Volcano, Operation Achilles

  Chapter 1

  Amy’s day started at sunrise and ended after midnight. Feed the chickens. Feed the cows. Feed herself. Then, after five, feed the alcoholics.

  The rest of the time she spent pretending her husband hadn’t left for deployment with a good-bye fight instead of a good-bye kiss.

  Six months was a little long for a stand-off between husband and wife. And if Shane were home, that time would shrink to hours. But the damn man hadn’t called. Hadn’t written. She’d gotten nothing but a cold shoulder from a third world country. And Shane should have been home from deployment two-weeks ago.

  She paused painting the new nursery pink and put a hand to her aching back. She’d been on her feet for five hours straight trying to finish painting before her shift at the bar. Over three hours ago her feet had swollen past the confines of her tennis shoes and she’d switched to flip-flops. Now she just had to make it through the night without some drunk stepping on her feet and mashing her bare toes. Amy probably should have taken a break, but she was determined to make a place for her daughter.

  Someone knocked on her front door. Eight o’clock. Who would be knocking on her door this late? Most of the residents of Mercy, Mississippi considered this bedtime. Her hand immediately went to her belly, covering her unborn child. Amy was seven months along, only finding out about her condition the week after Shane left. If he were regular military, she could tell him. Let him know he was going to be a father. But when Task Force Scorpion, TF-S, an elite branch of Special Forces deployed, they went off grid.

  Nothing and no one could contact them.

  They knocked again. Amy carefully balanced her wet paintbrush on the open bucket at her feet and headed to the front door, stopping for a quick peek in the mirror. A few smudges of paint dotted her cheek and her ponytail sagged a little. They knocked again. This time more forceful. Two-weeks late.

  Could be someone needed help or her best friends wanting to drag her out of the house and make her pretend to be happy.

  Could be an all-together different reason. One she never wanted to know.

  Don’t answer it.

  Don’t answer it.

  Don’t answer it.

  “Amy, it’s me.”

  Ranger James. The man she should have married.

  Why was he on her front porch and not her husband? They were both in the same unit. If Ranger was home and not Shane…

  Her unborn daughter, Chloe, shoved an elbow into her ribs and Amy rubbed soothing circles over the skin. She took a calming breath. Her doctor told her no undue stress. It’s okay. He’s just letting me know Shane had to stay in the country longer than expected...

  She pasted on her I’m-sure-it’s-nothing-important smile and opened the door.

  The roar of the battering rain immediately surrounded her. A drenched and dripping Ranger stood on her front porch, his truck headlights shining through the downpour. His blond hair plastered to his head. His t-shirt plastered to his chest.

  Do not look at his chest.

  “Amy.” Ranger’s voice still had that edge, the one that always managed to scrape across her nerves. But right now his voice had something else. Something frightening.

  She stepped onto the porch. Lighting flashed, highlighting his expression, and she jerked like she’d been struck in the chest. The raw pain in Ranger’s gaze made her tremble. “No.”

  “Shane.” His voice slammed through her with the force of an eighteen-wheeler.

  Her heart stopped.

  “Shane. He’s...”

  Ranger’s words faded under the roaring in her ears. Her hands went numb. He kept talking, but she couldn’t hear. Couldn’t process anything but the oxygen seeping from her lungs in horror. Just because she hadn’t talked to Shane recently didn’t mean something had happened to him.

  Didn’t mean he was dead.

  She wanted to run. To close the door, curl up in a ball and sob. Instead, Ranger’s eyes filling with tears trapped her. “I’m so sorry. The condolences officer showed up at headquarters. I beat him here. I thought you should hear it from me.”

  No. No. No.

  Not her. Not him. Not her husband.

  Shane. Shane hadn’t failed to call because of their fight. Not because they were flirting with separation. Not because he didn’t love her. He hadn’t called because he was dead.

  Oh God.

  Her stomach twisted, and sharp pain ripped across her back. Amy doubled over and Ranger grabbed her arms, barely keeping her from falling. “Amy, holy shit. You’re... you’re...”

  Pregnant.

  A stabbing cramp ripped through her stomach again. She gasped out loud. “Something’s wrong.”

  * * *

  That night, Amy delivered a healthy baby girl, with Ranger at her side. When the doctors proclaimed everyone healthy enough to leave, he drove them home. Cheri and Evie, her best friends, basically moved in to help take care of Chloe while Amy grieved and tried to care for her newborn baby girl.

  The next week passed in a daze of flowers and cribs and caskets.

  Ranger finished painting the nursery and put her daughter’s crib together. He did everything her husband should have done.

  The day of the funeral, Cheri and Evie rode in the limo with her. Mrs. Trudy, Amy’s godmother, volunteered to stay home with Chloe. Amy couldn’t bring herself to take her baby to the funeral. Not now.

  Her best friends sat across from her, crying and talking nonsense. Amy sat to the side, staring out the tinted window, watching all the people showing up for the funeral. Shane’s unit lined the cemetery drive, all of them in their dress blues and standing at attention.

  Cops. Firemen. Soldiers. People she knew and people she didn't recognize. All of them there to honor her husband.

  Amy sat straighter in her seat and dried her tears. She wasn’t just a grieving widow. She was the wife of Staff Sergeant Shane Carter, killed by terrorists. Purple Heart recipient. Fatally injured saving the lives of everyone in his squad.

  They passed a news van. National News America. The same station that had shown Shane’s assassination on national TV the week after she’d learned of his death. She’d been standing in the living room after getting Chloe to sleep for the night. The ten o’clock news flashed an alert right before showing the new viral video. Shane, on his knees, a black hood covering his face and an automatic rifle pressed to his head. The retort of gunfire had erupted. His body falling to the floor. How many women got to watch their husband murdered on live television?

  “Damn leeches. How dare they show up here.” Cheri sat forward in the seat and flipped them off. Too bad the windows were tinted black.

  “Want me to get them out of here?” Evie took Amy’s hand. She stared down at her friend’s grip, seeing but not feeling her touch. Amy blacked out after watching the video and when she’d woken, her body had been blessedly numb, as if anesthetized by a powerful drug. A distant part of her recognized this non-feeling as a sort of shock. A shock she was sure to come crashing out of at some point, but one she held on to with a grip of steel.

  “Let them feed. Mavis will soak it up.” Mavis, Shane’s mother, rode the high of her son’s death like a starved pit bull, seizing and chewing every scrap of attention the anchors threw her way.

  “Why do you put up with her?” Cheri said.

  “Because she’s his mother. I know she’s grieving, too.” Somewhere in that deep dark pit of a soul.

  Evie snorted, “You’re a better woman than
me. If she talked to me the way she talks to you, I’d slap her in her big fat face.”

  The image brought a smile to Amy’s lips, however brief. The limo stopped. A huge crowd surrounded the graveside service, ringed by men in uniform. Amy took a deep breath, closed her eyes and let the ice creep through her veins. If the media wanted a show, she’d give it to them.

  Hunter, Shane’s team leader and Evie’s husband, stepped to the door and opened it, offering his hand. They’d all grown up together, here in Mercy. Hunter, Ranger, Shane, Evie and Amy. Evie exited and then Cheri. Evie leaned up and whispered something in her husband’s ear. Hunter nodded and motioned a soldier over to him. After a brief talk, the other man walked off, shoulder’s squared as if on a mission. He poked his head inside the car and held out his hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll take care of them.”

  She didn’t have to ask who he meant. As she emerged from the car, a team of uniformed men surrounded the news anchors and tightened, cutting off their access like a noose. Amy heard their protests and stiffened. The last thing she wanted was a circus show today. Hunter placed her hand on his forearm and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “We’ve got this.”

  Amy bit her lip, helpless to do anything but watch. The circle of men started to move away, the media trapped in its confines. The journalists in the middle yelling and snapping pictures and threatening lawsuits. Everyone stared.

  A strange sort of hysteria crept up her spine and wrapped around her throat. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not here. Not today.

  Today she buried her husband.

  Her hands and feet started tingling and the humid air grew thick like mossy pond water, stifling her oxygen. Evie appeared in front of her. “Breathe, hon. Just breathe. They will be gone in a minute.”

  Amy saw her friend’s lips moving, but her words seemed blurry and distorted. What kind of monsters fed on grieving families?

  “Crap. She’s going comatose again.”

  “Move.” Cheri pushed Evie to the side and grabbed Amy’s face between her palms. “Focus on me. Look at me.”

  But I am looking at you.

  “Dammit Amy, if you don’t look at me right now I’m going to slap you and give those bastards something real to report on.”

  I can’t move.

  “Someone get me some water.”

  Come on girl, get it together. You promised to be strong. You can’t break down now. Not here. Later. Compartmentalize. You just have to get through today. Tomorrow you can fall apart.

  Amy reached inside and forced herself to move something. Anything.

  She blinked.

  “That’s a girl. Now drink.”

  Cheri took her hand and closed her fingers around a water bottle. Amy lifted her hand, the movement feeling strange and disjointed. She took a drink of the lukewarm water.

  “Good. Now we’re going to walk forward. Focus on getting to your seat, okay?” Cheri stayed right in front of her face.

  Amy nodded. Good. Focus. Move your feet.

  Hunter still stood on her right side, her hand held on his arm. Cheri stepped to her left, took the water bottle, passed it off to Evie and took Amy’s other hand. The crowd parted, her vision tunneled on the green canopy tent about twenty feet ahead.

  “You ready?” Hunter leaned down, his six foot four-inch frame dwarfing her by a good foot.

  Would she ever be ready? “Yes.”

  The trio moved forward as one. They got halfway there and Amy became aware of the silence. No more screaming news anchors. Not one sound. Like God himself had thrown a blanket of tranquility over the proceedings.

  A weak wind stirred and the black netting covering her face snagged a stray strand of hair. Dark grey clouds hung low and heavy in the summer heat. Thunder grumbled in the distance. Amy couldn’t help but peek back over her shoulder. A wall of men and women blocked the entrance to the cemetery, holding the rabid scavengers at bay.

  Tears pricked her eyes. This was why she loved a man in uniform. They weren’t afraid to show their respect. She stepped under the tent and stopped.

  The bold colors of the American flag stood out over her husband’s coffin. Colors of honor. Colors of freedom. Colors of sacrifice.

  She’d never thought they’d be the colors of death.

  She sat on a padded metal chair. Shane two feet away. Separated by two inches of wood. Patriot. Warrior. Hero. The words carved in bold script across the side of the polished mahogany coffin, gleaming even in the absence of sunlight.

  Patriot. That’s what they called the men who joined the military.

  Warrior. That’s what they called the men who fought for their country.

  Hero. That’s what they called the men who died for their country.

  Shane was a hero.

  The row of chairs behind her remained empty. No one approached. As if they were afraid to sit too close. As if death was infectious and would contaminate their lives.

  She couldn’t blame them for not getting close. Death had infected and destroyed her life with the opening of a door. Amy choked, took a breath and reined in her control.

  She wanted to reach out. Touch him. Remember how his skin felt. But he wasn’t in that coffin. His body lay somewhere in some unknown desert, in an unmarked grave.

  “It’s your fault he joined the military. It’s your fault my son is dead.” Mavis Carter, the only person sitting in the second row of chairs, leaned forward and spewed her venom.

  Chills spread across Amy’s arms and neck.

  Cheri hissed in a breath beside her and turned to face the dragon lady. “You’re bat-shit crazy.”

  Amy didn’t turn, didn’t speak. She didn’t need to see how her over-weight mother-in-law’s bloodshot eyes glowed with hate.

  “You say another word, Mavis, and I’ll have you thrown out.” Ranger appeared not one foot away. His dress blues making him seem bigger, more threatening.

  Amy’s gaze collided with Ranger’s. Shane’s best friend. The man who’d told her of Shane’s death. He’d caught her when her knees gave out. He’d fought with her to make sure she ate and drank. He’d fought to make sure she survived.

  Now he fought for her.

  Ranger turned, his heels clicked together, and marched to the end of Shane’s coffin. Hunter took position at the other end.

  They grasped the corners of the flag lying on the coffin and lifted, keeping the flag high and tight.

  Seven soldiers in dress blues stood off to the side, their line precise. No more than a foot apart, their rifles rose in unison. They moved in perfect synchronization, nothing out of order. Flawless.

  The first round of gunshots exploded into the sky. Amy jerked and clutched Evie’s hand.

  Bang. Another round. Fire seared through her chest, like the bullets had lodged in her heart.

  Bang. The last round of the twenty-one-gun salute blasted with finality. Tears she had fought hard to contain slipped free.

  Was a gunshot the last sound Shane heard before he died?

  A lone soldier raised a horn to his lips, the mournful sound of Taps filled the cemetery.

  Hunter walked toward Ranger, folding the flag corner to corner into a tight triangle. They took their time. Made it perfect.

  Then Ranger took the flag and Hunter saluted. His white gloves stark against tanned skin. Both of them stood tall. Stiff.

  Amy started praying.

  Ranger knelt at her feet, head bowed.

  No. No. No.

  He raised his head, his blue eyes red-rimmed and staring at her like a dark bruise. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t reach out and take that flag.

  She kept her hands clasped in her lap, white knuckle tight. Ranger pried them apart and laid her right palm open. He placed the flag in her hand. Pulled her left hand down on top of the smooth triangle.

  Her heart hit hard and fast, like a train speeding out of control. About to go off track and kill anything within striking distance.

  “People die all the time, honey. If I die, I�
�ll die for a worthy cause.” Shane’s words whispered through her mind.

  She clutched the flag to her chest, clutched it for everything she was worth. She held on to the one thing her husband had believed in with all his soul.

  .

  Chapter 2

  Amy soared. Just her, the sky and the sixty-acre stretch of soybeans below. She pulled up her Air Tractor crop duster at the end of the field, swooped out right, turned back left and lined up for the next round.

  Long straight rows stretched out in front of her in GPS mapped perfection. She pushed the control stick forward, swooped down at a smooth one hundred forty miles per hour and hit the chemical release button. The plane hovered five feet above the crops. She’d already sprayed ten fields today, but her stomach flew up into her throat with each dive. Adrenaline zinged through her limbs from the rush of crops coming at her at high speed.

  Hardwood trees running perpendicular to the field grew bigger by the nanosecond. She held straight and steady. The flow of chemicals had to be maintained until the last minute or she’d waste precious herbicide. And money.

  When the trees got up close and high-def she eased back, missing the tops by a good four feet. Her stomach plopped back down from her throat, leaving a tingling tickle in its wake. Her hand loosened on the control, the thrill made her feel as weightless as the fluffy white cumulus clouds above her.

  She didn’t need drugs. Nor alcohol. No, those were too slow. She needed air speeds over two hundred mph, mere feet from the ground. She needed to zip beneath power lines with almost zero clearance. She needed to tempt death to feel alive.

  And damn if she wasn’t addicted.

  Amy banked into a wide turn. The sun would set in two hours. She had at least another good hour of flying. And she wanted every second she could steal.

  Because when she was up here, she wasn’t thinking about her dead husband. She wasn’t thinking about his best friend. She wasn’t thinking about anything except the rush.

  Amy dropped the plane for her fifth pass at Smith’s field. Fat and skinny shadows broke up the earth as she sped past. The sun painted shades of apple green to evergreen.