Merciless

by Lori Armstrong

  Turnbull waited for me to say something else.

  But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I’d said too much already.

  Then he was right in my face. Studying the bruise that covered my left cheek, and then his gaze dropping to my swollen and bloodied lip. “What the fuck happened to you?”

  Keeping things to myself was standard operating procedure in the army, even before I became black ops. I didn’t owe my unofficial FBI partner anything because he could slap cuffs on me and throw me in jail for the rest of my life if he knew the truth. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

  He placed his fingers under my chin and forced me to look at him. Then he touched the bruise, not with gentleness, but with enough force to make me wince. “What did you do last night?”

  My gaze searched his, and I didn’t back away from his firm touch or probing eyes. “It’s no big deal. I heard a noise, went outside to check it out, and tripped over my bootlaces. I ran right into the barn door.”

  “Bullshit.”

  I jerked out of his hold and retreated. After refilling my cup, I rested my backside against the countertop. “Why are you here on a Saturday morning? Did we have a break in the cases or something?”

  “No, I had a bad feeling about you.”

  “I thought we were supposed to ignore those gut feelings in the FBI.”

  But he wasn’t looking at my face. “Jesus, Gunderson, why is your leg bleeding?”

  I glanced at my left leg and saw red spreading across the gray sweat material. I waved off his concern. “No biggie. I cut myself shaving.”

  Then Shay was in front of me again, poking at the stain.

  This time I yelped.

  Mr. Intense was in my face. “Is that a goddamn bullet hole?”

  “I just nicked the surface. You know how much those superficial wounds bleed.”

  “Let me see it.”

  “What? No.” I tried to scramble back, but he put his hand on my thigh and squeezed. I snapped, “Jesus, knock it the fuck off, you sadistic asshole.”

  “Bathroom. Now. Or I call an ambulance. Your choice.”

  So I followed him into the bathroom.

  He afforded me a quick once-over. “Sweatpants off.”

  I refused to blush when I peeled them down my legs. “Get on the counter so I can make sure you don’t have a damn bullet in there.”

  I knew better than to argue with that tone. I handed him a first-aid kit after he finished washing his hands.

  “What will it take to convince you to talk to me about what happened last night?”

  The poker face I’d mastered slipped. And for all the people it could’ve happened in front of, just my luck it was Special Agent Shay Turnbull. When I wasn’t wearing pants. “I guess that depends on who I’m talking to right now.”

  “Are you asking if I’m wearing my badge?”

  “Yes, but I’m not just talking figuratively.”

  Shay locked his gaze to mine. “I’m more than the badge, Mercy.”

  “Still not hearing the reassurances I need, Agent Turnbull.”

  Indecision clouded his eyes. Then he said tightly, “Tit for tat, eh? My dark secret for yours?”

  I had so many secrets I wasn’t sure if last night’s events even counted as the dark variety. “Fine. But it’d better be what I want to know, and don’t pretend you aren’t aware of exactly what that is.”

  “Then tell me what I want to know. Were you shot last night?

  “Yeah. It’s no big deal. I’ve been shot before.”

  “I see that.” His fingers traced the ugly ridged scar on my other leg, and the skin tightened with gooseflesh. Then he bent over the wound, seeing blood oozing from beneath the bandage. “You say there’s no bullet in there?”

  “I already poked around in it.”

  “I’m gonna take a look anyway.” Shay ripped off the covering quickly, but it still hurt like a mother.

  Blood gushed out and ran down the inside of my thigh.

  He caught it with a piece of gauze. Took him a bit to speak. “You’ve asked why I got reassigned to South Dakota. You assumed I was demoted. In a roundabout way, I was. I was reassigned because my partner in the Minneapolis office allegedly committed a crime, and I refused to be part of the federal hanging party.” He sucked in a swift breath. “This needs stitches.”

  “So I should ask Dawson’s doctor if he could patch up a bullet wound while I’m killing time in the waiting room? Wrong.” I pointed at the first-aid kit. “Use the butterfly bandages. I just couldn’t hold the skin together and put the bandage on myself.”

  His eyes met mine. Not aloof like I expected but filled with concern. “I’ll help you, but you have to promise if this gets infected you’ll let a medical professional look at it.”

  “I promise. Now tell me what happened.”

  “This is gonna sting.” He sprayed the entire area with antiseptic. “My former partner joined the FBI after college. Top of his class, he could’ve done anything. Even the CIA was sniffing around. But he was Ojibwa and wanted to stay in Indian Country to help his tribe. Part of the reason for his choosing a branch of law enforcement stemmed from his witnessing his mother and his sister brutally raped and murdered when he was twelve. He knew who’d done it. The cops had known, and nothing was ever done because the man was a DEA confidential informant.”

  My stomach twisted. “No one is untouchable.”

  “Trust me, this man was. Then we found out, through not entirely legal channels, that this monster had recently raped and killed another ten-year-old girl. But the crime had been covered up because the Indian girl was in foster care. And because the DEA needed this sick fucker’s crucial information for a major drug op, they swept it under the rug.” He pointed at my leg. “Pull the skin as closely together as you can and hold it.”

  I gritted my teeth and watched as he attached the butterfly bandages.

  “The FBI and the DEA were convinced that my partner was the one who gutted the confidential informant like a trout a day before the man was supposed to deliver key information on a major drug shipment.”

  “What was your part in it?”

  “Mine?” Shay’s eyebrows rose. “None. The night this DEA snitch was killed, my partner and I were at a strip club sixty miles from the scene of the crime.”

  “Alibied?”

  He dabbed at the pooled blood. “Ironclad. Corroborated by two men we’d gotten into an altercation with after the … female escorts they provided for us earlier that evening tried to double the agreed-upon price.”

  Four solid witnesses to alibi Shay and his partner’s whereabouts. “And the feds?”

  “No charges were filed on the criminal side, but my partner lost his job with the FBI for moral implications.”

  “That’s fucking ironic.”

  “Tell me about it. I agreed to an immediate transfer out of the Minneapolis office, where I was third in line for the top slot. My ADA saw to it I was listed as a training agent for ICSCU. They sent me here. And I’m unofficially the DEA’s bitch. No matter where I’m transferred. For as long as they deem it.”

  So many things made sense now. Including how Shay knew so much about Saro’s organization. He’d been part of a task force keeping tabs on my friend Jason Hawley’s criminal activities. Yes, he answered to Shenker, but he acted with a different vibe, as compared to other agents in our office. I’d chalked up those attitudes to male pissing contests—the new guy coming in and taking over. But it was more complicated than that … and a pointed reminder of how much I hated politics, in the office and in the military.

  “Do you regret that decision?”

  “No. I don’t live my life as black and white as you seem to believe I do. I’m Rah-rah! Go FBI! and all that shit, ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time.”

  But there was that teeny percentage … that wasn’t completely above-board. Maybe we were more alike than I’d imagined. But I’d never seen those dark edges in him that existed in me.

&nbs
p; “I know what you’re capable of, Mercy. I also know you don’t act unless you’ve been pushed into a corner.” He handed me two large bandages. “Keep this covered until it stops bleeding.”

  “Aye, aye, Dr. Turnbull.”

  “Don’t say that. It reminds me that my sister is the doctor in the family.”

  Before I could ask for more information, he said, “Get some pants on. I’ll be in the kitchen waiting to hear about your night maneuvers, Sergeant Major,” and he left the bathroom.

  Night maneuvers. I almost snorted. But it was a strangely apt description. I slipped on a baggy pair of jeans and returned to the kitchen.

  Shay stared out the window. Without turning around, he said, “Where can we talk?”

  We’d have privacy if we used the office, but I couldn’t tell him what I’d done in my dad’s space. Paranoid and stupid, but some ghosts are difficult to shake.

  “Let’s go outside.” Jake had taken the dogs with him after he’d dropped Lex off early this morning, so we wouldn’t be hounded for attention. I shoved my phone in my back pocket and grabbed my coffee cup.

  Another day of mild weather and no need to bundle up. But I shivered anyway as I curled my hands around my mug and stared straight ahead at the barn.

  “Tell me all of it.”

  Easier to confess what’d gone down without making eye contact, even when I’d mastered the art of looking a superior in the eye and lying my ass off.

  No lies this time. I told Shay everything.

  It wasn’t freeing. But it’d be hypocritical to expect absolution for guilt I didn’t feel.

  And Shay didn’t offer it.

  “You’re sure no one saw you?” he asked after a bit.

  “Leaving the area?”

  “That, and carrying a duffel bag of death across the reservation.”

  I tossed my cold coffee over the porch railing. “I didn’t see a single person on my solitary eleven-mile run in the dark. Nor did any Samaritan on the rez offer assistance when I changed my freakin’ tire at midnight.”

  “Was that intentional on your part? Making sure this altercation happened on tribal land so you wouldn’t have to deal with Dawson or his colleagues if you somehow got caught?”

  “I didn’t choose the spot. He did.” The words And I won’t get caught went unsaid.

  Another beat passed. “How do you think this will play out?”

  “The tribal cops will find Naomi’s car first. I can hope, given what I’ve seen of their investigative techniques, that they’ll chalk it up to rez kids taking a joyride and abandoning the ride after crashing the car.”

  “And Sheldon’s car?”

  “The tribal cops’ll find that, too, I imagine, unless someone else finds it first, figures it’s an abandoned car, and decides the finders/keepers rule is in effect.” Which also happened frequently on the reservation.

  “And if the tribal cops decide to look deeper?”

  Deeper. I almost laughed. “Like bringing search-and-rescue dogs to the scene once they figure out Sheldon is missing? Well, if that happens, the dogs will find Sheldon’s body. Or what’s left of it. They’ll find him full of bullets. A common-enough caliber of bullets.”

  “Will anyone report Sheldon missing?”

  “Not until Monday or Tuesday when Sheldon doesn’t show up for work. Once that happens and the tribal cops get to his house? It’ll look like a breakin, and then they’ll find his mummified uncle. Then they’ll find Sheldon’s instruments of torture in the garage. Blood from the victims on that plastic curtain. Digitalis. From that point, it depends on whether they find his body. They might just assume Sheldon fled. But if the body is found, then the tribal PD will look at the victim’s family members as suspects. But Rollie is still in jail. John-John and Sophie were in Eagle Butte at a sweat ceremony.”

  Shay’s gaze sharpened. “That leaves Latimer and Triscell Elk Thunder.”

  “What we know of the tribal PD? They won’t seriously investigate the tribal president. They’ll buy his alibi. They’ll consider good riddance to Sheldon War Bonnet and act like the tribal police solved a case the FBI couldn’t.”

  “You really did look at every conceivable angle.”

  I shrugged. “I had nothin’ else to think about on my run. There’s nothing linking me to any of this. No proof.”

  “No worries young Naomi will brag about her part?” he asked skeptically.

  “She has limited information about what she believed was a government op. Plus, she mentioned a possible career in the military. I could provide her with a rec with the local recruiter, if she needs one. If she tattles, well, I’ll go out of my way to paint her a liar.”

  “Jesus, Gunderson. I’m happy you’re on my side.”

  I smiled. “Now that we’re all open books for each other and shit, spill about your military service, Turnbull.”

  Shay gave me the slow, sexy grin that was inappropriate as hell and yet … somehow not. “I thought you would’ve guessed by now, Sergeant Major.”

  Then it clicked. “Fuck me. You were a SEAL.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  My eyes narrowed. “That’s not all. You were a SEAL sniper.”

  “Guilty. But I was out of the teams by the time Operation Iraqi Freedom started. Basically, I was an Indian kid from South Dakota looking to see the world, and I ended up in navy intelligence. After a couple of years of that, I opted to try out for the SEALS. I stayed in the teams for almost a decade. Didn’t reenlist after twelve years and immediately went to Quantico.”

  “Impressive.” No wonder he had knowledge of my military background. But I felt a little smug that I outranked him.

  “How do you plan to handle this?” he asked.

  “I’ll probably have to resign from the FBI. Not only for my, ah, night maneuvers, but if Dawson has a long recovery ahead of him, he’ll need me to take care of him full time. As will Lex. My duties to my family have to come first.”

  “I’m not talking about the FBI.”

  I met Shay’s intense stare head-on, and yet I had a frisson of fear that this would be the first time I broke an eye lock. “Then what are you talking about?”

  “How that situation will affect you. Tracking and killing hasn’t been part of your life since you got out of the service. Yet you’ve killed three people in less than eighteen months. Obviously, those kills are nothing compared to what you racked up as a sniper. But this time will affect you because it wasn’t done in the name of God or country, or in self-defense. Maybe you won’t see the aftershocks for a few weeks or months, but they will happen.”

  Rather than nod regretfully and blow off his armchair psychiatry, I held his gaze, giving him the honest answer that would haunt me more than leaving Sheldon War Bonnet to die. “You’re wrong. I have no remorse. Nor will I ever wake up in the middle of the night filled with remorse—not in two hours, two days, two weeks, or two months. For a few hours I became that person I’d been trained to be. I did what I was very, very good at. Maybe it wasn’t as easy to slip into that skin as it once was, but I was still able to do it. Then I shed that skin just as soon as I finished with it, just like I always have.” The dark emotions inside me took a little longer to fade than the violent actions I’d taken, but portions had already started to blur.

  He continued to stare at me, as if he didn’t believe me. Like this was all an act with me.

  It wasn’t. This glimpse I let him see was the truest part of me.

  “That bothers you, doesn’t it? That I’m not wallowing in regret. That the reason I’d quit the FBI isn’t out of guilt, but practicality. My life with Dawson is what matters most to me.”

  “The sheriff won’t want you to quit, Mercy. We both know that. No matter what happens during his recovery.” He turned away from me. “It’d suck if you quit.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Suck for who?”

  “It’d suck for me because I’d get stuck with another newbie. Because of your military background, you’re an abov
e-average agent. And you put the pieces together on these cases when no one else could.”

  Man, he sucked at flattery. “But it wasn’t because of great detective work. It was dumb luck. Or bad luck. And it’s not like I can tell Shenker or anyone else how I did it or what the final outcome was.”

  He lifted a brow. “A good chunk of it was detective work. The rest doesn’t matter. I’ll know how capable you are. And you know it. That should be enough.”

  It should be … but would it be?

  My cell phone buzzed in my back pocket.

  I took it out and recognized the number from the hospital. My heart leaped into my throat. “Gunderson.”

  “Hi Mercy, it’s Lisa from the ICU. I wanted to let you know that Mason is awake. The doctors started easing back on his meds about ten last night. By four a.m. he was conscious. He’s been dealing with the neurologist and the physical-therapy folks. He’s been telling everyone he just wants to go home.”

  Tears sprang to my eyes. “I’ll be right there.” I hung up.

  Shay was in my face, his eyes that soft gold color I’d only seen a few times. “Mercy, goddammit, I’m so sorry.”

  “For what? Dawson is awake.”

  He took a step back. “He is? But you’re—”

  “Crying. I know. They’re happy tears, Turnbull.” I hugged him. “Thank you. For everything.”

  “I’ll pass along the information about the sheriff’s condition. Check in Monday and let us know when to expect you back to work.”

  Before I had formulated my response—that might be never—I watched him climb into his vehicle and drive away.

  I ran into the house and up the stairs. “Lex? Get a move on, boy. Your dad is awake and we need to double-time it to the hospital.”

  • • •

  I was nervous.

  Dr. Jeffers wanted to meet with us ahead of time. To warn us of complications?

  I’d seen far too many of those made-for-TV movies where the coma patient wakes up and doesn’t remember anybody.

  Or the coma permanently altered the patient’s personality.

  Or the patient had nerve damage that affected the physical condition of the body.