No Mercy (11 page)

The army noticed and optioned me to join their elite team, The U.S. Army Marksmanship Unit (USAMU). But I didn’t want to be a competitive shooter; I wanted to be a soldier. Actually, my dream was to be an Army Ranger. When I’d told my sergeant, he’d laughed in my face. A woman an Army Ranger? Never happen.

A month later his female CO, Major Martinson, yanked me out of the duty roster. She offered me an opportunity of a lifetime. For several years she’d petitioned for a chance to prove women could excel in stealth combat. With cases all over the country decrying the military’s sexual discrimination policies, General John Ehrlich relented and gave Major Martinson the go-ahead. She selected an elite group of six women, all army, all with specialized skills, all with a medical anomaly that wouldn’t differentiate us from the boys, so “female issues” when in the field wouldn’t be an issue.

The army grudgingly, stealthily trained the six of us, figuring we’d ring out.

We didn’t.

No one in our group received the official Army Ranger designation, but we completed every required training course, and that’d been enough for us.

Our troop was officially attached to the 82nd Airborne Division out of Fort Bragg, North Carolina, specifically, the 525th Battlefield Surveillance Brigade. Unofficially? We were in the murky designation of the Division of Special Troops, part of the 519th Military Intelligence Battalion, Tactical Exploration.

The bottom line was our covert group didn’t exist on paper anywhere. We still were promoted, we still bitched about the stupidity of the brass, we still spent time in the crappy barracks in the armpits of the world. We were afforded all the privileges of regular enlisted army grunts, save one tiny thing: we weren’t allowed to tell anyone—including our families—our military objective.

When military personnel of any branch, past or present, enlisted or officer, are asked about women participating in “black-ops” programs, they laugh. Or argue the ridiculousness of the suggestion, which is fine by us. Who’d believe American women soldiers were running around in the Mideast dressed like the oppressed local chattel, picking off terrorists with specialized weapons designed to stay hidden beneath
niqabs
and
burkas
? Because of religious and social traditions frowning on physical contact between men and women, we easily slipped past checkpoints.

The global conflicts—the Gulf War, Bosnia, Croatia, Afghanistan, and Iraq—kept us busy and behind enemy lines. Most of our assignments involved close-range work with smaller-caliber firearms than the standard large-caliber, long-range, heavy sniper rifles.

We were a tight-knit group, though we mostly worked in pairs. The major told us there was less competition between us than in male squads similar to ours. Extensively defined leadership roles weren’t as important to us as teamwork and finishing the job. Men had egos. That’s why there were wars.

There is a common misconception about snipers, that we are cold-blooded killers in love with the act of snuffing lives. That’s not true for me. Wasn’t true with any of the other snipers I’ve worked with. The reason we’re so good at our jobs is because we can separate ourselves emotionally from the situation.

In all the years I lived behind a scope and prowled behind enemy lines, I never rationalized that my assigned target was inherently evil, therefore death by my hand was justified. My commanding officers and the military brass had to wrestle with the ethical and moral dilemmas of who had to die, why, and what would follow in the aftermath. I just had to pull the trigger.

Once it was done, I didn’t dwell on it any more than a contractor would after successfully constructing a building according to the architect’s blueprints. Cross it off the list as a completed project and move on to the next one.

I didn’t have a montage of all the faces in my crosshairs over the years, swirling around inside my subconscious when my head finally hit the pillow. I’d be hard-pressed to describe any specific facial features of my targets—save one or two. Those instances were memorable only because I’d missed my shot the first time.

The hardest part for me is the continual sense of detachment. Hard to be part of a raucous crowd when silence in body and mind is a constant necessity in my work, not only to perform at an optimum level, but in winding down from the execution. I don’t get a killer’s high, per se, but a certain amount of adrenaline is produced and needs to be released in a productive manner. Male snipers let off steam by getting blow jobs. I let off steam by blowing
uji
breath in and out of my body. Different strokes for different folks.

And being a sniper was just a job for me. Granted, a job where I signed someone’s death warrant with a .50-caliber bullet made me a paid killer. Uncle Sam’s rigorous and expensive sniper training wasn’t a job skill I could put on a résumé. My contract was with the United States Army. Once that contract ended, so would that part of my life.

So why was I loitering in the darkness, holding a gun, contemplating going against everything I believed in, considering killing a man in cold blood?

“No quick movements. Sit up. Put your hands where I can see them.”

“Mercy?” His bare feet dug for purchase as he scrambled backward.

“Do as I say. Don’t make me shoot you, Jake.”

He shrank away from my clipped, icy tone. Or maybe it was from the gun.

“What are you doing here? At”—the whites of his eyes were huge in the dark as he glanced at the clock—“one in the morning?”

I let deadly, ugly silence linger.

Jake reclined against the headboard, his hands white-knuckling the star quilt. “What’s going on?”

I sensed it spooked him that he couldn’t see me or hear me breathing. It was almost like I wasn’t there.

But I was. My anger poisoned the air. “Why, Jake?”

Even if I hadn’t aimed my gun at his head, he knew better than to play dumb with me. “Why what? Why Hope?”

“Yes. Was it because she was here?”

“No.”

“Did my father know?”

“Know what, Mercy? That Levi was actually my son?”

“No. Did he know you were fucking my sister?”

Jake flinched. “Don’t be so crude. There was more to it than that.”

“More than betrayal by the man my father trusted above any other? Did he know you screwed him over by knocking up
another
one of his daughters?”

“Yes. He knew.”

I wondered what other secrets this family had kept from one another.

“I don’t expect you to understand.”

“Oh, I understand, all right. You blew your chance with me, so you set your sights on Hope. The poor, confused girl didn’t stand a chance against your strong, silent Indian charm, did she? How long after I left before she crawled into your bed? Did you pop her cherry, too?”

“I’m telling you, you weren’t here. You don’t know nothing about it. And I don’t owe you any explanation.”

Before he blinked, I pressed the barrel against his forehead. “Wrong. Tell me. Give me a reason not to blow your fucking brains all over the wall, Jake. We both know Dawson won’t do a goddamn thing to investigate. You’ve got three seconds.”

Perspiration snaked down his temple.

“One.”

It was as if he were paralyzed by fear and his mouth was wired shut.

“Two.”

The
snick
of me thumbing the safety untied the knot in his vocal cords.

“I was with her because I loved her.”

The gun stayed in place; I ground the muzzle deeper into his skin. “You loved her? Is that what you told her, or what she believed?”

“It’s what I told her because it is the truth.”

“You are a liar. The only thing you’ve ever loved was the idea that someday you might own this ranch.”

“Not everything revolves around this piece of earth.”

“Were you with her to get back at me?”

“Not everything revolves around you either.”

My neck flashed red-hot. “I never pretended it did, but that’s not a good enough answer.” I shifted, so did the gun. “Why did you love her?”

Jake wasn’t stupid; he read between the lines. He knew I’d never stoop to ask the real question: why he’d loved Hope and not me.

“Because Hope needed me in a way you never did.”

“She couldn’t have needed you that much because she bailed on you, too, didn’t she?”

He winced.

It didn’t faze me. “If she needed you so much, why’d she marry someone else, Jake?”

“I wanted to marry her. She told me she was getting an abortion. Instead, she came back five months later married to Mario Arpel. Still pregnant, and I knew it was mine.”

I taunted him into giving me an emotional reaction, just to see if he would. “Weren’t you pissed off? She left you and wouldn’t admit Levi was your child, then she returned to rub it in your face.”

“After she left me and came back, she was happier than I’d ever seen her. She deserved a chance at happiness, so I didn’t interfere.”

“How noble.” I removed the gun and tried to stay disconnected.

“Noble? At least I’m not pretending to be superior. You’re not any better off now than you were when you left twenty years ago. What is it you’re searching for that you can’t seem to find here or anywhere else?”

“This isn’t about me. This is about you and my little sister. And the secret love child you fathered,” I added with a sneer.

“Is that why you’re here? To tell me I don’t get to mourn my son?”

I felt his fury. But it was too little, too late. “You didn’t see fit to acknowledge him during his short life, so you sure as hell don’t get to act the part of anguished father now that he’s dead.”

Even as the words left my mouth, I knew I’d struck a blow equal to gut-stabbing him. Was this what I really wanted? To be at odds with everyone in my life?

Yes. If only for tonight. If I could keep the rage boiling on the surface, I could keep the grief at bay.

“What’d they do to you in the army, hey?” he asked softly.

Jake knew how to get to me. I almost broke down.

“Mercy?”

Almost.

“They taught me to hold my emotions in. To be cold. Kind of like you, huh, Jake?”

Evidently he’d had enough. He snapped, “Either kill me or get the hell out.”

My answering laugh was decidedly mean. “Maybe you have grown a backbone after all,
kola
.”

Pause. “We’ve been many things, Mercy, but never friends.”

I’d made my point; it was time to make my escape. From the doorway, I said, “Night, Jake.”

I wasn’t sure, but as I passed by his open window, I thought I heard him retching.

And I didn’t feel a bit of regret.

Being around a crowd without a clear purpose drove a loner like me crazy. I’d escaped from the living room, where a half-dozen women were tending to Hope. Some were parents of our friends, who knew our sad family history. I could almost hear them, wondering what other tragedies could befall the unlucky Gunderson family. Speculating on why I was hiding outside with the menfolk rather than sipping tea with them.

Levi’s funeral was set for two o’clock. I would’ve preferred earlier in the day, to avoid the heat and just to get the damn thing over with, but it wasn’t my call. I glanced at my watch. Barely ten. Too soon to break out the Wild Turkey? Everyone grieves in their own way. Whiskey works best for me.

Tires on the gravel driveway caught my attention. Great. More company. A quick feeling of relief bloomed when John-John’s El Dorado parked.

John-John was dressed sedately in dark slacks, a light gray polo shirt, and black loafers. Even the row of silver hoop earrings was small and understated.

“Hey,
kola,”
John-John said. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Taking a breather.”

“Can I join you for a minute?”

“Sure. Shoonga. Down.” The dog jumped off the swing and rearranged himself by the door.

John-John flopped next to me on the porch swing. The cushions slid around and the chains jangled as he settled his bulk.

“You here to see Hope?”

“No, buttercup. I’m actually here to see you.”

My stomach revolted. “Another vision?”

He shook his head.

We let the momentum of the swing carry us because the conversation was at a standstill.

“I wondered how you were holding up.”

I shrugged. Ignored the hollow feeling in my chest. “I’m doing okay.” I wasn’t. But I didn’t want to share my misery. Levi’s murder had returned my father’s passing to the forefront, just when I’d seemed to get a handle on the idea Dad was really gone. Now I had another loss to compound it and the guilt.

The porch swing creaked with each pass. The constant
squeak shuffle clank
of the chains soothed me. The silence between us stretched, not awkward, just… there.

“You don’t want to talk about it?”

“Nope.”

John-John sighed. “I remember when you used to tell me everything.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Some things might’ve changed, doll, but my ears still work the same as they did twenty years ago.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Another long pause. I heard the water valve kick on in the kitchen. Someone was doing dishes. Seemed like those church ladies were always washing dishes.

“We’re worried about you.”

I faced him. “Who’s we? You and Muskrat?”

“No. Sophie and me.”

“Sophie needs to mind her own damn business and stop talking about me behind my back. She keeps it up and I’ll fire her.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Yes. I do.” I couldn’t look him in the eye when I said it; he’d see the lie. “Anyway, I hate that everyone is watching me, judging how I grieve. Just because I’m not bawling and cutting off all my hair or slicing my skin in a Lakota mourning ritual doesn’t mean I’m not affected.” Doesn’t mean I’m coldhearted. I told myself looking for solace in the bottom of a whiskey bottle didn’t mean a damn thing either.

“No one believes you’re unaffected by Levi’s murder. It’s just our nature to reach out to you.”

And it was my nature to retreat inside myself. None of these well-meaning souls would leave me alone unless they felt they were “helping” me. Damn. I had no choice but to let them think they were helping me while I followed my own agenda.

“I appreciate it, really, I do. It’s just… driving me crazy to sit around. I want answers
now
. Kids don’t get murdered here. And we’ve had two murders in two weeks.”

John-John stopped nervously pinching the crease in his pants. “You think there’s a connection between Albert’s and Levi’s deaths?”

“Don’t you? Doesn’t everyone? Everyone except for Dawson.” I slapped a mosquito on my forearm, leaving a smear of blood. “I don’t know why Dad hired him. Dawson wouldn’t know investigative work if it bit him on the ass. Now I understand why Estelle was so upset. Why she wanted me to do something. Somebody has to.” I’d called Estelle, and she’d agreed to meet me later, after the funeral, when she got off work. Getting that list had become urgent.

The swing stalled. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

I said nothing.

“Come on, girl. Whatcha got up your sleeve?”

“Just my arm.”

He frowned.

“What makes you think I’m planning anything?”

“Let’s just say my spidey sense is tingling.”

“I have some of that ‘spidey sense’ myself.”

“I know. About damn time you owned up to it; you ain’t all white, you know.” He playfully slapped my thigh. “Nice try, changing the subject. You ain’t gonna tell me what you’re up to, are you?”

“Probably not.”

“These visions are disturbing, Mercy. Trust me when I tell you it’d be best if you don’t get involved.”

“Best for who? Not best for Levi. Maybe if I’d acted a little quicker helping Estelle, Levi might still be alive.”

John-John reached for my hands. He peered into my eyes, and I swear he saw all the secrets I’d buried. “You’re wrong. Don’t do this to yourself. You have enough guilt burning holes in your soul. Levi wouldn’t—”

The screen door banged. I jumped. John-John swore and Shoonga barked once before rolling over on his back into a patch of sunshine.

Iris Newsome stopped, readjusting the avocado green Tupper-ware bowl sliding off the Pyrex casserole dish. She looked up at us. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t. Here, let me help you.” I shot off the swing, thankful for the interruption, and caught the plastic bowl before it crashed to the porch.

“Thank you. I have a case of butterfingers today.”

I followed her to her car. She stacked the dishes in the passenger seat and straightened. She didn’t smile; instead, she stared at me, waiting for me to say something.

I almost wished she’d broach the subject of the countywide petition drive and break the thorny silence between us. “Thanks for bringing food, Iris, and helping out. We appreciate it.”

“It’s the least I could do. I just wish I could do more.” Her gaze flicked to the house. “Poor Hope. First losing her dad. And now this?” She looked back at me with watery eyes. “I know what it’s like to bury a child.”

I stood there like an idiot. Not knowing what the hell to do. Words of comfort escaped me. I wasn’t much of a hugger. I couldn’t even offer her a stupid Kleenex.

Iris wiped the tears with the tips of her fingers and gave me a wan smile. “Sorry. It’s just hard, seeing her like this. It’s not fair.”

Nothing seemed to kick my vocal cords into use.

“I’d better get going. I’ll see you at the service.”

As she drove off I glanced at the empty porch swing. John-John had gone inside. Good. He couldn’t ream me for sneaking a nip or two.

Then again, given his spidey sense, he probably already knew.