No Mercy Part 15

My mother always cautioned me nothing good ever came from eavesdropping. For most of my life I thought it was bad advice. Now I wished I'd taken that advice and slunk away when I'd had the chance. Maybe I should've swallowed that whole bottle of Valium.

Levi was Jake's son. Jake was Levi's father. Not Hope's late husband, Mario Arpel. The phrase repeated in my head like a bad song lyric: Jake was Levi's father. Jake was Levi's father.

My spirit shriveled; I felt my muscles and bones threaten to liquefy. A burst of white light rushed past me as the years disappeared to a spring morning my senior year in high school. I sang along with Tanya Tucker on the radio. When I climbed out of the shower, I noticed blood between my thighs. A trickle rapidly became a torrent. Blood discolored the sunny yellow bath mat. Cramps seized me, and I had to bend over the bathtub from the intense pain.

I could barely crawl across the hallway to use the phone. Sophie had gone into Rapid City and I hadn't wanted my father to worry, so I called my best friend Geneva. By the time she arrived, I was floating in and out of consciousness and lying in a pool of blood.

Geneva called 911. All dispatch calls went through the sheriff's office first, so my father pulled up the same time as the ambulance.

The rest of the images from that day were blurry. One memory is crystal clear; the ghostly paleness of my father's face as they loaded me in the back of the ambulance.

Spontaneous abortion at age eighteen isn't uncommon. But nearly hemorrhaging to death and having a hysterectomy at age eighteen is.

I hadn't even known I was pregnant. Once the pregnancy ended it was pointless to talk about it. To Dad. To Sophie. To Geneva. Especially to Jake.

Within a month, my body hadn't shown signs of menopause. Within two months, I left the ranch, my childhood, and the memories of Jake and me far behind.

Or so I'd thought.

A floorboard creaked in the kitchen. Jake lifted his head and saw me by the china cabinet. Our eyes met. No reason for me to hide the murderous rage in mine. I felt triumphant at the fear in his.

He leaned down to whisper in Hope's ear, then slipped out the front door.

Coward.

I dug deep until I found the tranquil mind-set that helped me to survive combat situations. I inserted myself into the warm spot Jake had vacated and fussed over my sister, tucking the afghan under her elfin chin.

Her face resembled one of those wax carvings at the tourist traps in Keystone outside of Mount Rushmore. When her bloodless lips moved, I nearly leaped to the ceiling.

"You heard, didn't you?" she whispered.

"Yeah."

More tears fell. "Do you hate me now?"

"I couldn't ever hate you, Hope."

"Really?"

"Really. I know we haven't always been close... I don't know if it was because I was gone, or because of stuff from when we were kids, but I am here for you now. I'll always be here for you."

"Thanks." Her throat muscles worked, but her voice was still scarcely a whisper. "For the first time I really feel like you mean that, Mercy."

"I do." I changed the subject lest I start crying again. "Sure you don't want me to have Doc Canady give you something to help you sleep?"

"I won't take anything, so stop badgering me about it." She wiped beneath her eyes. "And stop asking me if I can keep quiet about how he"-her breath hitched in an effort to finish-"how Levi died. I'm good at holding a secret."

Boy, was she ever. "All right." Needing something to do with my hands, I fiddled with the fat gold yarn ta.s.sels on the afghan.

"Where's Shoonga?"

"On the porch. You want me to get him?"

She nodded.

I cut through the kitchen and opened the screen door. The dog looked up from his usual spot by the stairs. "Shoonga. Come."

Shoonga c.o.c.ked his head like it was a trick. We never let animals in the house. He'd been on the receiving end of Sophie's broom a time or two, so I didn't blame him.

I patted my thigh. "It's okay, Shoonga, you can come in."

The dog stood and slunk past me, tail tucked between his short legs. He waited in the kitchen, whining, until I led him to Hope's side. Shoonga licked her hand and dropped on the carpet next to the couch.

"You need anything else?"

"Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?"

"You don't even have to ask." I sat beside her and rubbed my knuckles over the baby-fine hair on her forearm, like my mother used to do when I was sick as a child. Hope had known so little of our mother; I wanted to give her something that'd always calmed me. The repet.i.tive motion helped her relax until her breathing slowed. When I was certain she was out, I briefly snuck upstairs, then came back down and grabbed a bottle of Wild Turkey and a gla.s.s on my way outside.

The night air retained the day's dry heat. I poured three fingers of whiskey and knocked it back. Don't know why I bothered with a gla.s.s. According to my best guess, I'd drained half a bottle throughout this nightmare day. I wasn't drunk; I was absolutely numb.

As much as I didn't want answers about Hope and Jake, I knew I'd have to ask questions. Since waking Hope wasn't an option, that left me one other choice.

I drained the bottle, loaded my Sig .357, and melted into the shadows.

NINE.

The tiny foreman's cabin was far enough away from our house that I had time to consider how many times I'd done this in my life as a sniper, slithering through the darkness in silence as elusive as smoke.

I owed a good part of my skill to the shooting basics my father had instilled in me from the time I'd been old enough to curl my small fingers around a trigger. Shooting was what I'd loved best and where I'd excelled. In basic training I'd finished at the top of my cla.s.s in marksmans.h.i.+p.

The army noticed and optioned me to join their elite team, The U.S. Army Marksmans.h.i.+p Unit (USAMU). But I didn't want to be a compet.i.tive 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 pet.i.tioned for a chance to prove women could excel in stealth combat. With cases all over the country decrying the military's s.e.xual 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 b.i.t.c.hed about the stupidity of the bra.s.s, we still spent time in the c.r.a.ppy 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 partic.i.p.ating 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 a.s.signments 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 compet.i.tion between us than in male squads similar to ours. Extensively defined leaders.h.i.+p roles weren't as important to us as teamwork and finis.h.i.+ng 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 a.s.signed target was inherently evil, therefore death by my hand was justified. My commanding officers and the military bra.s.s 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 b.l.o.w. .j.o.bs. 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 resume. 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?

In the moonless void of his bedroom, I was ready when Jake Red Leaf awoke and realized he wasn't alone.

Before his hand inched from beneath the covers to reach for the light on his nightstand, a click echoed at the foot of the bed. A click signaling my gun was c.o.c.ked.

"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 f.u.c.king 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 f.u.c.king brains all over the wall, Jake. We both know Dawson won't do a G.o.dd.a.m.n 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 s.h.i.+fted, so did the gun. "Why did you love her?"