No Mercy Part 42

Dead air. Rustling as the phone was pa.s.sed. Theo said, "Mercy, the ever-vigilant daughter, who returned to save the family ranch from the greedy hands of evil land developers. Sounds like a bad movie of the week." A mangled bray of laughter. "The truth is, I can't trust Hope not to snivel, so listen closely.

"Hiram told me what happened last night after I left. You sneaking around, spying on us like you're some army secret agent? Pathetic. You're a truck driver. Anyway, Hiram is scared s.h.i.+tless; Kit is p.i.s.sed off and says he's not paying me for doing my job of getting into your sister's pants."

I heard Hope screech, "What? You b.a.s.t.a.r.d-"

Another sharp crack sounded, and I knew he'd smacked her again.

Oh yeah, jail was too good for this son of a b.i.t.c.h.

"You understand my dilemma. I can't go back, so I need money to relocate. With a little... ah, persuasion, Hope told me how much cash is stashed in your daddy's safe. Around thirty thou, right?"

"Roughly."

"Get the money and bring it to me. Come alone. You fetch the sheriff or bring Jake or that f.a.ggot John-John, or one of those brain-dead ranch hands or even that dog, and I'll kill her. Immediately. Messily. I'll make sure it's as painful as possible before she dies.

"Come unarmed. If I see you carting along anything resembling a gun, knife, bow and arrow, or even a big rock, I'll kill her. Don't wear a coat either; I'd better see nothing but your bare arms.

"Last thing. Come on horseback. I catch sight of an ATV or a pickup or a dirt bike, I'll kill her. Right in front of you."

"Wait-"

"Hope means nothing to me. But I know she's all you've got in the whole wide world. I'll take great joy in blowing her brains all over the precious Gunderson Ranch just to see you suffer, b.i.t.c.h. So think about what'll happen if you're planning on doing one G.o.dd.a.m.n thing to double-cross me. We clear on that?"

"Yes. What am I supposed to carry the money in?"

"A plastic garbage bag."

"Where do you want me to bring it?"

"Call Hope's cell phone once you've got the money and are mounted up." He laughed again, and it was like a rusty corkscrew in my ear. "Ought to be interesting, riding a horse after all these years. You p.i.s.sing your pants in fear, little soldier? Can you do it? Even to save your sister?"

I ignored his taunt. One thing at a time. "We don't have cell phone reception everywhere on the ranch. I want to make sure once you hang up you're not taking her someplace where I can't get in touch with you, because you want an excuse to slice her up."

"Don't worry about that. Worry about getting me the money in time. Worry about me not getting antsy and shooting her just because she's annoying and I can. You have thirty minutes."

I heard Hope whimper, "No. Let go."

"Just in case you think I'm bluffing." A loud snap echoed through the receiver and Hope screamed. "I broke her wrist. Next it'll be her nose, and I'll work my way down from there."

The connection went dead.

Thirty minutes.

Clutching the cell phone like a lifeline, I ran into my dad's office. Although the safe combination hadn't changed in years, my shaking fingers fumbled the dial. Four tries later, the last number clicked and the heavy door swung open. I stuffed a plastic garbage bag with stacks of bills. Didn't bother to count it. Didn't matter if it was every penny we had.

I took the stairs two at a time. In my bedroom, I jerked my gun cases from under the bed. Like h.e.l.l I was going in unarmed.

My gun of choice was my compact Taurus Millennium Pro .45-the Walther P22 wouldn't do enough body damage for my liking; the 9 mm Glock didn't have a safety. I changed from sweats into baggy jeans. The metal was cold against my bare skin as I shoved the compact Taurus in the small of my back. The safety didn't catch on the waistband, so no chance I'd accidentally shoot myself in the b.u.t.t. One gun and an extra clip wasn't nearly enough firepower, but it'd have to do.

I tucked my jeans into my worn Lariat boots. I considered taking the Chinese throwing stars from my bag of tricks. But under duress my aim with them wasn't great, the exact opposite of my firearm skills, and I couldn't risk hitting Hope with one of the flying razors.

On went my white ARMY OF ONE T-s.h.i.+rt. I glanced at the clock. Seven minutes had ticked by.

I spied an old backpack on the top shelf in the closet. Pulling it down, I dumped the contents on the floor, then transferred the cell phone, the money, the gun, and the clip into the backpack. Scanned the room. Good to go.

The easy part was done.

I sprinted outside. The air was heavy, a thick ma.s.s of swirling cold fog. Rain pelted me. Thunder rumbled. I slogged to the barn and froze once I realized what I'd have to do.

The irony wasn't lost on me; Queenie was housed in the stall where my mother died.

How was I supposed to overcome thirty years of terror and climb on the back of a horse in thirty seconds? I didn't even know if I remembered how to saddle one.

My mother's voice drifted into my mind: Saddle up the same way every time, Mercy; that way you'll never forget a step.

Blood pulsed in my ears as I headed for the tack room. I grabbed a halter and a lead rope, and draped them around my neck. Then I peeled a wool blanket off the stack and unhooked a saddle from the wall, equipment that had been used recently. I threw the blanket and the saddle over the rail separating the stalls.

My hands shook. The bridle jingled like Christmas bells. I needed to calm down. I didn't have the luxury of spending time with Queenie to alleviate her fears or mine.

The creak of the hinges on the wooden gate sent goose b.u.mps all over my body as I trudged inside the stall to face my demons.

The second I scooted sideways into the stall, Queenie reared. I leaped back, covered my head with my arms, and cowered by the exterior wall.

She whinnied. Almost sounded like a mean laugh.

G.o.d, I couldn't do this. Whether the horse was scared from the storm bl.u.s.tering off and on for the last day, or by me, or a combination of both, there was no way I could get close enough to slip the halter on. Say nothing of leading her out of the stall, saddling her, and gaining her trust so she'd take the bit.

And that was all before I'd have to climb on her back and ride her h.e.l.l-bent for leather into a raging rainstorm.

The saddling process emerged from my blocked memory banks, but I wasn't in any shape to actually go through with it. My body shook; my clothes were soaked, not from rain but from nervous sweat.

While I fought with myself, Queenie snuffled and backed into me, b.u.t.t first. Swished her tail. Crowding me. Putting me in the direct line of those powerful hind legs and deadly hooves. I suffered visions of my mother stuck in this same situation before vicious kicks knocked her to the stall floor.

The fine hairs on my nape tingled from the electricity in the air. Thunder crashed, rattling my nerves and the wooden walls.

I chanced a look at Queenie. Bad weather spooked the most even-tempered mare. Her sides heaved; her ears were pinned flat against her head. She sidled to the left, limiting my opportunity to get around her.

d.a.m.n horse knew I intended to put on the halter. Knew I was afraid to approach her. She kept trying to get me behind her, pus.h.i.+ng me farther into the corner, keeping me from her left side.

I reached for my calm center, and my senses were a.s.saulted by the stench of horses.h.i.+t, the bitter smell of wet hay, old urine, and mud. The musky aroma of horseflesh, my own nervous sweat, and a phantom whiff of my mother's Emeraude perfume tainted with blood-all nightmare scents reminding me of the worst, most terror-filled afternoon of my life.

Go away go away go away. Breathe. In. Out.

I wasn't that helpless eight-year-old girl. I couldn't shrink in mortal fear in a smelly barn while a madman tortured my sister.

My personal pep talk didn't help. The past had hold of me, and I couldn't make myself move. I couldn't ever remember being petrified on this level. Not even when I'd been separated from my team in Kabul for two days and nights, hiding from patrols amid dead Afghan women and children.

You can do this, Mercy girl.

Dad?

No answer.

The loss of my father hit me like a Scud missile, yet I realized death wasn't strong enough to break the hold he had on me, especially here, on this piece of land he loved.

I could do this.

I had to do this.

Holding the halter by my side, I took a step toward Queenie, my blood pulsing in my ears, my heart lodged in my throat.

She did a quick little hop, tossing her head. We bobbed and swayed, a weird shuffling combination that might've looked like a mating dance if I hadn't been too scared to see the humor in it.

"I know we'd both rather be doing something else, but for now, I need you to work with me, because it's been a long time since I've done this."

Her ears swiveled my direction.

Maybe she'd cooperate now that I'd confessed my failings. When I inched forward, she lifted her front left leg, tossed her head and cleared her nostrils, blowing snot everywhere.

Nice. But I'd dealt with much worse bodily emissions from dead soldiers. I shook off Queenie's gross-out tactic.

Another footstep closer. "Come on and stand still, girl. I won't hurt you. See?" I reached out and placed my palm on her warm neck. Held up the halter so she could see it. Stroked her velvety brown coat. She flinched and tried to sidestep me again, but I stood my ground and kept touching her. Trying to rea.s.sure us both that this was okay.

"Good girl, Queenie." I patted her and murmured nonsensical words. Hoped like h.e.l.l she couldn't hear how fast my heart beat with primal fear. Next I touched her nose, pushed down gently, a signal to get her to lower her head. "Let me slip this on."

Talking soothed her. I kept up a running dialogue in the same quiet cadence. She stayed still while I lifted the nylon halter and slipped it over her nose, buckling the strap below her left ear.

She blew out a frustrated breath.

"Doing great, girl. Almost done. Let's get you saddled up. Then you can run off all this aggravation."

Hurry hurry hurry kept racing through my head.

I grabbed the lead rope and threaded it through the ring on the bottom of the halter, under her jaw. After I opened the stall door with my elbow, I led her into the main aisle of the barn. Having her in a less confining s.p.a.ce didn't alleviate my fears.

Water pooled on the dirt-packed floor. I figured Queenie would bolt if I gave her the chance. Instead of letting the lead rope drop and ground-tying her, I looped it through the D-hooks imbedded in the log support beam outside the stall with a quick release knot.

The roof vibrated from another clap of thunder.

I lifted the saddle blanket from the railing. Humidity made the wool damp. I settled the blanket on her back, a little high on the withers. I hoisted the saddle, careful not to toss it on her too hard.

Luckily Queenie didn't hump her back. Although when I skirted her to reach her right side to check the cinch and drop the stirrups from the saddle horn, she did a little crow hop. The saddle slid so it ended up c.o.c.keyed. I managed to keep my panic at bay, even as I remembered how the c.u.mbersome saddle sliding under the horse's belly had set off the temperamental Thoroughbred that'd killed my mother. I straightened the saddle, pulled the cinch under her belly, and tightened it through the cinch ring.

I untied the lead rope. Walked her a few steps forward and back, then rechecked the cinch. Sure enough, she'd puffed up her belly with air before I'd fastened the cinch and it was already loose. I tightened it a little more and grabbed the bridle.

The dim gray light affected my vision. I leaned closer and squinted, noticing Queenie's gums sagged around her mouth, a sign of age. I remembered Jake mentioning we might need to put her down soon. If she was sick, was riding her a danger to me?

Hurry hurry hurry.

I unhooked the halter, letting it dangle below her jaw. My right hand trembled as I held the top of the bridle and pulled it up over her head and ears at the same time as my left hand gently tried to push the bit into her mouth. Stubborn old nag wouldn't open up. I slid my finger into the toothless place in the back and pushed until she opened. I quickly slipped in the bit. "See? That wasn't so bad."

I swear Queenie gave me that you-kidding-me? look, and a tiny bit of hysteria crept into my laugh. I removed the halter and draped it over the railing.

Clutching the reins, I directed her to the barn door. I opened it and noticed the rain had let up. The sky was an odd shade of silver, misty clouds hung low, thick like fog, but cast no shadows on the patches of ground the color of wet cement.

I s.n.a.t.c.hed the backpack off the peg and threaded my arm through one strap. Flipped open my cell phone and dialed.

The b.a.s.t.a.r.d didn't answer until the seventh ring. "Yeah?"

"I have the money. The horse is saddled and ready to go. Tell me where you are."

"I was beginning to think you wouldn't call."

"Where are you?"

"On the ridge above the ravine on the west end of the creek. Know where that is?"

Wouldn't be wise to snap at him that I knew this land better than he ever would. I visualized the grazing section. No trees or rocks or any shelter of any kind. So much for a stealth entry. Even a gilly suit wouldn't offer camouflage in such a wide-open area. "Yeah, I know where it is. You at the top of the creek? Or the bottom?"

"Middle. And you've only got five minutes left. Did you do that on purpose? You planning something?"

Fear snaked up my throat, choking me.

Before I could croak no, he said, "Maybe you need another incentive to get moving?"

I heard Hope whimper, "No, don't!" followed by her high-pitched scream and then nothing.

Rage burned away any remaining fear. I jammed the phone in my left rear pocket and prepared for the last step.

Riding.

The mount up should've scared me, but I was unexpectedly calm as I scooted Queenie close enough to get a leg up. On my first attempt she swung her b.u.t.t sideways and I lost my balance, cras.h.i.+ng into the support beam behind me.

"Come on, girl, I don't have time for this."

I tightened my grip on the reins and tried again, shoving my left foot in the stirrup. Even as the saddle s.h.i.+fted and Queenie decided to reverse, I threw my right leg over. My b.u.t.t hit the contoured leather of the saddle.

I was on a horse for the first time in thirty years.

No time to give myself kudos. I slid the backpack around. With the reins in my left hand, I rooted until I found my weapon. I shoved the gun in the small of my back and settled the garbage bag full of cash on my lap.

I pressed my heels into Queenie's sides. She walked until we cleared the barn and the yard. Trotted as we pa.s.sed the stock tanks. Once we hit open pasture, I gave her her head and we hit a full gallop.

And it still wasn't fast enough.